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PROSE  WRITERS 

OF 

GERMANY 


BY 

FREDERIC  H.  HEDGE 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH  PORTRAITS 


Die  deutsche  Nation  ist  nicht  die  ausgebildetste,  nicht  die  reichste  an  Geistes- 
und  Kunstprodukten,  aber  sie  ist  die  aufgeklaerteste,  weil  sie  die  graendlichste  ist, 
sie  ist  eine  philosophische  Nation  — Fr.  H.  Jaoobi. 


PHILADELPHIA 
PUBLISHED  BY  CAREY  AND  HART 
1848 


ENTERED,  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  YEAR   1847.  BY 

CAREY  AND  HART, 

IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  FOR  THE  EASTERN  DISTRICT 


OF  PENNSYLVANIA. 


STEREOTYPED    BY   J.  FAGAN. 
PRINTED    BY    T.    K.    AND    P.    G.  COLLINS. 


(2) 


mi 


PEEEACE 


The  volume  of  translations  which  is  now  offered  to  the  Public, 
though  bearing  the  title,  "Prose  Writers  of  Germany,"  in  conformity 
with  the  series  of  publications  to  which  it  belongs,  is  far  from  pre- 
tending to  be  a  complete  exhibition  of  the  prose  literature  of  that 
nation. 

The  impossibility  of  representing  in  adequate  specimens,  the  vast 
body  of  writers  who  might  claim  to  be  represented  under  this  title, 
together  with  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  brief  extracts,  has  induced  the 
editor  to  adopt  a  different  course, — to  give  few  writers  and  large 
samples,  and  instead  of  a  "  collection,"  as  Mr.  Longfellow  has  cha- 
racterized his  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  to  make  a  selection. 

Every  selection  is  liable  to  the  charge  of  partiality ;  and  those  who 
are  much  conversant  with  German  literature  will  doubtless  miss  some 
favorites  who  shall  seem  to  them  entitled  to  a  place  in  these  pages. 
It  is  believed  however  that  the  Classics,  in  the  stricter  sense,  (writers 
of  the  first  class)  are  mostly  here.  With  regard  to  the  rest,  access  or 
want  of  access  to  their  writings  has  had  some  share,  as  well  as  per- 
sonal preference,  in  determining  the  admissions  and  the  omissions. 

Some  difficulty  has  been  found  in  reconciling  a  just  apportionment 
of  space  in  our  pages  to  different  writers  with  the  prescribed  limits 
of  the  work.  The  difficulty,  the  editor  is  aware,  has  not  been  entirely 
overcome.  While  want  of  room  has  compelled  him  to  omit  altogether 
some  writers  whom  he  would  gladly  have  introduced  into  the  present 

(iii) 


iv  PREFACE. 

selection,  he  regrets  that  the  same  necessity  has  required  him  in 
several  instances  to  limit  his  extracts. 

The  editor  avails  himself  of  this  opportunity  to  thank  those  who 
have  assisted  him  in  the  work  of  translation.  Besides  his  indebted- 
ness to  existing  publications,  especially  to  Carlyle's  German  Romance, 
he  has  to  acknowledge  the  contributions  of  J.  Elliot  Cabot,  Esq.,* 
Rev.  J.  Weiss, f  Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks, J  Mr.  Geo.  Bradford, §  and  Mr. 
Geo.  Ripley.  ||  The  extracts  from  Moser,  wTith  the  exception  of  the 
first,  and  that  from  Hamann,  are  by  the  same,  anonymous,  contribu- 
tor. Likewise  the  translations  from  Hegel  are  by  an  anonymous 
friend  possessing  peculiar  qualifications  for  that  difficult  task.  Above 
all,  his  thanks  are  due  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Furness  of  Philadelphia,  who 
has  kindly  taken  upon  himself  the  general  superintendence  of  the 
work  while  passing  through  the  press. 

Bangor,  May,  1847. 


*  In  the  translations  from  Kant  with  the  exception  of  the  last,  and  in  the  translation 
from  Schelling. 

f  In  the  translation  from  Schiller. 

J  In  the  extracts  from  the  Titan  of  Jean  Paul. 

§  In  the  translation  from  Goethe's  Wahlverwandtschaften. 

||  In  the  translation  from  Schleiermacher. 


CONTENTS 


MARTIN  LUTHER  Page  9 

On  Education   11 

Concerning  God  the  Father   15 

Concerning  Angels   16 

Simple  Method  how  to  Pray   18 

Prayer  at  the  Diet  of  Worms   20 

Selections  from  Letters — Letter  to  the  Elector  Frederic   20 

To  the  Elector  John   23 

To  Caspar  Guttel   23 

To  his  Wife   25 

To  his  Wife   25 

To  his  Wife   26 

JACOB  BOEHME   35 

To  the  Reader   37 

Of  God  and  the  Divine  Nature   37 

Of  God's  First  Manifestation  of  Himself  in  the  Trinity   38 

Of  Eternal  Nature  after  the  fall  of  Lucifer,  &c   38 

Of  the  Creation  of  Angels,  &c   41 

Describing  what  Lucifer  was,  &c   41 

Of  the  Third  Principle,  or  Creation  of  the  Natural  World   42 

Of  Paradise   42 

Concerning  the  Supersensual  Life   43 

Concerning  the  Blessing  of  God  in  the  Goods  of  this  World   44 

On  True  Resignation   45 

ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA   46 

On  Envy   46 

JUSTUS  MOSER   50 

Letter  from  an  Old  Married  Woman,  &c   52 

How  to  Attain  to  an  Adequate  Expression  of  Our  Ideas   54 

Moral  Advantages  of  Public  Calamities   55 

IMMANUEL  KANT   57 

From  the  Critique  of  the  Judgment   63 

1*  (v) 


vi  CONTENTS. 


The  Notion  of  Adaptation  in  Nature   65 

Judgment  by  Means  of  Taste,  Aesthetic   66 

The  Pleasure  that  Determines  the  Aesthetic  Judgment   67 

The  Pleasure  Derived  from  the  Agreeable   67 

The  Pleasingness  of  Good,  Connected  with  Interest   67 

Comparisons  of  the  Three  Kinds  of  Pleasure   68 

The  Beautiful  What   68 

Comparison  of  the  Beautiful  with  the  Agreeable   68 

An  Aesthetic  Judgment,  when  not  pure   69 

Of  the  Ideal  of  Beauty   70 

Plan  of  an  Everlasting  Peace   71 

Of  the  Guaranty  of  an  Everlasting  Peace   73 

Supposed  Beginning  of  the  History  of  Man   74 

Remark   77 

Conclusion  of  the  History  ,   78 

Concluding  Remark   79 

JOHANN  GOTTHOLD  EPHRAIM  LESSING   81 

From  Laocoon   85 

From  the  Educator  of  the  Human  Race   91 

Fables   95 

Extract   98 

MOSES  MENDELSSOHN   99 

Letter  to  J.  C.  Lavater   102 

Supplementary  Remarks   106 

On  the  Sublime  and  the  Naive   107 

JOHANN  GEORG  HAMANN   119 

The  Merchant   121 

CHRISTOPH  MARTIN  WIELAND   128 

Philosophy  Considered  as  the  Art  of  Life   130 

Letter  to  a  Young  Poet   132 

On  the  Relation  of  the  Agreeable  and  the  Useful   1 38 

From  the  Dialogues  of  the  Gods    141 

JOHANN  AUGUST  MUSAUS   154 

Dumb  Love   158 

MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS   182 

Dedication  to  Friend  Hans   182 

Advertisement  to  Subscribers   182 

Speculations  on  New  Years'  Day   183 

The  Sorrows  of  Young  Werther   183 

On  Prayer   183 

A  Correspondence   184 

On  Klopstock's  Odes   185 


CONTENTS.  vh 


JOHANN  CASPAR  LAVATER   187 

On  the  Nature  of  Man   191 

Of  the  Truth  of  Physiognomy   193 

Of  the  Universality  of  Physiognomical  Sensations   1 95 

On  Freedom  and  Necessity   196 

Of  the  Excellence  of  the  Form  of  Man   1 97 

Of  the  Congeniality  of  the  Human  Form   198 

Resemblance  between  Parents  and  Children   200 

Observations  on  the  Dying  and  the  Dead   202 

Of  the  Influence  of  Countenance  on  Countenance   202 

Of  the  Influence  of  the  Imagination   203 

Male  and  Female   204 

FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  JACOBI   206 

From  the  Flying  Leaves   209 

Learned  Societies   220 

JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER   231 

Love  and  Self   236 

Tithon  and  Aurora   242 

Metempsychoris   248 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GCETHE   263 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield   270 

From  the  Elective  Affinities   278 

Confessions  of  a  Fair  Saint   282 

Indenture   304 

The  Exequies  of  Mignon   305 

Extracts   306 

Novelle   345 

The  Tale   353 

JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER   365 

Upon  Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry   372 

JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE   383 

The  Destination  of  Man   384 

JOHANN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER   405 

Rome   407 

Leibgeber  to  Siebenkiis   411 

Second  Extract  from  "  Flower,  Fruit  and  Thorn  pieces"   413 

Dream   415 

Letter  to  my  Friends   417 

The  Marriage   418 

Thoughts   420 

AUGUST  WILHELM  VON  SCHLEGEL   423 

Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature   424 


viii 


CONTENTS. 


FRIEDRICH  DANIEL  ERNST  SCHLEIERMACHER   441 

Discourse  IV.    Church  and  Priesthood   441 

GEORG  WILHELM  FRIEDRICH  HEGEL   446 

Introduction  to  the  Philosophy  of  History   447 

Who  thinks  abstractly  1   456 

JOHANN  HEINRICH  DANIEL  ZSCHOKKE   459 

The  Poor  Vicar   459 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHLEGEL   472 

Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  History   473 

NOVALIS  (FRIEDRICH  VON  HARDENBERG)   489 

From  Heinrich  von  Oefterdinger   491 

From  the  Fragments   496 

LUDWIG  TIECK  ,   498 

The  Elves   501 

FREDERIC  WILLIAM  JOSEPH  VON  SCHELLING   509 

On  the  Relation  of  the  Plastic  Arts  of  Nature   510 

ERNST  THEODOR  AMADEUS  HOFFMANN   521 

The  Golden  Pot   522 

ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO   544 

The  Wonderful  History  of  Peter  Schlemihl   547 


Ij    (][(  Sr1  rJJ|  \f  In) 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


Born  1483.  Died  1546. 

"  Japed  de  stirpe  satwm  Doctore  Luthero 
Majorem  nobis  nulla  propago  dabit." 


To  Martin  Luther  belongs,  with  strict 
propriety,  the  foremost  place  in  this  collec- 
tion intended  to  represent  the  German  mind. 
Luther  is  regarded  by  his  countrymen  as  the 
original  of  that  mind, — the  prototype  of  all  that 
is  most  distinctive  in  German  modes  of  thought 
and  speech.  Other  writers  of  German  had 
attained  to  eminence  before  him.  Tauler,  in 
particular,  the  celebrated  mystic  of  Strasburg, 
is  still  an  honored  name.  Nevertheless,  the 
national-intellectual  life  of  Germany  dates  from 
Luther  as  its  parent  source,  and  is  emphati- 
cally referred  to  him  by  a  grateful  posterity. 
There  is  scarcely  another  instance  in  history, 
in  which  an  individual,  without  secular  autho- 
rity or  military  achievement,  has  so  stamped 
himself  upon  a  people  and  made  himself,  to  so 
great  an  extent,  the  leader,  the  representative, 
the  voice  of  the  nation.  He  has  been  to  Ger- 
many, in  this  respect,  what  Homer  was  to 
Greece. 

While  devoting  himself  to  the  regeneration 
of  the  national  religion,  he  unconsciously  con- 
ferred upon  the  national  literature  a  service  as 
signal  in  its  kind,  as  any  which  the  church  de- 
rived from  his  labors.  He  first  gave  to  that 
literature  an  adequate  organ.  He  created  the 
language*  which  is  now  written  and  spoken 
by  educated  Germans.  For  though  a  constant 
approximation  to  the  modern  High  German  is 
undoubtedly  visible  in  the  writings  of  his  im- 
mediate predecessors,  —  as  e.  g.  in  Albrecht 
Diirer,  the  painter,  and  the  translator  of  the 
Gesta  Romanorum,  —  there  is  still  a  great 
stride  between  their  language  and  the  Lu- 
theran, in  point  of  movement  and  well-defined 
inflection.  On  the  whole,  the  modern  High 
German  must  be  considered  as  having  first  at- 

*  "  Er  schuf  die  Deutsche  Sprache."  Heine.  This  may 
seem  too  strongly  put,  when  we  consider  the  necessary 
laws  of  language  The  Lutheran  was  not  a  creation  out 
of  nothing,  certainly ;  hut  it  was  the  evolution  of  a  per- 
fect and  harmonious  form  out  of  a  rude  and  undigested 
mass. 


tained  its  full  development  and  perfect  finish 
in  Luther's  version  of  the  Bible.  By  means 
of  that  book,  it  obtained  a  currency  which  no- 
thing else  could  have  given  it.  It  became 
fixed.  It  became  universal.  It  became  the 
organ  of  a  literature  which,  more  than  any 
other  since  the  Greek,  has  been  a  literature 
of  ideas.  It  became  the  vehicle  of  modern 
philosophy, — the  cradle  of  those  thoughts  which, 
at  this  moment,  act  most  intensely  on  the  hu- 
man mind. 

Martin  Luther  was  born  at  Eisleben,  in  Sax- 
ony, during  a  visit  of  his  parents  to  that  city, 
November  10, 1483.  His  father,  Hans  Luther, 
a  poor  miner,  who  had  previously  resided  in 
the  village  of  Mohra,  removed  to  Mansfeld  the 
following  year;  and  here  it  was  that  Martin 
received  the  first  rudiments  of  education.  At 
the  age  of  twenty,  he  obtained  the  degree  of 
Master  at  the  University  of  Erfurth.  His  father 
had  destined  him  to  the  study  of  the  Law,  but 
Theology  drew  him  with  irresistible  attraction. 
He  became  a  monk  of  the  Augustine  order,  at 
Erfurth,  and,  in  process  of  time,  Doctor  of  Di- 
vinity, at  Wittenberg. 

He  began  his  labors,  as  a  reformer,  in  the 
year  1517,  with  an  attack  on  the  sale  of  Indul- 
gences, in  ninety-five  propositions,  which  he 
sent  forth  into  the  world,  as  it  were  a  cartel 
aimed  at  Tetzel  and  Rome.  Three  years  later 
we  find  him  at  the  Diet  of  Worms,  defending 
himself  and  his  doctrine  before  the  emperor 
Charles  V.  and  the  German  princes.  That 
was  the  most  remarkable  assembly  ever  con- 
vened on  earth, — an  empire  against  a  man ! 
Lucas  Cranach's  picture  represents  Luther  as 
he  stood  there,  so  lone  and  strong,  with  his 
great  fire-heart, — a  new  Prometheus,  confront- 
ing the  Jove  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  the 
German  Olympus.  "Here  I  stand,  I  cannot 
otherwise.  God  help  me !  Amen."  Imme- 
diately upon  this  followed  his  translation  of 
the  Bible,  which  was  his  best  defence;  and 

(9) 


10 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


from  this  time,  until  his  death,  which  occurred 
on  the  18th  February,  1546,  such  a  succession 
of  labors  in  behalf  of  the  Reformed  religion,  as 
to  justify  the  epitaph, 

"  Pestis  eram  vivens,  moriens,  tua  mors  ero  Papa  /" 

Luther  is  represented  as  a  man  of  low  sta- 
ture* but  handsome  person,  with  a  "  clear  brave 
countenance,"  lively  complexion,  and  falcon 
eyes.  Antonio  Varillasf  says;  "Nature  gave 
him  an  Italian  head  upon  a  German  body  ;  such 
was  his  vivacity  and  diligence,  his  cheerfulness 
and  health."  His  voice  was  clear  and  pene- 
trating, his  eloquence  overpowering.  Me- 
lanchthon,on  beholding  his  picture,  exclaimed, 
" Fulmina  erant  singula  verba  tua"  Another 
contemporary  said  of  him,  that  he  was  a  man 
"to  stop  the  wrath  of  God."  Another  calls 
him  the  third  Elias.  He  was  a  husband  and  a 
father,  fond  of  society,  of  a  free  and  jovial  na- 
ture, much  given  to  music,  himself  a  composer 
and  an  able  performer  on  the  flute.  A  man 
of  singular  temperance  and  great  industry. 
He  throve  best  on  hard  work  and  spare  diet. 
An  easy  life  made  him  sick.  As  to  his  cha- 
racter, a  man  without  guile,  open,  sincere, 
generous,  obliging,  patient,  brave,  devout.  "  He 
was  not  only  the  greatest,"  says  Henry  Heine,! 
"  but  the  most  German  man  of  our  history.  In 
his  character  all  the  faults  and  all  the  virtues 
of  the  Germans  are  combined  on  the  largest 
scale.  Then  he  had  qualities  which  are  very 
seldom  found  united,  which  we  are  accustomed 
to  regard  as  irreconcileable  antagonisms.  He 
was,  at  the  same  time,  a  dreamy  mystic  and 
a  practical  man  of  action.  His  thoughts  had 
not  only  wings  but  hands.  He  spoke  and  he 
acted.  He  was  not  only  the  tongue  but  the 
sword  of  his  time.  Moreover,  he  was,  at  the 
same  time,  a  scholastic  word-thresher  and  an 
inspired,  God-intoxicated  prophet.  When  he 
had  plagued  himself  all  day  long  with  his  dog- 
matic distinctions,  in  the  evening  he  took  his 

*  "  Untergesptzter  Statur."  See  Des  seligen  Zeugen 
Oottes.  D.  Martin  Luther's  Lcbens  umstiinde  in  4.  Th. 
von  Friedrich  Siegmund  Keil.    Leipzig.  1764. 

f  Liber  hist,  de  haeres,  quoted  by  Keil. 

\  Zur  Gescliichte  der  Religion  und  Philosophie  in 
Deutschland.   Salon,  vol.  2d.    Hamburg.  1835. 


flute  and  gazed  at  the  stars,  dissolved  in  me- 
lody and  devotion.  He  could  scold  like  a  fish- 
wife, and  he  could  be  soft,  too,  as  a  tender 
maiden.  Sometimes  he  was  wild  as  the  storm 
that  uproots  the  oak,  and  then  again,  he  was 
gentle  as  the  zephyr  that  dallies  with  the  vio- 
let. He  was  full  of  the  most  awful  reverence 
and  of  self-sacrifice  in  honor  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 
He  could  merge  himself  entirely  in  pure  spi- 
rituality. And  yet  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  glories  of  this  world,  and  knew  how 
to  prize  them ;  and  out  of  his  mouth  blossomed 
the  famous  saying, 

"  Wer  nicht  liebt  Wein,  Weiber  und  Gesang, 
Der  bleibt  ein  Jfarr  sein  Lebenlang." 

He  was  a  complete  man,  I  would  say,  an  ab- 
solute man,  one  in  whom  matter  and  spirit 
were  not  divided.  To  call  him  a  spiritualist, 
therefore,  would  be  as  great  an  error  as  to  call 
him  a  sensualist.  How  shall  I  express  it] 
He  had  something  original,  incomprehensible, 
miraculous,  such  as  we  find  in  all  providential 
men, — something  awfully  naive,  blunderingly 
wise,  sublimely  narrow; — something  invinci- 
ble, demoniacal." 

The  position  which  Luther  holds  in  the  es- 
timation of  his  countrymen,  as  father  of  the 
German  language  and  literature,  together  with 
the  intrinsic  worth  of  his  writings,  has  seemed 
to  me  to  justify  more  copious  extracts,  than  one 
who  knows  him  only  as  the  great  Reformer 
or  the  dogmatic  theologian,  might  expect  to 
find  in  a  work  like  this.  I  have  endeavored 
to  preserve  in  the  translation  the  slight  taste 
of  antiquity  which  marks  the  writer  of  the 
sixteenth  century  ;  although  the  language  of 
Luther  is  less  antiquated  than' that  of  contem- 
porary English  writers.  In  fact  the  antiquity 
resides  in  the  thought  rather  than  the  idiom. 
The  idiom  is  substantially  that  of  the  present 
day. 

The  following  specimens,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  letters,  are  taken  from  the  edition 
of  Luther's  works  by  Walch,  in  twenty-four 
vols.  4to.  The  letters  are  from  the  complete 
collection  published  by  Martin  Leberecht  de 
Wette,  in  five  vols.  8vo.    Berlin.  1826. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


11 


ON  EDUCATION. 

FROM  ADISCOURSE  ON  THE  SPIRITUAL  ADVANTAGES  ARISING  FROM 
THE  FURTHERANCE  OF  SCHOOLS,  AND  THE  INJURY  CONSEQUENT 
ON  THE  N  EGLECT  OF  THEM. 

Now  if  thou  hast  a  child  that  is  fit  to  receive 
instruction,  and  art  able  to  hold  him  to  it  and 
dost  not,  but  goest  thy  way  and  carest  not  what 
shall  become  of  the  secular  government,  its 
laws,  its  peace,  &c,  thou  warrest  against  the 
secular  government,  as  much  as  in  thee  lies, 
like  the  Turk,  yea,  like  the  Devil  himself.  For 
thou  withholdest  from  the  kingdom,  principal- 
ity, country,  city,  a  redeemer,  comfort,  corner- 
stone, helper  and  saviour.  And  on  thy  account 
the  emperor  loses  both  sword  and  crown  ;  the 
country  loses  safe-guard  and  freedom,  and  thou 
art  the  man  through  whose  fault  (as  much  as 
in  thee  lies)  no  man  shall  hold  his  body,  wife, 
child,  house,  home  and  goods  in  safety.  Rather 
thou  sacrificest  all  these  without  ruth  in  the 
shambles,  and  givest  cause  that  men  shall  be- 
come mere  beasts,  and  at  last  devour  one  an- 
other. This  all  thou  wilt  assuredly  do,  if  thou 
withdraw  thy  child  from  so  wholesome  a  con- 
dition, for  the  belly's  sake.  Now  art  thou  not 
a  pretty  man  and  a  useful  in  the  world?  who 
makest  daily  use  of  the  kingdom  and  its  peace, 
and  by  way  of  thanks,  in  return,  robbest  the 
same  of  thy  son,  and  deliverest  him  up  to  ava- 
rice, and  labourest  with  all  diligence  to  this 
end,  that  there  may  be  no  man  who  shall  help 
maintain  the  kingdom,  law  and  peace ;  but  that 
all  may  go  to  wreck,  notwithstanding  thou  thy- 
self possessest  and  holdest  body  and  life,  goods 
and  honour  by  means  of  said  kingdom. 

I  will  say  nothing  here  of  how  fine  a  plea- 
sure it  is  for  a  man  to  be  learned,  albeit  he 
have  never  an  office ;  so  that  he  can  read  all 
manner  of  things  by  himself  at  home,  talk  and 
converse  with  learned  people,  travel  and  act  in 
foreign  lands.  For  peradventure  there  be  few 
who  will  be  moved  by  such  delights.  But  see- 
ing thou  art  so  bent  upon  mammon  and  victual, 
look  here  and  see  how  many  and  how  great 
goods  God  has  founded  upon  schools  and  scho- 
lars, so  that  thou  shalt  no  more  despise  learning 
and  art  by  reason  of  poverty.  Behold!  empe- 
rors and  kings  must  have  chancellors  and 
scribes,  counsellors,  jurists  and  scholars.  There 
is  no  prince  but  he  must  have  chancellors,  ju- 
rists, counsellors,  scholars  and  scribes  :  so  like- 
wise, all  counts,  lords,  cities,  castles  must  have 
syndics,  city  clerks,  and  other  learned  men ; 
nay,  there  is  not  a  nobleman  but  must  have  a 
scribe.  Reckon  up,  now,  how  many  kings, 
princes,  counts,  lords,  cities  and  towns,  &c. 
Where  will  they  find  learned  men  three  years 
hence?  seeing  that  here  and  there  already  a 
want  is  felt.  Truly  I  think  kings  will  have  to 
become  jurists  and  princes  chancellors,  counts 
and  lords  will  have  to  become  scribes,  and 
burgomasters  sacristans. 

Therefore  I  hold  that  never  was  there  a  bet- 


ter time  to  study  than  now ;  not  only  for  the 
reason  that  the  art  is  now  so  abundant  and  so 
cheap,  but  also  because  great  wealth  and  honour 
must  needs  ensue,  and  they  that  study  now  will 
be  men  of  price ;  insomuch  that  two  princes 
and  three  cities  shall  tear  one  another  for  a 
single  scholar.  For  look  above  or  around  thee 
and  thou  wilt  find  that  innumerable  offices  wait 
for  learned  men,  before  ten  years  shall  have 
sped  ;  and  that  few  are  being  educated  for  the 
same. 

Besides  honest  gain,  they  have,  also,  honour. 
For  chancellors,  city  clerks,  jurists,  and  people 
in  office,  must  sit  with  those  who  are  placed  on 
high,  and  help  counsel  and  govern,  And  they, 
in  fact,  are  the  lords  of  this  world,  although 
they  are  not  so  in  respect  of  person,  birth  and 
rank. 

Solomon  himself  mentions  that  a  poor  man 
once  saved  a  city,  by  his  wisdom,  against  a 
mighty  king.  Not  that  1  would  have,  herewith, 
warriors,  troopers,  and  what  belongs  to  strife 
done  away,  or  despised  and  rejected.  They 
also,  where  they  are  obedient,  help  to  preserve 
peace  and  all  things  with  their  fist.  Each  has 
his  honour  before  God  as  well  as  his  place  and 
work. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  found  certain 
scratchers*  who  conceit  that  the  title  of  writer 
is  scarce  worthy  to  be  named  or  heard.  Well 
then,  regard  not  that,  but  think  on  this  wise : 
these  good  people  must  have  their  amusement 
and  their  jest.  Leave  them  their  jest,  but  re- 
main thou,  nevertheless,  a  writer  before  God 
and  the  world.  If  they  scratch  long,  thou  shalt 
see  that  they  honour,  notwithstanding,  the  pen 
above  all  things;  that  they  place  itj"  upon  hat 
and  helmet,  as  if  they  would  confess,  by  their 
action,  that  the  pen  is  the  top  of  the  world, 
without  which  they  can  neither  be  equipped 
for  battle  nor  go  about  in  peace ;  much  less 
scratch  so  securely.  For  they  also  have  need 
of  the  peace  which  the  emperors,  preachers  and 
teachers  (the  lawyers)  teach  and  maintain. 
Wherefore  thou  seest  that  they  place  our  imple- 
ment, the  dear  pen,  uppermost.  And  with 
reason,  since  they  gird  their  own  implement, 
the  sword,  about  the  thighs  ;  there  it  hangs  fitly 
and  well  for  their  work ;  but  it  would  not  be- 
seem the  head ;  there  must  hover  the  plume. 
If,  then,  they  have  sinned  against  thee,  they 
herewith  expiate  the  offence,  and  thou  must 
forgive  them. 

There  be  some  that  deem  the  office  of  a 
writer  to  be  an  easy  and  trivial  office ;  but  to 
ride  in  armour,  to  endure  heat,  cold,  dust,  thirst 
and  other  inconvenience,  they  think  to  be  la- 
borious. Yea !  that  is  the  old,  vulgar,  daily 
tune;  that  no  one  sees  where  the  shoe  pinches 
another.  Every  one  feels  only  his  own  troubles, 


*  Scharrhansen,  men  who  scratch  for  money,  and  think 
of  nothing  else.  Tr. 

|The  word  Feder,  feather,  is  used  indifferently  in  Ger- 
man to  denote  pen  or  plume.  Tr. 


12 


LUTHER. 


and  stares  at  the  ease  of  others.  True  it  is,  it 
would  be  difficult  for  me  to  ride  in  armour ;  but 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  I  would  like  to  see  the 
rider  who  should  sit  me  still  the  whole  day- 
long and  look  into  a  book,  though  he  were  not 
compelled  to  care  for  aught,  to  invent  or  think 
or  read.  Ask  a  chancery-clerk,  a  preacher  or 
an  orator,  what  kind  of  work  writing  and  ha- 
ranguing is?  Ask  a  schoolmaster  what  kind 
of  work  is  teaching  and  bringing  up  of  boys  ? 
The  pen  is  light,  it  is  true,  and  among  all  trades 
no  tool  so  easily  furnished  as  that  of  the  writing- 
trade,  for  it  needeth  only  a  goose's  wing,  of 
which  one  shall  everywhere  find  a  sufficiency. 
gratis.  Nevertheless,  in  this  employment,  the 
best  piece  in  the  human  body,  (as  the  head) 
and  the  noblest  member,  (as  the  tongue)  and 
the  highest  work  (as  speech)  must  take  part 
and  labour  most;  while,  in  others,  either  the 
fist  or  the  feet  or  the  back,  or  members  of  that 
class  alone  work ;  and  they  that  pursue  them 
may  sing  merrily  the  while,  and  jest  freely, 
which  a  writer  cannot  do.  Three  fingers  do 
the  work  (so  they  say  of  writers),  but  the  whole 
body  and  soul  must  cooperate. 

I  have  heard  of  the  worthy  and  beloved  em- 
peror Maximilian,  how,  when  the  great  boobies 
complained  that  he  employed  so  many  writers 
for  missions  and  other  purposes,  he  is  reported 
to  have  said;  "what  shall  I  do1?  They  will 
not  suffer  themselves  to  be  used  in  this  way, 
therefore  I  must  employ  writers.''  And  fur- 
ther :  "  Knights  I  can  create,  but  doctors  I  can- 
not create/'  So  have  I  likewise  heard  of  a  fine 
nobleman,  that  he  said,  "  I  will  let  my  son 
study.  It  is  no  great  art  to  hang  two  legs  over 
a  steed  and  be  a  rider ;  he  shall  soon  learn  me 
that ;  and  he  shall  be  fine  and  well-spoken." 

They  say,  and  it  is  true,  the  pope  was  once 
a  pupil  too.  Therefore  despise  me  not  the  fel- 
lows who  say  "panem  propter  Deum"  before  the 
doors  and  sing  the  bread-song.*  Thou  hearest, 
as  this  psalm  says,  great  princes  and  lords  sing. 
I  too  have  been  one  of  these  fellows,  and  have 
received  bread  at  the  houses,  especially  at 
Eisenach,  my  native  city.  Although,  afterward, 
my  dear  father  maintained  me,  with  all  love 
and  faith,  in  the  high  school  at  Erfurt,  and,  by 
his  sore  sweat  and  labour,  has  helped  me  to 
what  I  have  become, — still  I  have  been  a  beg- 
gar at  the  doors  of  the  rich,  and,  according  to 
this  psalm,  have  attained  so  far  by  means  of 
the  pen,  that,  now,  I  would  not  compound  with 
the  Turkish  emperor,  to  have  his  wealth  and 
forego  my  art.  Yea  I  would  not  take  for  it  the 
wealth  of  the  world  many  times  multiplied; 
and  yet,  without  doubt,  I  had  never  attai#ed  to 
it,  had  I  not  chanced  upon  a  school  and  the 
writers'  trade. 

Therefore  let  thy  son  study,  nothing  doubting, 
and  though  he  should  beg  his  bread  the  while, 


*  A  song  or  psalm  which  the  poor  students  of  Luther's 
time  sang,  when  they  went  about  imploring  charity  at 
the  doors  of  the  rich. 


yet  shalt  thou  give  to  our  Lord  God  a  fine  piece 
of  wood  out  of  which  he  can  whittle  thee  a  lord. 
And  be  not  disturbed  that  vulgar  niggards  con- 
temn the  art  so  disdainfully,  and  say:  Aha!  if 
my  son  can  write  German  and  read  and  cipher, 
he  knows  enough  ;  I  will  have  him  a  merchant. 
They  shall  soon  become  so  tame  that  they  will 
be  fain  to  dig  with  their  fingers,  ten  yards  deep 
in  the  earth,  for  a  scholar.  For  my  merchant 
will  not  be  a  merchant  long,  when  law  and 
preaching  fail.  That  know  I  for  certain ;  we 
theologians  and  lawyers  must  remain,  or  all 
must  go  down  with  us  together.  It  cannot  be 
otherwise.  When  theologians  go,  then  goes  the 
word  of  God,  and  remains  nothing  but  the  hea- 
then, yea!  mere  devils.  When  jurists  go,  then 
goes  justice  together  with  peace,  and  remains 
only  murder,  robbery,  outrage,  force,  yea  !  mere 
wild  beasts.  But  what  the  merchant  shall  earn 
and  win,  when  peace  is  gone,  I  will  leave  it  to 
his  books  to  inform  him.  And  how  much  profit 
all  his  wealth  shall  be  to  him  when  preaching 
fails,  his  conscience,  I  trow,  shall  declare  to 
him. 

I  will  say  briefly  of  a  diligent  pious  school-teacher 
or  7nagister,  or  of  whomsoever  it  is.  that  faithfully 
brings  up  boys  and  instructs  them,  that  such  an 
one  can  never  be  sufficiently  recompensed  or  paid 
iciih  money  ;  as  also  the  heathen  Aristotle  says. 
Yet  is  this  calling  so  shamefully  despised  among 
us,  as  though  it  were  altogether  nought.  And 
we  call  ourselves  Christians! 

And  if  I  must  or  could  relinquish  the  office 
of  preacher  and  other  matters,  there  is  no  office 
I  would  more  willingly  have  than  that  of  school- 
master or  teacher  of  boys.  For  I  know  that 
this  work,  next  to  the  office  of  preacher,  is  the 
most  profitable,  the  greatest  and  the  best.  Be- 
sides, I  know  not  even,  which  is  the  best  of  the 
two.  For  it  is  hard  to  make  old  dogs  tame  and 
old  rogues  upright;  at  which  task,  nevertheless, 
the  preacher's  office  labours,  and  often  labours 
in  vain.  But  young  trees  be  more  easily  bent 
and  trained,  howbeit  some  should  break  in  the 
effort.  Ecloved  !  count  it  one  of  the  highest  virtues 
upon  earth,  to  educate  faithfully  the  children  of 
others,  which  so  few,  and  scarcely  any,  do  by  their 
own. 


ON  THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 

FROM  AN  EXHORTATION  OF  M.  LUTHER  TO  THE  COtJNCILMEN  OF 
ALL  THE  CITIES  OF  GERMANY  TO  ESTABLISH  AND  MAINTAIN 
CHRISTIAN  SCHOOLS. 

Let  us  consider  our  former  misery  and  the 
darkness  wherein  we  have  been.  I  deem  that 
Germany  has  never  before  heard  so  much  of 
God's  word  as  now.  One  finds  no  trace  of  it 
in  history.  If,  then,  we  let  it  pass  thus,  without 
thanks  or  honour,  it  is  to  be  feared  we  shall 
suffer  yet  more  horrible  darkness  and  plagues. 
Dear  Germans !  buy  while  the  market  is  at  the 
door.  Gather  while  the  sun  shines  and  the 
weather  is  good.    Use  God's  grace  and  word 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


13 


while  it  is  there.  For  you  shall  know  that 
God's  grace  and  word  is  a  travelling  shower 
which  does  not  appear  again  where  it  has  once 
been.  It  dwelled  once  with  the  Jews,  but  gone 
is  gone  ; — now  they  have  nothing.  Paul  brought 
it  into  Greece,  but  gone  is  gone;  —  now  they 
have  got  the  Turk.  Rome  and  Italy  have  had 
it  once ;  gone  is  gone ; — now  they  have  got  the 
Pope.  And  ye  Germans  must  not  think  that 
you  will  have  it  forever ;  for  ingratitude  and 
neglect  will  not  suffer  it  to  remain.  Therefore 
seize  and  hold  fast  whoever  can.  Idle  hands 
have  slender  years. 

Yea!  sayest  thou,  though  it  be  fitting  and 
necessary  to  have  schools,  of  what  use  is  it  to 
teach  the  Latin,  Greek  and  Hebrew  tongues, 
and  other  fine  arts?  Could  we  not  teach,  in 
German,  the  Bible  and  God's  word,  which  are 
sufficient  for  salvation  ?  Answer :  Yes,  I  know 
alas!  too  well,  that  we  Germans  must  always 
be  and  continue  beasts  and  wild  animals.  So 
the  surrounding  nations  call  us,  and  we  deserve 
it  well.  But  I  wonder  we  never  say :  of  what 
use  are  silks,  wine,  spices  and  outlandish  wares 
of  foreign  nations  ?  seeing  we  have  wine,  corn, 
wool,  flax,  wood  and  stones  in  German  lands — 
not  only  a  sufficiency  for  support,  but  also  a 
choice  and  selection  for  honour  and  adornment? 
We  are  willing  to  contemn  the  arts  and  lan- 
guages which,  without  any  injury,  are  a  great 
ornament,  use,  honour  and  advantage,  both  for 
the  understanding  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  and 
for  the  conduct  of  worldly  government ;  and  are 
not  willing  to  dispense  with  outlandish  wares 
which  are  neither  necessary  nor  useful,  and 
moreover  distress  and  ruin  us.  Have  we  not 
good  reason  to  be  called  German  fools  and 
beasts  1 

Indeed,  if  there  were  no  other  use  to  be  de- 
rived from  the  languages,  it  ought  to  rejoice  and 
animate  us  that  we  have  so  noble  and  fine  a 
gift  of  God ;  wherewith  he  has  visited  and  fa- 
voured us  Germans  above  all  other  lands.  It 
doth  not  appear  that  the  Devil  would  suffer 
these  same  languages  to  come  forward  by  means 
of  the  High-schools  and  Cloisters ;  on  the  con- 
trary they  have  always  raved  most  vehemently 
and  still  rave  against  them.  For  the  Devil 
smelled  the  roast,*  that  if  the  languages  revived, 
his  kingdom  would  get  a  hole  which  he  could 
not  easily  stop  up  again.j-  Now,  since  he  hath 
not  been  able  to  prevent  their  revival,  he  thinks 


*  "  To  smell  the  roast"  is  a  proverbial  expression  with 
the  Germans,  equivalent  to  our  "  smell  the  rat,"  i.e.  to 
suspect  mischief.  Tr. 

t  The  study  of  the  Greek  and  the  Hebrew  is  said  to 
have  been  discouraged  by  the  clergy  prior  to  the  Refor- 
mation, in  order  to  prevent  a  nearer  acquaintance  with 
the  Scriptures.  "They  have  discovered,"  says  a  monk 
of  that  period,  "a  new  language  which  they  call  the 
Greek  ;  beware  of  it,  for  it  is  the  mother  of  all  heresies. 
I  see  in  the  hands  of  some  a  book  written  in  that  lan- 
guage, called  the  New  Testament.  It  is  a  book  full  of 
thorns  and  poison.  And  as  to  Hebrew,  my  beloved  bre- 
thren, you  may  be  sure  that  whoever  meddles  with  that 
will  immediately  become  a  Jew."  Tr. 


still  to  keep  them  so  poorly,  that  they  shall  de- 
cline and  fall  away  again  of  themselves.  It  is 
no  welcome  guest  that  hath  come  into  his  house 
with  them ;  therefore  he  means  to  entertain  him 
in  such  a  way  that  he  shall  not  long  remain. 
There  be  few  of  us  that  perceive  this  wicked 
trick  of  the  Devil,  my  dear  masters  !  Therefore, 
beloved  Germans !  let  us  here  open  our  eyes, 
thank  God  for  the  noble  treasure  and  take  fast 
hold  of  it,  that  it  may  not  again  be  wrested  from 
us,  and  the  Devil  wreak  his  spite.  For  we 
cannot  deny  this,  that  howbeit  the  gospel  came 
and  comes  daily  through  the  Holy  Spirit  alone, 
yet  it  came  through  the  instrumentality  of  the 
languages,  and,  by  means  of  them,  has  ad- 
vanced, and  by  means  of  them  must  be  pre- 
served. For  straightway,  when  God  was  minded 
to  let  his  gospel  go  forth  into  all  the  world 
through  the  apostles,  he  gave  tongues  for  that 
end.  And  he  had  before  diffused  the  Latin  and 
Greek  tongues  so  widely  in  all  lands,  by  means 
of  the  Roman  Government,  to  the  end  that  his 
gospel  might  bring  forth  fruit  speedily  far  and 
near.  Thus  also  hath  he  done  now.  No  one 
knew  why  God  caused  the  languages  to  revive, 
until  now,  when  it  is  evident  that  it  was  done 
for  the  gospel's  sake,  the  which  he  was  minded 
afterward  to  reveal,  and  thereby  to  discover  and 
destroy  the  kingdom  of  Antichrist.  For  this 
cause  also  he  gave  Greece  to  the  Turks,  that  the 
Greeks  who  were  driven  out  and  scattered 
abroad  might  carry  forth  the  Greek  tongue  and 
become  an  introduction  to  the  study  of  other 
languages  also. 

And  let  us  understand  this,  that  we  shall  not 
be  able  to  preserve  the  gospel  without  the  lan- 
guages. The  languages  are  the  sheath  in  which 
this  sword  of  the  Spirit  is  hid.  They  are  the 
casket  in  which  this  jewel  is  borne.  They  are 
the  vessel  in  which  this  drink  is  contained. 
They  are  the  cupboard  in  which  this  food  is 
laid.  And,  as  the  evaagile  itself  showeth,  they 
are  the  baskets  which  hold  these  loaves  and  fishes 
and  fragments.  Yea!  if  we  should  so  err  as  to 
let  the  languages  go,  (which  God  forbid?)  we 
shall  not  only  lose  the  gospel,  but  it  shall  come 
to  pass,  at  length,  that  we  shall  not  know  to 
speak  or  write,  neither  Latin  nor  German  aright. 
Of  this  let  the  miserable  and  dreadful  example 
of  the  High-schools  and  Convents  be  a  proof 
and  a  warning ;  where  they  have  not  only  lost 
all  knowledge  of  the  gospel,  but  have  so  cor- 
rupted the  Latin  and  the  German  language  that 
the  wretched  people  have  beome  mere  beasts, 
cannot  write  or  speak  correctly,  either  Latin  or 
German,  and  have  also  well  nigh  lost  their 
natural  reason. 

Yea!  sayest  thou,  many  of  the  Fathers  have 
attained  to  blessedness,  and  have  also  taught, 
without  languages.  That  is  true.  But  to  what 
dost  thou  impute  it,  that  they  have  so  often 
failed  in  the  Scriptures'?  How  often  does  St. 
Augustin  fail  in  the  psalms,  and  in  other  ex- 
positions? So  also  Hilary,  yea  all  who  have 
taken  upon  themselves  to  expound  Scripture 
2 


14 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


without  the  languages.  Was  not  St.  Jerome 
compelled  to  translate  the  Psalter  anew  from 
the  Hebrew,  because,  when  men  argued  with 
the  Jews  out  of  our  Psalter,  they  mocked  and 
said  it  was  not  so  written  in  the  Hebrew,  as 
our  people  quoted  it? 

Thence  comes  it  that  since  the  time  of  the 
apostles  the  Scripture  has  remained  so  obscure 
and  that  no  certain  and  permanent  exposition 
of  it  hath  been  written.  For  even  the  holy- 
Fathers  (as  I  have  said)  have  often  failed,  and 
because  they  were  ignorant  of  the  languages, 
they  are  seldom  agreed,  but  one  goes  this  way, 
another  that.  St.  Bernard  was  a  man  of  a  large 
spirit,  insomuch  that  I  might  almost  place  him 
above  all  other  teachers  who  have  become  cele- 
brated, both  ancient  and  modern.  But  see,  how 
he  so  often  sports  with  the  Scriptures,  (howbeit 
spiritually)  and  quotes  them  aside  of  their  true 
meaning !  For  this  cause  the  sophists  have  said 
that  the  Scriptures  were  dark,  and  have  thought 
that  in  its  own  nature  the  word  of  God  was  so 
obscure  and  spoke  so  strangely.  But  they  see 
not  that  the  whole  difficulty  lies  in  the  lan- 
guages. Nothing  more  simple  than  the  word 
of  God  has  ever  been  spoken ;  so  we  under- 
stood the  tongues.  A  Turk  must  needs  speak 
obscurely  to  me — because  I  know  not  his  lan- 
guage— whom,  nevertheless,  a  Turkish  child  of 
seven  years  can  well  understand. 

Neither  let  us  be  deceived  for  that  some  boast 
themselves  of  the  Spirit  and  think  meanly  of  the 
Scripture.  Some  also  like  the  Brethren,  the 
Waldenses,  deem  the  languages  not  to  be  useful. 
But,  dear  friend,  Spirit  here,  Spirit  there, — I  have 
also  been  in  the  Spirit  and  have  also  seen  Spi- 
rits, (if  ever  it  be  lawful  to  boast  of  one's  own 
flesh)  perhaps  more  than  these  same  people 
shall  see  in  a  year,  howsoever  they  boast  them- 
selves. Also,  my  spirit  has  proved  itself  some- 
what, while  theirs  is  quite  silent  in  a  corner 
and  does  little  else  than  protrude  its  praise.  I 
might  have  led  a  pious  life  and  have  preached 
well^  enough  in  quiet.  But  the  Pope  and  the 
Sophists  and  the  whole  Government  of  Anti- 
christ I  should  have  been  forced  to  leave  as 
they  are.  The  Devil  cares  not  for  my  spirit  so 
much  as  for  my  language,  and  my  pen  in  the 
Scriptures.  For  my  spirit  takes  nothing  from 
him  save  myself  alone.  But  the  holy  Scriptures 
and  the  languages  make  the  world  too  narrow 
for  him  and  injure  him  in  his  kingdom.  So  then, 
I  cannot  praise  the  Brethren,  the  Waldenses,  in 
that  they  despise  the  tongues.  For  though  they 
should  teach  aright,  they  must  often  fail  of  the 
right  text,  and  remain  unarmed  and  unfurnished 
to  battle  for  the  faith  against  error. 

Now,  although,  as  I  have  said  before,  there 
were  no  soul  and  no  need  of  schools  and  lan- 
guages for  God's  sake  and  the  Scriptures, — yet 
were  this  alone  a  sufficient  reason  for  establish- 
ing everywhere  the  very  best  schools  both  for 
boys  and  girls,  —  that  the  world  has  need  of 
skilful  men  and  women  in  order  to  maintain 
outwardly  its  secular  condition.      The  men 


should  be  fit  to  govern  Land  and  People;  the 
women  should  be  well  able  to  guide  and  pre- 
serve house,  children  and  servants.  Now  must 
such  men  be  made  out  of  boys  and  such  women 
must  be  made  out  of  little  girls.  Therefore  it 
is  important  to  train  and  educate  little  boys  and 
girls  aright  for  such  work.  I  have  said  above 
that  the  common  man  does  nothing  toward  this 
end,  neither  can  he,  neither  will  he,  neither 
knows  he.  Princes  and  lords  ought  to  do  it,  but 
they  are  occupied  with  sleigh-riding,  with  drink- 
ing and  with  mummery;  they  are  laden  with 
grave  and  important  affairs  of  the  kitchen,  the 
cellar  and  the  chamber.  And  though  some 
would  do  it  willingly,  the  others  must  needs 
scare  them  with  the  fear  of  being  called  fools 
or  heretics.  Therefore,  my  beloved  Council-men, 
it  remains  in  your  hands  alone.  You  have 
space  and  vocation  for  it  more  than  princes  and 
lords. 

Thou  sayest  let  each  one  teach  and  train  his 
own.  Answer:  Yes!  we  know  very  well  what 
kind  of  teaching  and  training  that  is.  Even 
when  it  is  carried  farthest  and  succeeds  well, 
it  amounts  to  nothing  more  than  a  little  disci- 
pline of  forced  and  decent  manners.  For  the 
rest,  they  are  mere  blocks  of  wood,  and  know 
nothing  either  of  this  or  of  that,  and  can  neither 
counsel  nor  help.  But  if  they  were  taught  and 
trained  in  schools  or  elsewhere,  where  there 
are  learned  and  able  masters  and  mistresses, 
who  teach  languages  and  other  arts  and  histo- 
ries, they  would  hear  the  history  and  the  say- 
ings of  all  the  world  ; — how  it  fell  out  with  this 
or  that  city  or  kingdom  or  prince,  man  or  woman  ; 
and  they  would  be  able,  in  a  short  time,  to  bring 
before  them,  as  it  were  in  a  mirror,  the  being, 
life,  counsels  and  designs,  the  successes  and 
failures  of  the  whole  world,  from  the  beginning; 
whence  they  might  learn  to  order  their  thoughts 
and  adjust  themselves  to  the  course  of  the  world, 
in  the  fear  of  God.  And  they  should  be  made 
witty  and  wise  by  these  histories,  knowing  what 
to  seek  and  what  to  avoid  in  this  outward  life ; 
and  should  be  able  moreover  to  advise  and 
govern  others.  But  the  education  which  is  given 
at  home,  without  such  schools,  attempts  to  make 
us  wise  by  our  own  experience.  Ere  that  comes 
to  pass  we  shall  be  dead  a  hundred  times  over, 
and  shall  have  acted  inconsiderately  all  our  life 
long.    For  experience  requires  much  time. 

How  much  time  and  trouble  are  bestowed  in 
teaching  children  to  play  at  cards,  to  sing  and 
to  dance.  Why  will  we  not  spend  as  much 
time  in  teaching  them  to  read  and  other  accom- 
plishments, while  they  are  young  and  have  lei- 
sure and  capacity  and  disposition  for  them  1  I 
speak  for  myself:  if  I  had  children  and  were 
able,  they  should  not  only  hear  me  languages 
and  histories,  but  they  should  also  sing  and  learn 
music  and  the  whole  of  the  mathematics.  For 
what  is  all  this  but  mere  child's  play,  in  which 
the  Greeks  aforetime  instructed  their  children, 
and  by  means  of  which  they  afterward  became 
wonderfully  skilful  people  and  capable  of  many 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


15 


things  ?  Yea !  what  grief  it  is  to  me  now,  that 
I  did  not  read  more  poets  and  histories,  and 
that  no  one  instructed  me  in  these  matters. 
Instead  thereof,  I  have  been  made  to  read  the 
Devil's  filth,  philosophers  and  schoolmen,  with 
great  cost  and  labour  and  injury,  so  that  I  have 
enough  to  do  to  get  rid  of  it  all. 

Thou  sayest,  who  can  give  up  his  children 
and  train  them  all,  for  squires  ?  They  must  at- 
tend to  the  work  at  home.  Answer  :  My  opi- 
nion is  not  that  we  should  establish  such  schools 
as  there  have  been  heretofore,  where  a  youth 
would  pore  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  over  Do- 
natus  and  Alexander  and  learn  nothing  after 
all.  We  have  a  different  world  now,  and  things 
are  otherwise  managed.  My  counsel  is  that 
the  boys  should  be  suffered  to  go  to  school  an 
hour  or  two  each  day  and  none  the  less  work 
at  home  the  rest  of  the  time, — learn  a  handy- 
craft  and  do  whatever  is  wanted  of  them.  Let 
both  go  together,  seeing  they  are  young  and  can 
wait.  Besides,  do  they  not  spend  ordinarily 
tenfold  as  much  time  at  marbles  and  ball  and 
in  running  and  wrestling? 

So  likewise  a  girl  may  find  time  enough  to 
go  to  school  an  hour  a  day,  and  still  wait  upon 
her  work  at  home.  They  sleep  away  and  dance 
away  and  play  away  more  time  than  that. 
The  only  difficulty  is  this,  that  there  is  no  hearty 
desire  to  train  the  young  and  to  help  and  in- 
struct the  world  with  fine  people.  The  Devil 
loves,  rather,  coarse  blocks  and  good-for-nothing 
people,  that  man  may  not  fare  too  well  upon 
the  earth. 

Therefore,  dear  masters,  take  to  heart  the 
work  which  God  so  imperatively  demands  of 
you,  to  which  your  office  binds  you,  which  is  so 
necessary  to  the  young,  and  which  neither  the 
world  nor  the  Spirit  can  do  without.  Alas!  we 
have  long  enough  been  rotting  and  corrupting 
in  darkness.  All  too  long  have  we  been  "  Ger- 
man beasts."  Let  us,  for  once,  make  use  of  our 
reason,  that  God  may  mark  our  gratitude  for  his 
gifts,  and  that  other  lands  may  take  note  that 
we  too  are  men,  and  such  as  can  either  learn 
something  useful  of  them  or  teach  them  some- 
thing;—  so  that  by  us  also  the  world  may  be 
made  better.  I  have  done  my  part.  It  was 
my  desire  to  counsel  and  help  the  German  land. 
And  albeit  some  may  contemn  me  in  this  thing 
and  give  to  the  winds  my  faithful  advice  and 
pretend  to  better  knowledge,  I  must  even  en- 
dure it.  I  well  know  that  others  might  have 
done  better  5  but  seeing  they  are  silent,  I  have 
done  as  well  as  I  could.  It  is  better  to  speak 
right  forth,  however  unskilfully,  than  always  to 
be  silent  on  this  head.  And  I  am  in  hope  that 
God  will  arouse  some  among  you,  to  the  end 
that  my  true  counsel  may  not  wholly  fall  in  the 
dust,  and  that  you  will  consider  not  him  that 
speaketh  but  ponder  the  thing  itself  and  let  it 
go  forward.  ****** 

Herewith  I  commend  you  to  the  grace  of  God. 
May  he  soften  and  kindle  your  hearts  so  that 
they  shall  earnestly  take  the  part  of  these  poor, 


suffering,  forsaken  youth,  and,  by  Divine  aid, 
counsel  and  help  them  to  a  happy  and  Chris- 
tian government  of  the  German  land,  in  body 
and  soul,  with  all  fulness  and  redundancy,  to 
the  praise  and  honour  of  God  the  Father,  through 
Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour  !  Amen. 
Given  at  Wittenberg,  Anno,  1524. 


CONCERNING  GOD  THE  FATHER. 

FROM  AN  EXPOSITION  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  CREED,  DELIVERED  AT 
SMALCALD  IN  THE  YEAR  1537. 

Art.  I.  "  I  believe  in  God  the  Father,  the  Al- 
mighty, Creator  of  Heaven  and  Earth." 

Here,  it  is  first  of  all  held  up  to  us,  that  we 
know  and  learn  whence  we  are  derived,  what 
we  are  and  where  we  belong.  All  wise  men 
have  ever  been  concerned  to  know  whence  the 
world  and  ourselves  have  proceeded,  but  have 
not  been  able  to  discover.  They  have  supposed 
that  man  is  born  by  chance,  without  a  master 
by  whom  his  birth  is  ordained  and  brought  to 
pass,  and  that  he  lives  and  dies  by  chance,  like 
other  beasts.  Some  have  advanced  farther  and 
have  pondered  this  subject  until  they  were 
forced  to  conclude  that  the  world  and  man  must 
have  proceeded  from  an  eternal  God,  because 
they  are  such  mighty  and  glorious  creations. 
Nevertheless,  they  have  not  been  able  to  attain 
to  any  true  knowledge  thereof.  But  we  know 
it  well,  howbeit  not  of  and  from  ourselves  but 
from  the  word  of  God  which  is  here  brought 
before  us,  in  the  creed.  Therefore  wouldst  thou 
know  whence  thou  and  I  and  all  men  are  de- 
rived, listen  and  I  will  tell  thee.  It  is  God  the 
Father,  the  almighty  creator  of  heaven  and 
earth,  an  only  God,  who  has  created  and  pre- 
serves all  things.  Now  thou  knowest  it.  It  is 
indeed  a  simple  doctrine  to  look  at,  and  a  plain 
sermon.  And  yet  no  man,  be  he  as  wise  as  he 
could  be,  was  able  to  find  it,  save  he  who  came 
down  from  heaven  and  revealed  the  same  to  us. 

The  wise  man,  Aristotle,  concludes  that  the 
world  existed  from  eternity.  To  that  one  must 
say,  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all  of  this  art.  But 
when  it  is  said  that  heaven  and  earth  are  a 
creation  or  work  made  by  him  who  is  called 
an  only  God  and  made  out  of  nothing;  that  is  an 
art  above  all  arts.  And  thus  it  is  with  me  and 
thee  and  the  world.  Sixty  years  ago  I  was 
nothing  as  yet.  And  so,  innumerable  children 
will  be  born  after  us  who  as  yet  are  nothing. 
So  the  world  six  thousand  years  ago  was  nothing, 
and,  in  time,  will  be  nothing  again.  And  so, 
all  was  brought  out  of  nothing  into  being,  and 
shall  be  brought  out  of  being  into  nothing  again, 
until  all  is  created  anew,  more  glorious  and  fair. 
This,  I  say,  we  know,  and  the  Holy  Scripture 
teacheth  it  us,  and  little  children  have  it  pre- 
sented to  them  thus,  in  the  words  of  the  creed 
— "I  believe  in  God  the  Father,  &c.v 

Therefore,  learn  first  of  all,  from  this,  whence 
thou  comest ;  namely  from  him  who  is  called 


16 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


Creator  of  heaven  and  earth.  That  may  be 
counted  a  great  and  sublime  honour,  which  I 
ought  reasonably  to  accept  with  great  joy,  that 
I  am  called  and  am  a  creature  and  work  of  the 
only  and  most  high  God.  The  world  seeketh 
after  honour  with  money,  force  and  the  like. 
But  it  hath  not  the  piety  rightly  to  consider  and 
reflect  upon  this  honour,  concerning  which  we 
pray,  through  the  mouth  of  young  children,  here 
in  the  creed,  that  God  is  our  master,  who  has 
given  us  body  and  soul,  and  preserves  them  still 
from  day  to  day.  If  we  rightly  believed  this,  and 
deemed  it  true,  there  would  spring  from  it  great 
praise  and  boasting ;  for  that  I  can  say,  the 
Master  who  has  created  the  sun,  he  has  also 
created  me.  As  now  the  sun  boasts  its  beauty 
and  its  glory,  so  will  I  boast  and  say:  I  am  the 
work  and  creature  of  my  God. 

With  this  honour  should  every  man  be  satis- 
fied, and  say  with  joy,  I  believe  in  God,  Creator 
of  heaven  and  earth,  who  has  hung  his  name 
ahout  my  neck,  that  I  should  be  his  creature, 
and  that  he  should  be  called  my  God  and  Maker. 
It  is  a  children's  sermon  and  a  common  saying, 
nevertheless,  one  sees  well  who  they  be  that 
understand  it.  We  deem  it  no  particular  honour 
that  we  are  God's  creatures,  but  that  any  one 
should  be  a  prince  or  great  lord,  we  open  eyes 
and  mouth.  Yet  are  these  but  human  creatures, 
as  Peter  calls  them,  and  an  afterwork.  For,  if 
God  did  not  come  first  with  his  creature,  and 
make  a  man,  there  could  be  no  prince.  Yet  do 
all  men  clamour  about  such  an  one,  as  if  it  were 
some  great  and  precious  thing,  whereas  it  is 
much  greater  and  more  glorious  to  be  a  creature 
of  God.  Therefore  should  servants  and  maid- 
servants and  all  men  accept  this  high  honour, 
and  say,  I  am  a  man.  That  is  a  higher  title 
than  to  be  a  prince.  Not  God,  but  men  make 
the  prince,  but  God  alone  can  make  me  a  man. 

It  is  said  of  the  Jews,  that  they  have  a  prayer 
wherein  they  praise  God  for  three  things.  First, 
that  they  are  created  men  and  not  irrational 
animals.  Secondly,  that  they  are  created  male 
and  not  female.  Thirdly,  that  they  are  created 
Jews  and  not  heathen.  But  that  is  praising  God 
as  fools  are  wont,  by  flouting  and  vilifying  other 
creatures  of  God,  at  the  same  time.  So  doth 
not  the  Psalmist  praise  him.  He  includes  all 
that  God  has  made,  and  says,  Praise  the  Lord 
on  the  earth !  ye  whales  and  all  the  deeps !  &c. 

Furthermore,  this  article  teacheth  us  not  only 
who  hath  created  us  and  whence  we  are,  but 
also  where  we  belong.  This  is  shown  us  by 
the  word  Father.  He  is  at  the  same  time  Father 
and  Almighty  Creator.  The  beasts  cannot  call 
him  Father,  but  we  are  to  call  him  thus  and  to 
be  called  his  children.  With  this  word  he 
showeth  what  destination  he  hath  appointed  us, 
having  first  taught  us  whence  we  are  and  what 
praise  and  honour  have  been  bestowed  upon  us. 
What  is  the  end  and  purpose  of  the  whole? 
This, — that  ye  shall  be  children  and  that  I  will 
be  your  Father.  That  I  have  not  only  created 
you  and  will  preserve  you  here,  but  that  I  will 


have  you  to  children,  and  suffer  you  to  be  my 
heirs,  who  shall  not  be  thrust  out  of  the  house 
like  other  creatures,  oxen,  cows,  sheep,  &c,  that 
either  perish  all,  or  else  are  eaten,  but,  besides 
that  ye  are  my  creatures,  ye  shall  also  be  for- 
evermore  my  children  and  live  alway. 

Thus  do  we  pray  and  confess,  when  we  say 
in  the  creed,  I  believe  in  God  the  Father,  that, 
in  like  manner  as  he  is  Father  and  liveth  for- 
ever, we  also,  as  his  children,  shall  live  forever 
and  shall  not  perish.  Therefore  are  we  by  so 
much  a  higher  and  fairer  creation  than  other 
creatures,  that  we  are  not  only  creatures  of  God 
and  his  work,  but  are  destined  also  to  live  for- 
ever with  our  Father. 

This  is  an  article  with  which  we  should  day 
by  day  converse,  that,  the  longer  we  taste 
thereof,  the  more  we  may  prove  it ;  for  it  is  im- 
possible, with  words  or  with  thoughts,  to  com- 
prehend what  is  meant  by  God  the  Father.  A 
sated  and  weary  heart  may  hear  but  doth  not  con- 
sider it.  But  the  heart  which  rightly  received 
such  words  would  often  think  thereon  with  joy, 
and  when  it  looked  upon  the  sun,  moon,  and 
other  creatures,  would  recognise  herein  a  special 
favour,  that  it  is  called  a  child  of  God,  and  that 
God  is  willing  to  be  and  remain  our  Father,  and 
that  we  shall  evermore  live  and  remain  with 
God. 

This  then  is  the  first  article,  whence  we 
briefly  learn  that  a  Christian  is  a  fair  and  glorious 
creation  that  cometh  from  God,  and  that  the  end 
which  he  craves  and  for  which  he  is  destined, 
is  eternal  life. 


CONCERNING  ANGELS. 

FROM  A  DISCOURSE  ON  GOOD  AND  EVIL  ANGELS,  PREACHED  AT  WIT- 
TEMBKRG,  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  MICHA  ELM  AS,  15  3  3;  FROM  THE  WORDS  : 
"  TAKE  HEED  THAT  YE  DESPISE  NOT  ONE  OF  THESE  LITTLE  ONES  ! 
FOR  I  SAY  UNTO  YOU,  THAT  IN  HEAVEN,  THEIR  ANGELS  DO  ALWAYS 
BEHOLD  THE  FACE  OF  MY  FATHER  WHICH  IS  IN  HEAVEN."  MATT. 

xvm.  10. 

*  *  *  Seeing  then,  that  the  Feast  of  St. 
Michael,  and  of  all  the  angels,  exists,  we  will 
retain  the  same  in  our  churches.  Not  for  secular 
reasons  alone,  and  the  income  which  is  derived 
from  it;  but  much  rather  for  spiritual  reasons. 
Because  it  is  useful  and  necessary  that  Christians 
should  continue  in  the  right  understanding  of 
angels, — so  that  the  young  people  may  not  grow 
up,  neither  learning  nor  knowing  what  dear 
angels  purpose  and  do  ;  and  have  no  joy  therein, 
and  never  thank  God  the  Lord  for  this  gift  and 
benefit. 

******** 

Now  beginneth  the  Lord  a  sermon  for  chil- 
dren, and  saith,  "  Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not 
one  of  these  little  ones,"  &c.  There  thou  hast 
a  clear  text,  which  thou  oughtest,  with  certainty, 
to  believe.  For  this  man,  Christ,  knows,  of  a 
surety,  that  children  have  angels,  which  do  not 
make  the  children,  but  help  to  preserve  them 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


17 


whom  God  hath  created.  So  then,  we  preachers 
and  parents  ought  to  begin  where  Christ  began, 
and  impress  upon  children  that  they  have  an- 
gels. *  *  *  After  this  manner  would  I 
train  a  child  from  early  youth,  and  say  to  him, 
Dear  child,  thou  hast  an  own  angel.  If  thou 
prayest  morning  and  evening,  this  angel  shall 
be  near  thee  and  shall  sit  by  thy  little  bed.  He 
has  a  little  white  coat,  and  he  shall  nurse  thee 
and  rock  thee  and  take  care  of  thee,  that  the 
bad  man,  the  Devil,  may  not  come  nigh  thee. 
Also,  when  thou  lovest  to  say  thy  Benedicite  and 
thy  Gratias  before  meat,  thy  little  angel  will  be 
near  thy  table,  and  will  wait  upon  thee  and 
guard  thee  and  watch,  that  no  evil  may  befal 
thee,  and  that  thy  food  may  do  thee  good.  If 
this  were  impressed  upon  children,  they  would 
learn  and  accustom  themselves  from  youth  up 
to  the  thought  that  the  angels  are  with  them. 
And  this  would  not  only  serve  to  make  them 
rely  on  the  protection  of  the  dear  angels,  but 
also  cause  that  they  should  be  well-behaved, 
and  learn  to  stand  in  awe,  and  to  think :  Though 
our  parents  are  not  with  us,  yet  the  angels  are 
here ;  they  are  looking  after  us,  that  the  evil 
Spirit  may  do  us  no  mischief. 

This,  peradventure,  is  a  childish  sermon,  but, 
nevertheless,  it  is  good  and  needful ;  and  so 
needful  and  so  simple  that  it  may  profit  us  old 
folks  also.  For  the  angels  are  not  only  present 
with  children,  but  also  with  us  who  are  old. 
So  says  St.  Paul,  in  the  first  epistle  to  the  Co- 
rinthians, xi.  10,  "For  this  cause  ought  the 
woman  to  have  a  power  on  her  head,  because 
of  the  angels."  Women  should  not  be  adorned 
in  the  church  and  in  the  congregation  as  if  they 
were  going  to  a  dance,  but  be  covered  with  a 
veil  for  the  sake  of  the  angels.  St.  Paul  here 
fetcheth  in  the  angels,  and  saith  that  they  are 
present  at  the  sermon,  and  at  sacred  offices  and 
divine  service.  This  service  of  the  angels  doth 
not  seem  to  be  precious,  but  herein  we  see 
what  are  genuine  good  works.  The  dear  angels 
are  not  proud  as  we  men ;  but  they  walk  in 
divine  obedience,  and  in  the  service  of  men,  and 
wait  upon  young  children.  How  could  they 
perform  a  meaner  work  than  to  wait  day  and 
night  upon  children  ?  What  doth  a  child  ?  It 
eats,  weeps,  sleeps,  &c.  Truly,  an  admirable 
thing,  that  the  holy  ministering  Spirits  should 
wait  upon  children  who  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and 
wake !  To  look  at  it,  it  doth  indeed  seem  a 
lowly  office.  But  the  dear  angels  perform  it 
with  joy,  for  it  is  well  pleasing  to  God,  who 
hath  enjoined  it  upon  them.  A  monk,  on  the 
contrary,  saith,  shall  I  wait  upon  children'? 
That  will  I  not  do.  I  will  go  about  higher  and 
greater  works.  I  will  put  on  a  cowl  and  will 
mortify  myself  in  the  cloister,  &c.  But  if  thou 
wilt  consider  it  aright,  these  are  the  highest  and 
best  offices,  which  are  rendered  to  children  and 
to  pious  Christians.  What  do  parents  ?  What 
are  their  works?  They  are  the  menials  and 
the  servants  of  young  children.  All  that  they 
do — they  themselves  confess — they  do  for  the 
c 


sake  of  their  children,  that  they  may  be  edu- 
cated. So  do  also  the  dear  angels.  Why,  then, 
should  we  be  ashamed  to  wait  upon  children  ? 
And  if  the  dear  angels  did  not  take  charge  of 
children,  what  would  become  of  them?  For 
parents,  with  the  help  of  prince  and  magistrate, 
are  far  too  feeble  to  bring  them  up.  Were  it 
not  for  the  protection  of  the  dear  angels,  no 
child  would  grow  to  full  age,  though  the  parents 
should  bestow  all  possible  diligence  upon  them. 
Therefore  hath  God  ordained,  and  set  for  the 
care  and  defence  of  children,  not  only  parents, 
but  also  emperors,  kings,  princes,  and  lastly,  his 
high  and  great  Spirits,  the  holy  angels,  that  no 
harm  may  befall  them.  It  were  well  that  the 
children  were  impressed  with  these  things. 

On  the  other  hand,  one  should  also  tell  chil- 
dren of  the  wiles  of  the  Devil  and  of  evil 
spirits.  Dear  child,  one  should  say  to  them,  if 
thou  wilt  not  be  pious,  thy  little  angel  will  run 
away  from  thee,  and  the  evil  Spirit,  the  black 
Popelmann,  will  come  to  thee.  Therefore,  be 
pious  and  pray,  and  thy  little  angel  will  come 
to  thee,  and  the  Popelmann  will  leave  thee. 
And  this  is  even  the  pure  truth.  The  Devil 
sits  in  a  corner,  and  if  he  could  throttle  both 
parent  and  child,  he  would  do  it  not  otherwise 
than  gladly.  ****** 

Thus  are  the  dear  angels  watchmen  also,  and 
keep  watch  over  us  and  protect  us.  And  were 
it  not  for  their  guardianship,  the  black  Nick 
would  soon  find  us,  seeing  he  is  an  angry  and 
untiring  Spirit ;  but  the  dear  angels  are  our  true 
guardians  against  him.  When  we  sleep,  and 
parents  at  home  and  the  magistrate  in  the  city 
and  the  prince  of  the  country  sleep  likewise, 
and  can  neither  govern  nor  protect  us,  then 
watch  the  holy  angels  and  guard  and  govern 
us  for  the  best.  When  the  Devil  can  do  nothing 
else,  he  affrighteth  me  in  my  sleep,  or  maketh 
me  sick  that  I  cannot  sleep.  Then  no  man  can 
defend  me ;  all  they  that  are  in  the  house  are 
asleep  ;  but  the  dear  angels  sit  at  my  bed-side, 
and  they  say  to  the  Devil :  Let  this  man  sleep, 
&c.  This  is  the  office  which  the  angels  perform 
for  me,  unless  I  have  deserved  that  God  should 
withdraw  his  hand  from  me,  and  not  permit  his 
angels  to  guard  and  defend  me,  but  suffer  me 
to  be  scourged  a  little,  to  the  end  that  I  may  be 
humbled,  and  acknowledge  the  blessing  of  God 
which  he  conferreth  upon  me  by  the  ministry 
of  the  dear  angels. 

Further,  it  is  the  office  of  the  dear  angels  to 
protect  and  accompany  me  when  I  journey, — 
to  be  with  me  by  the  way.  When  I  arise  in 
the  morning  and  perform  my  prayer,  and  pro- 
nounce the  blessing  of  the  morning  and  go  forth 
into  the  field,  I  am  to  know  that  God's  angels 
are  with  me, — that  he  keeps  good  watch  over 
me  against  the  devils  that  are  around  me,  be- 
hind and  before. 

*  *  *  This  doctrine  comforteth  and  re- 
joiceth  us,  and  causeth  that  we  take  courage  in 
our  necessities,  and  think  within  ourselves :  Thou 
art  alone,  it  may  be,  and  yet  thou  art  not  alone  ; 
2* 


IS 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


the  dear  angels  given  thee  hy  God  are  present 
with  thee.  Thus  we  read  in  the  second  book 
of  Kings,  c.  vi.  When  the  prophet  Elisha  was 
about  to  go  forth  from  the  city  of  Dothan  with 
his  servants,  he  saw  a  great  army  of  the  king 
of  Syria,  which  had  come  to  take  him.  Never- 
theless the  prophet  went  forth.  This  was  an 
excellent  boldness  that  the  prophet  should  go 
forth  with  his  servant  against  so  large  a  host 
and  a  nation  of  warriors.  The  servant  was 
affrighted,  and  said,  "Alas,  my  master!  what 
shall  we  do?"  But  the  prophet  was  undis- 
mayed, and  said,  Fear  not:  for  they  that  be 
with  us  are  more  than  they  that  be  with  them. 
Such  was  his  defiance  and  courage.  The  ser- 
vant could  not  see  it,  but  the  prophet  prayed 
that  the  Lord  would  open  the  eyes  of  his  ser- 
vant. Then  he  saw  that  the  mountain  was  full 
of  horses  and  chariots  of  fire  round  about  Elisha. 

So,  likewise,  we  read  of  the  patriarch  Abra- 
ham, that  he  sent  out  his  servant  to  bring  home 
a  wife  for  his  son  Isaac.  And  when  the  ser- 
vant knew  not  the  way,  Abraham  said,  "  The 
Lord  God  of  heaven  shall  send  his  angel  before 
thee,  and  thou  shalt  take  unto  my  son  a  wife 
from  thence."  Abraham  sends  his  servant  out 
as  one  would  throw  a  feather  into  the  air.  It 
doth  not  trouble  him  that  his  son  Isaac  is  not 
acquainted  with  the  bride,  and  doth  not  know 
where  she  is  to  be  found ;  but  he  saith  :  The 
Lord  will  let  his  angel  go  with  thee,  who  shall 
show  thee  the  way;  and  thou  shalt  find  the 
bride.  Is  it  not  a  fine  thing  that  the  angel  of 
the  Lord  must  be  present  and  woo  a  wife  for 
Isaac  ?  It  sounds  foolish  in  the  ear  of  Reason, 
that  an  angel  should  trouble  himself  as  to  how 
we  wed.  *  *  *  And  David  also,  in  the 
thirty-fourth  Psalm,  saith:  "The  angel  of  the 
Lord  encampeth  round  about  them  that  fear  him 
and  delivereth  them."  Castra  metatur  angelus 
Domini,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  erects  a  bulwark, 
he  saith.  An  angel  can  soon  do  that.  In  a 
trice  he  can  make  a  rampart  and  a  bulwark 
about  a  city,  and  it  shall  be  an  excellent  wall. 

In  like  manner,  we  read  that  the  bad  and  the 
good  angels  contend  and  war  with  each  other. 
We  know  not  how  this  is,  neither  do  we  behold 
it;  but  the  Holy  Scripture  declareth  it. 

How  many  devils  were  there,  thinkest  thou, 
last  year,  at  the  diet  at  Augsburg?  Every 
bishop  brought  as  many  devils  there  as  a  dog 
hath  fleas  at  St.  John's  time.  But  God  sent 
thither  also  more  numerous  and  more  powerful 
angels,  so  that  their  evil  purpose  was  defeated. 
And  howbeit  the  devils  stood  in  our  way,  and 
we  were  forced  to  separate  ere  peace  was  made, 
yet  were  our  enemies  unable  to  accomplish 
aught  that  they  meditated  and  desired. 

In  the  Revelation  of  St.  John,  cap.  xii.,  it  is 
written  that  the  old  dragon,  the  Devil,  and  Mi- 
chael contended  one  against  the  other.  The 
Devil  had  his  angels  and  came  up  against  Mi- 
chael :  and  Michael  had  his  angels  also.  That 
must  have  been  a  grand  and  mighty  warfare  in 
which  the  holy  angels  and  the  devils  strove 


thus  with  each  other.  The  Devil  is  strong  in 
understanding,  power  and  wisdom;  but  Michael 
with  his  angels  was  too  strong  and  powerful 
for  him,  and  thrust  him  out  of  heaven.  That 
is  a  warfare  which  is  carried  on  every  day  in 
the  Christian  world.  For  heaven  is  Christen- 
dom on  the  earth.  There  good  and  evil  angels 
contend.  The  Devil  hinders  men  from  receiv- 
ing the  gospel,  creates  enthusiasts  and  factious 
spirits.  Even  among  us,  he  maketh  many  to 
be  sluggish  and  cold.  That  is  the  Devil's  army 
in  which  he  placeth  himself  and  fighteth  against 
us.  But  Michael  with  his  angels  is  with  us. 
He  awakeneth  other  pious  preachers,  who  con- 
tinue in  the  pure  doctrine  and  in  the  truth,  that 
all  may  not  perish.  For  one  preacher  can  save 
twelve  cities,  if  God  will. 

I  myself  do  often  feel  the  raging  of  the  Devil 
within  me.  At  times  I  believe;  at  times  I  be- 
lieve not.  At  times  I  am  merry;  at  times  I  am 
sad.  Yet  do  I  see  that  it  happeneth  not  as  the 
evil  multitude  wish,  who  would  not  give  so 
much  as  a  penny  for  preaching,  baptism  and 
sacrament.  Now  although  the  Devil  is  beyond 
measure  wicked  and  hath  no  good  thing  in  pur- 
pose, yet  do  all  orders  proceed  and  remain  ac- 
cording to  wont.  ***** 

If  we  keep  these  instructions  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  then  shall  we  continue  in  the  true  un- 
derstanding and  faith,  and  the  dear  angels  will 
continue  in  their  office  and  honours.  They  will 
do  what  is  commanded  them  by  God,  and  we 
shall  do  whatsoever  is  commanded  us.  That 
thus  we  and  they  may  know  and  praise  God 
for  our  Creator  and  Lord,  Amen. 


DR.  MARTIN  LUTHER'S 
SIMPLE  METHOD  HOW  TO  PRAY. 

WRITTEN  FOR  MASTER  PETER  BA.LBIERER.  (BARBER.) 

Dear  Master  Peter. 

1  give  you  as  good  as  I  have,  and  will  show 
you  how  I  myself  manage  with  prayer.  Our 
Lord  God  grant  unto  you  and  every  one  to  ma- 
nage better.  Amen! 

First,  when  I  feel  that  I  am  become  cold  and 
indisposed  to  prayer,  by  reason  of  other  business 
and  thoughts,  I  take  my  psalter  and  run  into 
my  chamber,  or,  if  day  and  season  serve,  into 
the  church  to  the  multitude,  and  begin  to  repeat 
to  myself — just  as  children  use — the  ten  com- 
mandments, the  creed,  and,  according  as  I  have 
time,  some  sayings  of  Christ  or  of  Paul,  or  some 
psalms.  Therefore  it  is  well  to  let  prayer  be 
the  first  employment  in  the  early  morning,  and 
the  last  in  the  evening.  Avoid  diligently  those 
false  and  deceptive  thoughts  which  say :  Wait 
a  little,  I  will  pray  an  hour  hence ;  I  must  first 
perform  this  or  that.  For,  with  such  thoughts, 
a  man  quits  prayer  for  business  which  lays  hold 
of  and  entangles  him,  so  that  he  comes  not  to 
pray,  the  whole  day  long. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


19 


Howbeit  works  may  sometimes  occur  which 
are  as  good,  or  better  than  prayer,  especially  if 
necessity  require  them.  There  is  a  saying  to 
this  effect,  which  goes  under  the  name  of  St. 
Jerome :  "  All  the  works  of  the  faithful  are 
prayer."  And  there  is  a  proverb  :  "Whoso  la- 
bours faithfully,  he  prays  twice."  The  meaning 
of  which  saying  must  be,  that  a  believer  fears 
and  honours  God  in  his  labour,  and  thinks  of 
his  commandment — to  do  wrong  to  no  man,— 
not  to  steal  nor  take  advantage,  nor  to  betray. 
And,  doubtless,  such  thoughts  and  such  faith 
make  his  work  a  prayer  and  an  offering  of 
praise.  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  equally 
true  that  the  works  of  the  unbelieving  are  mere 
curses,  and  that  he  who  labours  unfaithfully 
curses  twice.  For  the  thoughts  of  his  heart  in 
his  employment  must  lead  him  to  despise  God 
and  to  transgress  his  law,  to  do  wrong  to  his 
neighbour,  to  steal  and  to  betray.  What  are 
such  thoughts  but  mere  curses  against  God  and 
man  ?  *  *  *  Of  constant  prayer,  Christ  in- 
deed says,  men  ought  always  to  pray.  For  men 
ought  always  to  guard  against  sin  and  wrong, 
which  no  man  can  do  except  he  fear  God  and 
set  his  commandment  before  his  eyes.  Never- 
theless, we  must  take  heed  that  we  do  not  dis- 
use ourselves  to  actual  prayer,  and  interpret 
works  to  be  necessary  which  are  not  necessary, 
and  by  that  means  become  at  last  negligent  and 
indolent,  and  cold  and  reluctant  to  pray.  For 
the  Devil  is  not  indolent  nor  negligent  around 
us.  And  our  flesh  is  alive  and  fresh  toward 
sin  and  averse  from  the  spirit  of  prayer. 

Now  when  the  heart  is  warmed  by  this  oral 
communion  and  has  come  to  itself,  then  kneel 
down  or  stand  with  folded  hands  and  eyes  to- 
ward heaven,  and  say  or  think,  in  as  few  words 
as  possible,  &c.  &c* 

Finally,  observe  that  thou  must  ever  make 
the  "Amen"  strong,  and  not  doubt  but  that  God 
assuredly  heareth  thee  with  all  his  grace,  and 
saith  "  yea"  to  thy  prayer.  And  think  that  thou 
kneelest  or  standest  not  alone,  but  the  whole 
Christendom,  or  all  pious  Christians,  with  thee, 
and  thou  among  them,  in  consenting  unanimous 
supplication  which  God  cannot  despise.  And 
quit  not  thy  prayer  until  thou  hast  said  or 
thought,  — "Go  to  now,  this  prayer  hath  been 
heard  with  God ;  that  know  I  surely  and  of  a 
truth."    That  is  the  meaning  of  Amen. 

Also,  thou  must  know  that  I  would  not  have 
thee  to  repeat  all  these  words  in  thy  prayer,  for 
that  would  make  it,  at  last,  a  babble  and  a  vain 
empty  gossip — a  reading  from  the  book  and 
after  the  letter,  such  as  the  rosaries  of  the  laity 
and  the  prayers  of  priests  and  monks  have  been. 
My  purpose  is  to  awaken  the  heart  and  instruct 
it  what  kind  of  thoughts  to  connect  with  the 
Lord's  prayer.  If  the  heart  be  rightly  warmed 
and  eager  for  prayer,  it  can  express  these  thoughts 
with  very  different  words,  perhaps  with  fewer, 


*  Here  follows,  in  the  original,  after  a  brief  invocation, 
a  paraphrase  of  the  Lord's  Prayer. 


perhaps  with  more.  For  I,  myself,  do  not  bind 
myself  to  precisely  these  words  and  syllables, 
but  say  the  words  to-day  after  this  fashion,  to- 
morrow otherwise,  according  as  I  feel  warm 
and  free.  I  keep  as  nearly  as  I  can  to  the  same 
thoughts  and  meaning.  But  it  will  sometimes 
happen  that,  while  engaged  with  some  single 
article  or  petition,  I  walk  into  such  rich  thoughts 
that  I  leave  the  other  six.*  And  when  these 
rich  and  good  thoughts  come,  one  ought  to  give 
place  to  them  and  let  other  prayers  go,  and  listen 
in  silence,  and  on  no  account  offer  any  hin- 
drance; for  then  the  Holy  Ghost  himself  preaches, 
and  one  word  of  his  preaching  is  better  than  a 
thousand  of  our  prayers.  And  so  I  have  often 
learned  more  in  one  prayer  than  1  could  have 
got  from  much  reading  and  composing. 

Wherefore,  it  is  of  the  greatest  importance 
that  the  heart  be  disengaged  and  disposed  to 
prayer ;  as  saith  the  Preacher,  (cap.  iv.  17,) 
"Prepare  thy  heart  before  prayer,  that  thou 
mayest  not  tempt  God."-j-  What  else  is  it,  but 
tempting  God,  when  the  mouth  babbles  while 
the  heart  is  distracted  with  other  things'?  Like 
that  priest  who  prayed  after  this  fashion  :  "  Deus 
in  auditcnium  meum  intende  ■  Fellow,  hast  thou 
unharnessed  the  horses  ?  Dornine  ad  adjuvan- 
dwn  me  festina  ;  Maid,  go  and  milk  the  cows! 
Gloria  Patri  et  Filio  et  Spiritui  Sancto  ;  Run,  boy, 
as  if  the  Devil  were  after  thee!"  &c.  Of  such 
prayers  I  have  heard  and  experienced  much  in 
Popedom,  in  my  day.  *  *  *  But  now,  God 
be  praised,  I  see  well  that  that  is  not  prayer,  in 
which  one  forgets  what  one  has  said.  For  a 
true  prayer  is  conscious  of  all  its  words  and 
thoughts,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
prayer. 

Even  so  a  good  and  diligent  barbert  must  fix 
his  thoughts,  his  purpose  and  his  eyes,  with 
great  exactness  upon  the  razor  and  the  hair,  and 
not  forget  where  he  is,  in  the  stroke  or  the  cut. 
But  if  he  chooses  to  chat  much  at  the  same  time, 
or  hath  his  thoughts  or  his  eyes  elsewhere,  he  is 
like  to  cut  one's  mouth  and  nose,  and  throat  into 
the  bargain.  Thus  each  thing  —  if  it  is  to  be 
done  well — requires  the  entire  man,  with  all 
his  senses  and  members.  As  the  saying  goes  : 
Pluribus  intentus,  minor  est  ad  singula  sensus :  he 
who  thinks  of  many  things  thinks  of  nothing, 
and  does  nothing  aright.  How  much  more 
must  prayer — if  it  is  to  be  a  good  prayer — pos- 
sess the  heart  entirely  and  alone. 

This  is  briefly  said  of  the  "Our  Father,"  or 
of  prayer,  as  I  myself  am  wont  to  pray.  For, 
to  this  day,  I  suck  still  at  the  Paternoster,  like 
a  child.  I  eat  and  drink  thereof  like  a  full- 
grown  man  ;  and  can  never  have  enough.  It 
is  to  me,  even  more  than  the  psalter,  (which 
notwithstanding,  I  dearly  love,)  the  best  of  all 
prayers.    Assuredly,  it  will  be  found  that  the 

*  Luther  divides  the  Lord's  Prayer  into  seven  petitions. 

f  The  text  here  quoted  is  probably  the  first  verse  of  the 
fifth  chapter  of  Eccl. ;  but  it  differs  widely  from  the  com- 
mon English  version. 

t  Luthef  was  probably  writing  to  a  barber  by  profession. 


20 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


right  Master  hath  ordained  and  taught  it.  And 
it  is  a  pity  upon  pities  that  such  a  prayer  of 
such  a  Master,  should  be  babbled  and  rattled 
over  by  all  the  world,  so  entirely  without  devo- 
tion. Many  pray,  it  may  be,  some  thousand 
Paternosters  a  year;  and  if  they  should  pray  a 
thousand  years,  after  that  fashion,  they  would 
not  have  tasted  or  prayed  one  letter  or  tittle 
thereof.  In  fine,  the  Paternoster  (as  well  as  the 
name  and  word  of  God)  is  the  greatest  martyr 
upon  earth,  for  every  one  tortures  and  abuses  it ; 
few  comfort  and  make  it  glad  by  a  true  use  of  it. 

LUTHER'S  PRAYER 
AT  THE  DIET  OF  WORMS. 

Almighty,  eternal  God !  What  a  strange 
thing  is  this  world!  How  doth  it  open  wide 
the  mouths  of  the  people  !  How  small  and  poor 
is  the  confidence  of  men  toward  God  !  How  is 
the  flesh  so  tender  and  weak,  and  the  Devil  so 
mighty  and  so  busy  through  his  apostles  and  the 
wise  of  this  world !  How  soon  do  they  with- 
draw the  hand,  and  whirl  away  and  run  the 
common  path  and  the  broad  way  to  hell,  where 
the  godless  belong.  They  look  only  upon  that 
which  is  splendid  and  powerful,  great  and 
mighty,  and  which  hath  consideration.  If  I 
turn  my  eyes  thither  also,  it  is  all  over  with 
me ;  the  bell  is  cast  and  the  judgment  is  pro- 
nounced. Ah  God!  Ah  God!  0,  Thou  my 
God  !  Thou  my  God,  stand  Thou  by  me  against 
the  reason  and  wisdom  of  all  the  world.  Do 
Thou  so !  Thou  must  do  it,  Thou  alone.  Be- 
hold, it  is  not  my  cause  but  thine.  For  my  own 
person  I  have  nothing  to  do  here  with  these 
great  lords  of  the  world.  Gladly  would  I  too 
have  good  quiet  days  and  be  unperplexed.  But 
Thine  is  the  cause,  Lord  ;  it  is  just  and  eternal. 
Stand  Thou  by  me,  Thou  true,  eternal  God !  I 
confide  in  no  man.  It  is  to  no  purpose  and  in 
vain.  Everything  halteth  that  is  fleshly,  or  that 
savoureth  of  flesh.  0  God  !  O  God  !  Hearest 
Thou  not,  my  God?  Art  Thou  dead?  No! 
Thou  canst  not  die.  Thou  only  hidest  Thyself. 
Hast  Thou  chosen  me  for  this  end  ?  I  ask  Thee. 
But  I  know  for  a  surety  that  Thou  hast  chosen 
me.  Ha!  then  may  God  direct  it.  For  never 
did  I  think,  in  all  my  life,  to  be  opposed  to  such 
great  lords ;  neither  have  I  intended  it.  Ha ! 
God,  then  stand  by  me  in  the  name  of  Jesus 
Christ,  who  shall  be  my  shelter  and  my  shield, 
yea !  my  firm  tower,  through  the  might  and 
strengthening  of  thy  Holy  Spirit.  Lord!  where 
stayest  Thou  ?  Thou  my  God  !  where  art  Thou  ? 
Come,  come!  I  am  ready,  even  to  lay  down 
my  life  for  this  cause,  patient  as  a  little  lamb. 
For  just  is  the  cause  and  Thine.  So  will  I  not 
separate  myself  from  Thee  forever.  Be  it  de- 
termined in  Thy  name.  The  world  shall  not 
be  able  to  force  me  against  my  conscience,  though 
it  were  full  of  devils.    And  though  my  body, 


originally  the  work  and  creature  of  Thy  hands, 
go  to  destruction  in  this  cause — yea,  though  it 
be  shattered  in  pieces — Thy  word  and  Thy  Spi- 
rit, they  are  good  to  me  still !  It  concerned! 
only  the  body.  The  soul  is  Thine  and  belong- 
ed! to  Thee,  and  shall  also  remain  with  Thee, 
forever.  Amen.    God  help  me !  Amen. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LUTHER'S  LETTERS. 

FROM  A  COLLECTION  IN  FIVE  VOLS.  8vo.,  PUBLISHED  BY  DR.  W.  M.  L. 
DE  WETTE,  PROFESSOR  OF  THEOLOGY  AT  BASLE.   BERLIN.  18  2  6. 

Extract  from  a  Letter  to  the  Elector  Frederic  and  Duke  John 
of  Saxony,  containing  an  admonition  to  those  princes  to  sup- 
press, according  to  the  authority  entrusted  to  them  by  God,  the 
rebellious  spirit  which  at  that  time  possessed  the  peasantry  in 
various  parts  of  Germany,  and  which  manifested  itBelf  in  the 
destruction  of  churches  and  in  other  riotous  acts. 

To  the  most  Serene,  the  High-born  Princes  and 
Lords,  Duke  Frederic,  Elector  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  and  John,  Duke  of  Saxony,  Land- 
grave of  Thuringen  and  Margrave  of  Meissen 
—-my  most  gracious  Masters  : 
Grace  and  peace  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Saviour. 
—  This  fortune  hath  ever  the  Holy  Word  of 
God,  that  wherever  it  appeareth,  Satan  opposed! 
it  with  all  his  power;  first,  with  the  fist  and 
insolent  force ;  and  where  that  will  not  avail, 
he  assaileth  it  with  false  tongues,  with  erring 
spirits  and  teachers.  Where  he  cannot  quell  it 
with  his  might,  he  would  suppress  it  by  means 
of  cunning  and  lies.  Thus  did  he  in  the  begin- 
ning, when  the  gospel  first  came  into  the  world. 
He  assaulted  it  mightily  with  the  Jews  and  the 
Gentiles,  shed  much  blood,  and  made  Christen- 
dom full  of  martyrs.  When  that  availed  not, 
he  brought  on  false  prophets  and  erring  spirits, 
and  made  the  world  full  of  heretics  and  sects. 
*  *  *  So  must  it  be  now,  that  it  may  be 
seen  that  it  is  the  genuine  Word  of  God,  because 
it  happeneth  unto  it  as  it  hath  happened  in  all 
time.  Pope  and  emperor,  kings  and  princes 
assail  it  with  the  fist,  and  would  fain  quell  it 
with  force.  They  damn  it,  blaspheme  it,  and 
persecute  it  unheard  and  unknown,  like  men 
devoid  of  sense.  But  judgment  hath  been  pro- 
nounced, and  their  defiance  condemned  long  ago. 
(Ps.  2.)  "  Why  do  the  heathen  rage  and  the 
people  imagine  a  vain  thing?  The  kings  of  the 
earth  rise  up  and  the  rulers  take  counsel  to- 
gether against  the  Lord  and  against  his  Anointed. 
But  he  that  sitteth  in  the  heavens  shall  mock 
at  them ;  the  Lord  shall  have  them  in  derision. 
Then  shall  he  speak  unto  them  in  his  wrath 
and  vex  them  in  his  sore  displeasure."  Thus, 
of  a  certainty,  shall  it  happen  to  our  raging 
princes.  And  they  will  have  it  so,  for  they  will 
neither  see  nor  hear.  God  hath  blinded  and 
hardened  them,  that  they  shall  run  upon  de- 
struction and  be  shattered  in  pieces.  They 
have  been  sufficiently  warned. 

All  this  Satan  seeth  well,  and  perceiveth  that 
such  raging  will  come  to  nought.  Yea!  he 
noteth  and  feeleth  that  the  more  it  is  oppressed 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


21 


(as  is  the  wont  of  God's  word)  the  more  doth  it 
spread  and  increase.  Therefore  he  will  now 
attack  it  with  false  spirits  and  sects.  And  we 
must  consider  this,  and  not  surfer  ourselves  to 
be  deceived  by  it.  For  it  must  be  so,  as  Paul 
saith  to  the  Corinthians  :  "  For  there  must  be  also 
heresies  among  you,  that  they  which  are  ap- 
proved may  be  made  manifest  among  you."  So 
then,  Satan  being  cast  out,  after  that  he  hath 
wandered  about  one  year  or  three,  through  dry 
places,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none,  he  hath 
settled  down  in  your  Electoral  and  Princely 
Graces'  dominions,  and  hath  made  him  a  nest 
at  Alstadt,  and  thinks  to  fight  against  us  under 
cover  of  our  own  peace  and  shelter  and  protec- 
tion. For  Duke  George's  kingdom,  howbeit  it 
is  near,  is  far  too  kind  and  gentle  toward  this 
undaunted  and  unconquerable  spirit,  (for  so  it 
boasteth  itself)  to  prevent  the  manifestation  of 
its  bold  daring  and  defiance.  It  shrieks  and 
wails  horribly,  and  complains  of  its  sufferings, 
whereas  no  one  hath  yet  touched  it,  neither  with 
the  fist,  nor  with  the  mouth,  nor  with  the  pen. 
They  dream  to  themselves  some  great  cross 
which  they  suffer.  So  wantonly  and  without 
all  reason  must  the  Devil  lie.  0  !  he  cannot 
by  any  possibility  hide  himself. 

Now  it  is  a  special  joy  to  me'  that  our  own 
proceed  not  after  this  fashion.  And  they  them- 
selves boast  that  they  are  not  of  our  party,  and 
that  they  have  learned  nothing  and  received 
nothing  from  us.  No  !  they  come  from  heaven, 
and  hear  God  himself  speaking  with  them  as 
with  the  angels  ;  and  it  is  a  poor  thing  that  Faith 
and  Love  and  the  cross  of  Christ  are  preached 
at  Wittenberg.  God's  voice,  say  they,  thou  must 
hear  thyself,  and  must  suffer  and  feel  God's 
work  within,  that  thou  mayest  know  how  heavy 
thy  pound  is.  Scripture  is  naught — "Bah!  Bi- 
ble, bubble,  babble  /"  &c.  &c.  If  we  should  speak 
such  words  of  them,  their  cross  and  suffering  I 
ween  would  be  dearer  than  the  cross  of  Christ, 
and  they  would  esteem  it  more  highly.  So  will- 
ing is  that  miserable  spirit  to  bear  the  credit 
of  cross  and  suffering,  and  yet  they  cannot  bear 
that  one  should  entertain  the  least  doubt  or 
question  that  their  voice  is  from  heaven  and 
their  work  of  God  ;  but  they  will  have  it  straight- 
way believed  by  force,  without  consideration. 
So  that  I  have  never  read  or  heard  of  a  more 
high-minded  or  prouder  "  Holy  Spirit ,"  (if  such  it 
be.)  But  here  is  neither  time  nor  room  to  judge 
their  doctrine.  I  have  examined  and  judged  it 
twice,  I  think,  ere  this,  and,  if  need  be,  can  judge 
it  again,  and  will,  by  the  grace  of  God. 

I  have  written  this  letter  to  your  Princely 
Graces  chiefly  for  this  cause,  that  I  have  heard 
and  have  also  gathered  from  their  writing,  how 
this  selfsame  spirit  will  not  rest  its  cause  upon 
the  Word  alone,  but  is  minded  to  carry  it  on 
with  the  fist,  and  would  fain  rise  with  force 
against  the  magistracy,  and  straightway  set  on 
foot  a  veritable  rebellion.  Here  Satan  suffereth 
the  rogue  to  peep  forth.  It  is  too  palpable ! 
*    *    *    Therefore,  your  Princely  Graces,  here 


is  no  time  to  sleep  or  loiter,  for  God  demands 
and  will  have  an  answer  touching  the  negligent 
use  of  the  sword  which  he  hath  committed  to 
you  in  earnest.  Neither  is  it  excusable,  before 
the  people  and  the  world,  that  your  Princely 
Graces  should  tolerate  rebellious  and  insolent 
fists. 

*  *  *  First,  it  must  needs  be  a  bad  spirit 
which  cannot  manifest  its  fruit  in  any  other  way 
than  by  destroying  churches  and  cloisters,  and 
burning  saints,  which  the  most  abandoned  vil- 
lains in  the  world  can  do  as  well,  especially 
when  they  are  safe  and  unresisted.  I  would 
think  more  of  this  Alstadt  Spirit  if  it  would  go 
up  against  Dresden,  or  Berlin,  or  Ingolstadt,  and 
there  storm  and  break  down  cloisters  and  burn 
saints. 

Secondly,  that  they  boast  themselves  of  the 
Spirit  availeth  nothing,  for  we  have  the  word 
of  St.  John  for  it,  to  prove  first  the  Spirits  whe- 
ther they  be  of  God.  Now  is  this  Spirit  not  yet 
proved,  but  dashes  on  with  impetuous  vehe- 
mence, and  rages  wantonly,  according  to  its 
own  pleasure.  If  it  were  a  good  Spirit,  it  would 
first  suffer  itself  to  be  proved  and  judged  in  hu- 
mility, as  the  Spirit  of  Christ  doth.  *  *  * 
What  manner  of  Spirit  is  that  which  fears  in 
the  presence  of  two  or  three  and  cannot  bide  a 
dangerous  assembly  1  I  will  tell  thee.  He 
smelleth  the  roast.*  He  hath  had  his  nose  hit 
once  or  twice  by  me  in  my  cloister  at  Witten- 
berg. Hence  he  fears  the  soup,  and  will  not 
stand,  save  where  his  own  people  are,  who  say 
yea,  to  his  precious  words.  If  I  (who  have  no 
Spirit  at  all  and  have  no  voice  from  heaven) 
had  suffered  such  a  word  to  be  heard  of  me  by 
my  papists,  how  would  they  have  cried  victory, 
and  have  stopped  my  mouth  ! 

I  cannot  boast  myself  and  bid  defiance  with 
such  lofty  words.  I  am  a  poor  miserable  man. 
I  did  not  open  my  cause  with  excellency  of 
speech,  but,  as  Paul  confesses  of  himself,  with 
weakness  and  fear,  and  much  trembling.  And 
he  might,  notwithstanding,  have  boasted  of  a 
voice  from  heaven,  had  he  chosen.  How  hum- 
bly I  attacked  the  Pope,  how  I  besought  and 
entreated,  let  my  first  writings  prove.  Never- 
theless, with  this  poor  spirit  of  mine,  I  have 
done  that  which  this  world-eating  spirit  of  theirs 
hath  not  yet  attempted,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
hath  thus  far  shunned  and  fled,  after  a  very 
knightly  and  manly  fashion;  and  hath  even 
most  nobly  boasted  of  such  evasion,  as  of  a 
knightly  and  sublime  act  of  the  Spirit.  For  I 
stood  up  to  dispute  at  Leipsic  before  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  assemblies.  I  appeared  at 
Augsburgh  before  my  greatest  enemy,  without 
escort.  I  stood  up  at  Worms  before  the  empe- 
ror and  the  whole  empire,  albeit  I  knew  before- 
hand that  my  escort  were  betrayed,  and  that 
wild,  strange  malice  and  treachery  were  level- 
led against  me. 

Weak  and  poor  as  I  then  was,  yet  such  was 


*  Smells  a  rat. 


22 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


the  state  of  my  heart, — had  I  known  that  as  many- 
devils  were  aiming  at  me  as  there  were  tiles 
on  the  roofs  at  Worms,  I  would  none  the  less 
have  ridden  in ;  and  yet  I  had  never  heard 
aught,  as  yet,  of  the  voice  from  heaven  and  of 
God's  pounds  and  works,  and  of  the  Alstadt 
Spirit.  Item:  I  have  been  made  to  answer  for 
myself,  in  corners, — to  one,  to  two,  and  to  three, 
to  whomsoever,  and  where  and  howsoever  they 
listed  to  question  me.  My  timid  and  poor  spirit 
hath  been  forced  to  stand  forth,  free  as  a  flower 
of  the  field,  and  could  not  appoint  either  time, 
or  person,  or  place,  or  mode,  or  measure,  but 
must  be  ready  and  willing  to  give  an  answer  to 
every  man,  as  St.  Peter  teacheth. 

And  this  Spirit,  which  is  as  high  above  us  as 
the  sun  is  above  the  earth,  which  scarce  consi- 
ders us  as  worms,  appoints  for  himself  only  un- 
perilous,  friendly,  and  safe  judges  and  hearers, 
and  will  not  stand  and  answer  to  two  or  to  three 
in  sundry  places.  He  feels  somewhat  that  he 
does  not  love  to  feel,  and  thinks  to  scare  us  with 
swelling  words.  Well!  we  can  do  nothing  but 
what  Christ  gives  us.  If  He  shall  leave  us, 
then  shall  a  rustling  leaf  perchance  affright  us ; 
but  if  He  will  keep  us,  that  spirit  shall  yet  be 
made  sensible  of  its  lofty  boasting.* 

But  I  would  fain  know  whether, — seeing  the 
Spirit  is  not  without  fruit,  and  that  theirs  is  so 
much  loftier  than  ours, — whether  it  bears  nobler 
fruit  than  ours'?  Truly,  it  ought  to  bear  other 
and  better  fruit  than  ours,  seeing  it  is  better  and 
nobler.  So  we  teach  and  profess,  that  the  Spirit 
which  we  preach  bears  the  fruits  spoken  of  by 
Paul  to  the  Galatians — "  love,  joy,  peace,  long- 
suffering,  gentleness,  goodness,  faith,  meekness, 
temperance."  In  fine,  the  fruit  of  our  Spirit  is 
the  fulfilling  of  the  ten  commandments  of  God. 
Now  then,  the  Alstadt  Spirit,  that  will  not  leave 
ours  in  peace,  must,  of  a  surety,  yield  something 
higher  than  love  and  faith,  long-suffering  and 
peace;  notwithstanding  St.  Paul  reckons  love 
to  be  the  highest  fruit.  It  must  do  much  better 
than  God  hath  commanded.  I  would  fain  know 
what  that  is,  since  we  are  assured  that  the  Spirit 
imparted  by  Christ  is  given  for  this  end  only, 
that  we  fulfil  the  commandment  of  God.    *  * 

I  perceive  as  yet  no  particular  fruit  of  the 
Alstadt  Spirit,  except  that  it  is  minded  to  strike 
with  the  fist,  and  to  destroy  wood  and  stone. 
Love,  peace,  long-suffering,  goodness,  gentle- 
ness,— they  have  thus  far  been  very  sparing  in 
their  exhibition  of.  Doubtless,  they  would  not 
have  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit  become  too  common. 
But  I  can  show,  by  the  grace  of  God,  much  fruit 
of  the  Spirit  among  our  people.  And,  if  it  comes 
to  boasting,  I  might  set  up  my  single  person — 
the  meanest  and  most  sinful  of  all — against  all 
the  fruits  of  the  whole  Alstadt  Spirit,  much  as 
they  blame  my  life.  But,  to  accuse  the  doctrine 
of  any  man  because  of  the  infirmities  of  his  life 
-*-that  is  not  the  Holy  Spirit.  For  the  Holy  Spi- 
rit reproveth  false  doctrine,  and  beareth  them 


*  i.  e.  be  made  sensible  of  the  vanity  of  it. 


that  are  weak  in  faith  and  in  life,  as  Paul  teach- 
eth, Rom.  xiv.  and  in  all  places.  Neither  am 
I  troubled  that  the  Alstadt  Spirit  is  so  unfruitful, 
but  because  it  is  a  lying  Spirit,  and  setteth  itself 
up  to  judge  the  doctrine  of  others. 

*  *  *  Be  this  then  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter,  my  gracious  Masters.  Your 
Graces  shall  not  hinder  the  function  of  the  Word. 
Let  them  preach  away  as  much  as  they  please, 
and  against  whom  they  please,  for,  as  I  have 
said,  there  must  be  sects,  and  the  Word  of  God 
must  take  the  field  and  fight.  *  *  *  If 
their  Spirit  be  the  true  one,  it  will  not  be  afraid 
of  us,  but  maintain  its  ground.  If  our  Spirit  be 
the  true  one,  it  will  not  be  afraid  of  them,  nor 
of  any  man.  Let  the  Spirits  tilt  and  charge 
against  each  other.  If,  meanwhile,  some  are 
led  astray,  so  be  it !  It  is  according  to  the  course 
of  war.  Where  there  is  fighting  and  strife,  some 
must  fall  and  some  must  be  wounded.  But  he 
that  striveth  honourably  shall  receive  a  crown. 

But  if  they  attempt  to  do  more  than  to  fight 
with  the  word;  if  they  go  about  to  destroy  and 
to  smite  with  the  fist ; — then  your  Graces  shall 
take  hold,  whether  it  be  we  or  whether  it  be 
they,  and  straightway  forbid  them  the  land,  and 
say  to  them  :  "  We  will  willingly  bear  with  you, 
and  see  you  contend  with  the  Word  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  true  doctrine ;  but  keep  the 
fist  still,  for  that  is  our  business ;  or  else  take 
yourselves  out  of  the  land."  For  we  who  bear 
the  Word  of  God  must  not  fight  with  our  fists. 
*  *  *  Our  work  is  to  preach  and  to  suffer, 
not  to  defend  ourselves  and  to  strike.  Christ 
and  his  apostles  destroyed  no  churches  and 
broke  in  pieces  no  images,  but  won  hearts  with 
God's  word,  and  then  churches  and  images  fell 
of  themselves.  So  should  we  do  likewise.  *  * 

What  need  we  care  for  wood  and  stone,  if 
we  have  men's  hearts?  See  how  I  do.  I  have 
never  laid  hands  on  a  single  stone.  I  have  de- 
stroyed and  burned  nothing  in  the  cloisters. 
And  yet,  through  my  word,  the  cloisters  are  now 
empty  in  many  places,  —  even  under  those 
Princes  who  are  opposed  to  the  gospel.  Had  I 
attacked  them  with  storm,  like  these  prophets, 
the  hearts  of  men  in  all  the  world  would  have 
remained  captive,  and  I  should  only  have  de- 
stroyed here  and  there  a  little  wood  and  stone. 
Who  would  have  been  the  better  for  that1? 
Honour  and  fame  may  be  sought  that  way,  but, 
assuredly,  the  good  of  souls  is  not  sought  by 
such  means.  There  be  some  who  think  that  I, 
without  carnal  weapons,  have  done  the  Pope 
more  injury  than  a  mighty  king  could  have  done. 
But  these  prophets,  willing  to  do  something 
special  and  better,  and  not  being  able,  leave  the 
saving  of  souls  and  take  to  assailing  wood  and 
stone.  That  is  the  new  and  wonderful  work 
of  this  high  Spirit. 

If  they  argue  that  the  Jews  were  commanded 
in  the  law  of  Moses  to  destroy  all  idols,  and  to 
abolish  the  altars  of  the  false  gods,  the  answer 
is,  they  themselves  know  that  God,  from  the 
beginning,  has  wrought  with  one  word  and 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


23 


faith,  but  with  diverse  kinds  of  saints  and 
works.  ******* 

Nay,  if  it  were  right  that  we  Christians  should 
storm  and  break  down  churches  like  the  Jews, 
it  would  follow  further  that  we  ought  to  put  to 
death  all  who  are  not  Christians,  as  well  as  de- 
stroy images, — as  the  Jews  were  commanded 
to  slay  the  Canaanites  and  the  Amorites.  Then 
the  Alstadt  Spirit  would  have  nothing  more  to 
do  but  to  shed  blood ;  and  all  who  did  not  bear 
their  "voice  from  heaven"  must  be  slain  by 
them,  that  there  might  remain  no  occasion  of 
offence  among  the  people  of  God.  Which  of- 
fence is  much  greater  from  living  unchristian 
men,  than  from  images  of  wood  and  stone.  *  * 

The  removing  of  offences  must  be  accom- 
plished by  the  Word  of  God.  For  though  all 
outward  offence  were  destroyed  and  done  away, 
it  would  avail  nothing,  unless  the  hearts  of  men 
were  brought  from  unbelief  to  the  true  faith. 
For  an  unbelieving  heart  will  always  find  new 
cause  of  offence ;  as  it  came  to  pass  among  the 
Jews,  who  erected  ten  idols  where  they  de- 
stroyed one.  Wherefore,  we  must  employ  the 
true  method,  according  to  the  New  Testament, 
of  banishing  the  Devil  and  offences;  that  is,  the 
Word  of  God.  With  that  we  must  turn  away 
the  hearts  of  men  from  evil ;  and  then,  perad- 
venture,  the  Devil  with  all  his  splendour  and 
his  power  shall  fall  of  himself. 

Here  will  I  rest  the  matter  for  the  present, 
humbly  beseeching  your  Princely  Graces  ear- 
nestly to  discountenance  such  storming  and 
swarming,  that  these  matters  may  be  managed 
by  the  word  of  God  alone,  as  befitteth  Chris- 
tians ;  and  that  all  occasion  of  tumult,  for  which 
Master  Omnes*  is  ever  more  than  too  much  in- 
clined, may  be  averted.  For  they  be  no  Chris- 
tians who,  not  content  with  the  Word  of  God, 
are  fain  to  lay  hold  with  their  fists  also,  and  are 
not  rather  ready  to  suffer  all  things, — yea,  though 
they  boast  themselves  filled  with  ten  Holy  Spirits 
and  filled  again. 

May  God's  mercy  strengthen  and  keep  your 
Princely  Graces  evermore!  Amen!  Given  the 
21st  August,  Anno  1524. 

Your  Princely  Graces' 

Obedient  Mart.  Luther,  Doctor. 


TO  THE  ELECTOR  JOHN. 

A  LETTER  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  IN  RETURN  FOR  A  PRESENT  OF 
SOME  ARTICLES  OF  CLOTHING. 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ!  Most  Serene, 
High-born  Prince,  and  Gracious  Lord  !  I  have 
long  delayed  to  thank  your  Electoral  Princely 
Grace  for  the  clothes  and  garment  sent  and  pre- 
sented to  me.  But  I  will  humbly  entreat  your 
Electoral  Princely  Grace  not  to  believe  them 
that  speak  of  me  as  one  that  hath  need.    Alas  ! 


*  The  mob. 


I  possess  more,  especially  from  your  Electoral 
Princely  Grace,  than  my  conscience  will  bear. 
It  befitteth  me  not,  as  a  preacher,  to  have  super- 
fluity, neither  do  I  desire  it. 

Hence  I  receive  your  Electoral  Princely 
Grace's  all  too  generous  and  gracious  favour  in 
such  wise,  that  I  straightway  fear.  For  by  no 
means  would  I  willingly,  here  in  this  life,  be 
found  with  those  to  whom  Christ  saith  :  "Wo 
unto  you  that  are  rich,  for  ye  have  had  your  re- 
ward." Moreover,  to  speak  after  the  manner 
of  this  world,  I  would  not  be  burthensome  to 
your  Electoral  Princely  Grace,  since  I  know  that 
your  Electoral  Princely  Grace  hath  so  much  of 
giving  to  do  that  it  may  not  have  more  than 
enough  for  its  need.  For  too  much  bursts  the 
bag. 

Wherefore,  although  the  liver-coloured  cloth 
had  been  too  much,  yet,  that  I  may  be  grateful 
to  your  Electoral  Princely  Grace,  I  will  also 
wear  the  black  coat  in  honour  of  your  Electoral 
Princely  Grace,  howbeit  it  is  far  too  costly  for 
me,  and  were  it  not  your  Electoral  Princely 
Grace's  gift,  I  could  nevermore  wear  such  a  coat. 

For  this  cause,  I  entreat  that  your  Electoral 
Princely  Grace  will  wait  until  I  complain  and 
beg,  myself,  to  the  end  that  your  Electoral 
Princely  Grace's  anticipation  of  my  wants  may 
not  make  me  shy  of  begging  for  others  who  are 
much  more  worthy  of  such  grace.  For  without 
this,  your  Electoral  Princely  Grace  does  too 
much  for  me.  Which  Christ  shall  graciously 
and  richly  recompense.  That  he  may  do  so,  I 
pray  from  my  heart.  Amen. 

Your  Electoral  Princely  Grace's 
Obedient  Martinus  Luther. 
The  17th  Aug.  1529. 


EXTRACT 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  CASPAR  GUTTEL,  PREACHER  AT  EISLEBEN. 
WRITTEN  AGAINST  THE  ANTINOMIANS.    JANUARY,  1539. 

*  *  *  I  marvel  much  how  the  rejection 
of  the  Law  and  the  Ten  Commandments  can  be 
imputed  to  me,  seeing  there  are  so  many  and 
such  various  expositions  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments by  me,  which  are  daily  preached  and 
made  the  subject  of  exercises  in  our  churches ; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  Confession  and  the  Apology 
and  our  other  books.  Moreover  they  are  sung 
in  two  different  ways,  and  painted  and  printed, 
and  done  in  woodcuts,  and  repeated  by  the 
children,  morning,  noon,  and  evening,  so  that 
I  know  of  no  way  in  which  they  are  not  prac- 
tised, save  (alas !)  that  we  do  not  paint  and 
practise  them  in  our  conduct  and  life  as  we 
ought  to  do.  And  I  myself,  old  and  instructed 
as  I  am,  repeat  them  daily,  word  for  word,  like 
a  child.  So,  if  any  one  had  received  a  different 
doctrine  from  my  writings  and  yet  saw  how 
diligently  I  handled  the  Ten  Commandments,  he 
ought  to  have  accosted  me  in  this  wise  :  "  Dear 


24 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


Doctor  Luther,  how  is  it  that  thou  insistest  so 
strongly  on  the  ten  commandments,  seeing  it  is 
thy  doctrine  that  they  ought  to  be  rejected?" 
So  ought  they  to  have  done,  and  not  to  have 
mined  in  secret  behind  me,  to  wait  for  my 
death,  to  make  of  me  what  they  listed,  after 
that.  ******* 

I  have  taught  indeed,  and  still  teach,  that 
sinners  should  be  moved  to  repentance  by 
preaching,  or  by  the  contemplation  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  Christ,  that  they  may  see  how  great 
is  the  wrath  of  God  against  sin,  for  which 
no  other  remedy  could  be  found  than  that  the 
Son  of  God  should  die  for  it.  Which  doctrine 
is  not  mine  but  St.  Bernard's.  What  do  I  say? 
St.  Bernard's?  It  is  the  doctrine  of  all  Christ- 
endom. It  is  the  preaching  of  all  the  prophets 
and  the  apostles.  But  how  doth  it  follow  there- 
from, that  the  Law  should  be  done  away?  I 
find  no  such  consequence  in  my  dialectic,  and 
I  would  like  to  see  and  hear  the  master  who 
could  demonstrate  the  same.  *  *  *  Yor 
the  devil  knoweth  that  Christ  may  soon  and 
easily  be  withdrawn,  but  the  Law  is  written  in 
the  core  of  the  heart  and  cannot  by  any  possi- 
bility be  done  away.  *  *  *  But  he  goeth 
about  to  make  people  secure,  and  teacheth  them 
to  regard  neither  the  Law  nor  sin,  that  when, 
hereafter,  they  are  suddenly  overtaken  by  death 
or  an  evil  conscience,  who  before  had  been 
accustomed  only  to  sweet  security,  they  may 
sink,  without  help,  into  hell,  because  they  have 
learned  nothing  but  sweet  security  in  Christ. 
*  *  *  It  is  only  sorrowful  and  suffering 
hearts  that  feel  their  sin,  and  they  are  to  be 
comforted,  for  the  dear  Jesus  can  never  bemade 
sweet  enough  to  such.  *  *  *  But  these 
spirits  are  not  such  Christians,  because  they  are 
so  secure  and  of  good  courage.  Neither  are 
their  hearers  such,  for  they  also  are  secure  and 
well  to  do.  A  fine  and  beautiful  maiden  singeth 
in  a  certain  place — an  excellent  singer — "  He 
hath  fed  the  hungry  with  good  things,  and  the 
rich  he  hath  sent  empty  away,  He  hath  put 
down  the  mighty  from  their  seats  and  exalted 
them  of  low  degree.  And  his  mercy  is  on  them 
that  fear  him."  (Luke  i.  50,  52,  53,)  If  this 
magnificat  be  correct,  God  must  be  an  enemy  of 
spirits  that  are  secure  and  that  fear  him  not. 
And  such  spirits  must  they  be,  who  put  away 
Law  and  sin.  *  *  *  For  this  I  will  and 
may  boast  with  truth,  that  no  papist  of  this  time 
is,  with  such  conscience  and  earnest,  a  papist 
as  I  have  been.  For  what  is  now  a  papist  is 
not  so,  from  the  fear  of  God,  as  I,  poor  wight, 
was  forced  to  be.  But  they  seek  other  things, 
as  any  one  may  see,  and  they  themselves  know 
it.  I  have  had  to  experience  that  saying  of  St. 
Peter :  "  Crescite  in  cognitione  Domini."  I  see  no 
Doctor,  no  Council,  no  Fathers — though  I  should 
even  distil  their  books,  as  it  were,  and  make  a 
quinta  essentia  out  of  them — who  have  accom- 
plished the  "  crescite"  at  once,  at  the  beginning, 
in  such  sort,  as  to  make  the  crescite  a  perfectvm 
esse.    By  token,  St.  Peter  himself  was  forced  to 


learn  his  own  crescite  from  St.  Paul,  Gal.  ii.  11, 
and  St.  Paul  from  Christ  himself,  who  must  say 
to  him  :  "  Sufficit  tibi  mea  gratia,"  &c.  2  Cor. 
xii.  9. 

Dear  God!  can  they  not  bear  that  the  holy 
Church  should  confess  herself  a  sinner  and  be 
lieve  in  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  pray  for  the 
same,  in  the  Lord's  prayer? 

Ah !  I  ought,  in  reason,  to  have  peace  with 
mine  own.  To  have  to  do  with  the  papists 
were  enough.  One  might  well  nigh  come  to 
say  with  Job  and  with  Jeremiah  :  "Would  that 
I  had  never  been  born  !"  So  likewise  might  I 
almost  say :  Would  that  I  had  never  come  with 
my  books  !  I  care  nothing  for  them.  I  could 
bear  that  they  had  already  perished,  all  of  them, 
and  that  the  writings  of  these  high  spirits  were 
offered  for  sale  in  all  the  bookstalls  as  they  de- 
sire, —  that  they  might  have  their  fill  of  fair 
fame.  Then  again,  I  must  not  esteem  myself 
better  than  our  dear  Goodman  of  the  house, — 
Jesus  Christ,  — who,  also,  here  and  there  com- 
plaineth :  "  In  vain  have  I  laboured,  and  my 
trouble  is  lost."*  But  the  Devil  is  lord  of  this 
world.  And  I  could  never  believe,  myself,  that 
the  Devil  should  be  lord  and  god  of  this  world, 
until  now  that  I  have  pretty  much  experienced 
that  this  also  is  an  article  of  faith :  Princeps 
mimdi,  deus  hujus  sceculi.  But  God  be  praised ! 
it  will  remain  unbelieved,  peradventure,  by  the 
children  of  men  ;  and  I,  myself,  believe  it  but 
feebly.  For  every  man  is  well  pleased  with 
his  own  way,  and  all  hope  that  the  Devil  is 
beyond  the  sea,  and  God  in  our  pockets. 

But,  for  the  sake  of  the  pious  who  wish  to  be 
saved,  we  must  live,  preach,  write,  do  all  and 
suffer  all.  Otherwise,  when  we  behold  so 
many  devils  and  false  brethren,  it  were  better 
to  preach  nothing,  to  write  nothing,  to  do  no- 
thing, but  only  to  die  quickly  and  be  buried. 
They  pervert  and  blaspheme  all  things,  and 
make  of  them  nothing  but  mischief  and  a  cause 
of  offence,  even  as  the  Devil  rideth  and  guideth 
them.  There  will  and  must  be  fighting  and 
suffering.  We  cannot  have  it  better  than  the 
dear  prophets  and  apostles,  to  whom  it  hap- 
pened also  after  the  same  fashion.     *      *  * 

It  was  a  special  presumption  and  arrogance 
in  them  that  they  also  must  needs  bring  forth 
something  new  and  peculiar,  that  people  might 
say,  "I  opine  truly,  this  is  a  man!  He  is 
another  Paul !  Must  they  of  Wittenberg  alone 
know  all  things?  I  have  a  head  too!"  Yea! 
a  head  indeed,  that  seeketh  its  own  honour  and 
befool eth  itself  with  its  own  wisdom  !    *  * 

From  all  which  we  see,  and  might,  if  we 
would,  understand  the  history  of  the  churches 
from  the  beginning.  It  hath  happened  so  in  all 
time.  Wherever  God's  word  hath  arisen  and 
his  flock  been  gathered  together,  the  Devil  hath 
become  aware  of  the  light,  and  hath  blown 
against  it,  out  of  every  corner; — puffed  and 

*  These  words  are  given  as  a  quotation  from  Isaiah, 
xlix.  4. 




MARTIN  LUTHER. 


25 


stormed  with  great  and  strong  winds  to  put  out 
the  divine  light.  And  if  one  or  two  winds 
were  checked  and  fended  off,  he  hath  evermore 
blown  through  some  new  hole,  and  stormed 
against  the  light.  And  there  has  been  no  end 
nor  cessation,  neither  will  be  until  the  last  day. 

I  hold  that  I  alone  (not  to  speak  of  the  elders) 
have  suffered  more  than  twenty  storm-winds 
and  factions  which  the  Devil  hath  blown.  First, 
there  was  Popedom.  Yea  !  I  think  all  the  world 
should  know  with  how  many  storm-winds,  Bulls 
and  books  the  Devil  hath  raged  against  me  from 
that  quarter  ;  how  miserably  they  tore,  devoured 
and  destroyed  me;  and  how  I  only  breathed 
upon  them  a  little  now  and  then,  with  no  effect, 
save  that  they  became  the  more  wrathful  and 
mad  to  blow  and  to  spit,  without  ceasing,  to  this 
day.  And  when  I  had  now  well  nigh  ceased 
to  fear  this  manner  of  the  Devil's  spitting,  he 
bursts  me  another  hole  by  means  of  Miinzer  and 
that  uproar,  wherewith  he  had  near  blown  out 
my  light.  And  when  Christ  had  almost  stopped 
that  hole,  he  tears  me  sundry  panes  out  of  my 
window  with  Karlstadt,  and  breezes  and  fumes, 
so  that  I  thought  he  would  carry  away  the  light, 
wax  and  wick  together.  But  here  too.  God 
helped  his  poor  torch  and  preserved  it,  that  it 
went  not  out.  Then  came  the  Sacramentists 
and  the  Baptists,  pushed  open  door  and  window, 
and  thought  to  quench  the  light.  Perilous  they 
made  it,  but  their  will  they  accomplished  not. 

And  though  I  were  to  live  yet  a  hundred 
years,  and  could  lay  all  future  storms  and  fac- 
tions, as,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  have  laid  past 
and  present  ones,  I  see  well  that  no  rest  would 
be  secured  by  such  means  to  our  posterity, 
seeing  the  Devil  lives  and  reigns.  Wherefore 
I  also  pray  for  an  hour  of  grace,*  and  desire  no 
more  of  this  stuff.  Ye,  our  posterity!  do  ye 
continue  to  pray  and  diligently  to  follow  after 
the  word  of  God  !  Preserve  God's  poor  taper ! 
Be  warned  and  armed!  as  those  who  must  ex- 
pect every  hour  that  the  Devil  will  break  you  a 
pane  or  a  window,  or  tear  open  door  or  roof,  to 
put  out  the  light.  For  he  will  not  die  before 
the  last  day.  I  and  thou  must  die,  and  when 
we  are  dead  he  shall  remain  the  same  that  he 
hath  ever  been,  and  cannot  cease  from  storming. 

I  see  yonder,  from  afar,  how  he  puffeth  out 
his  cheeks,  till  he  becometh  red  in  the  face,  and 
intendeth  to  blow  and  to  storm.  But  as  our 
Lord  Christ,  in  the  beginning,  (even  in  his  own 
person,)  smote  those  puffed  cheeks  with  his  fist, 
and  caused  them  *  *  *  so  will  he  do  now 
and  ever  forth.  For  he  cannot  lie  who  saith, 
"  I  am  with  you  always  unto  the  end  of  the 
world:"  *  *  *  Jesus  Christ,  " heri  et  hodie 
et  in  scecula" — who  was,  and  is,  and  shall  be. 
Yea !  so  the  man  is  called,  and  so  no  other  man 
is  called,  and  so  no  other  shall  be  called. 

For  thou  and  I  were  nothing  a  thousand 
years  ago;  nevertheless,  the  Church  was  pre- 
served without  us.  It  must  have  been  his  doing 


*  i.  e.  for  the  final  hour. 
D 


whose  name  is  11  qui  erat"  and  "heri.'"  So,  now, 
too,  we  exist  not  by  our  own  life,  and  the 

Church  is  not  preserved  by  our  means,  and 

we  and  it  must  go  to  destruction  together,  as 
we  daily  experience,  were  there  not  another 
man  who  evidently  sustains  both  the  Church 
and  us  whose  name  is  "qui  est"  and  "ho- 
die." Even  so  shall  we  contribute  nothing  to 
the  preservation  of  the  Church  when  we  are 
dead ;  but  it  will  be  his  doing  whose  name  is 
"qui  venturus  est"  and  "in  scecula."  And  what 
we  now  say  of  ourselves,  as  touching  these 
things,  that  have  our  forefathers  also  been  con- 
strained to  say,  as  the  Psalms  and  the  Scripture 
witness ;  and  our  posterity  shall  also  experience 
the  same,  and  they  shall  sing  with  us  and  the 
whole  Church,  Ps.  124,  "Had  it  not  been  the 
Lord  who  was  on  our  side,  now  may  Israel  say." 
*  *  *  For  this  time  enough  of  such  com- 
plaining !  Our  dear  Lord  Christ  be  and  remain 
our  dear  Lord  Christ,  praised  in  eternity !  Amen. 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 

To  my  Gracious  Lady,*  Catherine  Luther,  of 
Bora  and  Zulsdorf,  near  Wittenberg,  —  my 
Sweetheart . 

Grace  and  peace,  my  dear  maid  and  wife ! 
Your  Grace  shall  know  that  we  are  here,  God 
be  praised ! — fresh  and  sound  ;  eat  like  Bohe- 
mians,— yet  not  to  excess — guzzle  like  Germans, 
— yet  not  much  ; — but  are  joyful.  For  our  gra- 
cious Lord  of  Magdeburg,  Bishop  Amsdorf,  is 
our  messmate.  We  know  nothing  new  but  that 
Doct.  Caspar  Mecum  and  Menius  have  journeyed 
from  Hagenau  to  Strasburg,  in  the  service  and 
in  honour  of  Hans  von  Jehnen.  M.  Philippsj" 
is  nice  again,  God  be  praised !  Tell  my  dear 
Doct.  Schiefer,  that  his  King  Ferdinand  will 
have  a  cry,  as  if  he  would  ask  the  Turk  to  be 
godfather,  over  the  Evangelical  Princes.  Hope 
it  is  not  true,  it  would  be  too  bad.  Write  me 
whether  you  got  all  that  I  sent  you,  as  lately, 
90  Fl.  by  Wolf  Paerman,  &c.  Herewith  I  com- 
mend you  to  God.  Amen.  And  let  the  children 
pray.  There  is  here  such  a  heat  and  drought 
that  it  is  unspeakable  and  insupportable,  day 
and  night.  Come  dear  Last  Day !  Amen.  Fri- 
day after  Margarethae,  1540.  The  Bishop  of 
Magdeburg  sends  thee  friendly  greeting. 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 

To  the  rich  Lady  at  Zulsdorf,  Lady  Katherin 
Lutherin, — bodily  resident  at  Wittenberg,  and 
mentally  wandering  at  Zulsdorf,  —  my  be- 
loved,— for  her  own  hands.  In  her  absence 
to  be  broken  and  read  by  Doct.  Pomeran, 
Preacher. 

*  Jungfer,  literally,  virgin.  Luther's  letters  to  his  wife 
are  generally  marked  by  a  dash  of  irony,  particularly  in 
the  superscriptions.  f  Melanchthon. 

3 


36 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


 *  grant  that  we  may  find  a 

good  drink  of  beer  with  you!  For,  God  willing, 
to-morrow,  as  Tuesday,  we  will  set  out  for  Wit- 
tenberg. It  is  all  dung  with  the  Diet  at  Hage- 
nau,  —  pains  and  labour  lost,  and  expenses  in 
vain.  Howbeit,  if  we  have  done  nothing  else 
we  have  brought  M.  Philipps  out  of  hell,  and 
will  fetch  him  home  again,  from  the  grave,  with 
much  joy,  if  God  will,  and  by  his  grace,  Amen. 
The  Devil  out  here  is,  himself,  possessed  with 
nine  bad  devils ;  he  is  burning  and  doing  mis- 
chief, after  a  frightful  fashion.  More  than  a 
thousand  acres  of  wood  in  the  Thuringian  forest 
belonging  to  my  most  Gracious  Master  have 
been  burned  and  are  yet  burning.  Moreover, 
there  is  tidings  to-day  that  the  forest  of  Werda 
is  also  on  fire,  and  many  others  beside.  No 
attempts  to  quench  the  flames  are  of  any  avail. 
That  will  make  wood  dear.  Pray  and  cause 
prayers  to  be  said  against  the  wicked  Satan, 
who  seeketh,  vehemently  seeketh  to  ruin  us  not 
only  in  body  and  soul  but  also  in  name  and 
estate.  May  Christ  our  Lord  come  from  heaven 
and  kindle  a  bit  of  a  fire  too,  for  the  Devil  and 
his  angels,  that  he  shall  not  be  able  to  quench ! 
Amen  !  I  am  not  certain  whether  this  letter 
will  find  you  at  Wittenberg  or  at  Zulsdorf,  else 
I  would  have  written  more.  Herewith  I  com- 
mend thee  to  God,  Amen !  Greet  our  children, 
our  boarders  and  all.  Monday  after  Jacobi  1540. 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 

To  the  deeply  learned  Lady  Katharin  Lutherin, 
— my  Gracious  Housewife  at  Wittenberg. 
Grace  and  Peace !  Dear  Kate,  we  sit  here 
and  let  ourselves  be  martyred,  and  would  fain 
be  off;  but  methinks  that  cannot  be,  under  a 
week.  Thou  mayest  tell  M.  Philipps  to  correct 
his  postil.  He  never  understood  why  our  Lord, 
in  the  gospel,  calls  riches  thorns.  Here  is  the 
school  to  learn  that.  But  I  shudder  to  think 
that  thorns,  in  the  Scripture,  are  always  threat- 
ened with  fire.  Wherefore  I  have  the  greater 
patience,  if  haply,  by  the  help  of  God,  I  may  be 
able  to  bring  some  good  to  pass.  Thy  sons  are 
still  at  Mansfeld.  For  the  rest,  we  have  enough 
to  eat  and  to  drink,  and  should  have  good  days, 
were  it  not  for  this  vexatious  affair.  I  think 
the  Devil  is  mocking  us.  May  God  mock  him 
again !  Pray  for  us !  The  messenger  is  in 
great  haste.    St.  Dorothy's  day,  1546. 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 

To  my  dear  Housewife,  Katharin  Lutherin,  Doc- 
toress,  Self-martyress,  my  Gracious  Lady, — 
for  her  hands  and  feet. 

Grace  and  Peace  in  the  Lord  !    Dear  Kate, 
*  A  line  is  wanting  here. 


do  thou  read  John  and  the  little  catechism,  con 
cerning  which  thou  once  saidst,  that  all  con- 
tained in  that  book  is  by  me.  For  thou  must 
needs  care,  before  thy  God,  just  as  if  he  were 
not  Almighty,  and  could  not  create  ten  Doctor 
Martins  if  the  single  old  one  were  to  drown  in 
the  Saale,or  the  Oven-hole,  or  Wolf 'sVogelheerd. 
Leave  me  in  peace  with  thy  anxiety.  I  have 
a  better  guardian  than  thou  and  all  the  angels 
are.  He  lies  in  the  crib,  and  hangs  upon  the 
Virgin's  teats,  but  sitteth,  nevertheless,  at  the 
right  hand  of  God,  the  Almighty  Father.  There- 
fore be  in  peace.  Amen  ! 

I  think  that  hell  and  the  whole  world  must 
now  be  emptied  of  all  their  devils,  who, — per- 
ad venture  all  on  my  account, — have  come  to»- 
gether,  here  in  Eisleben.  So  firm  and  hard  the 
matter  stands.  *  *  *  Pray !  pray !  pray 
and  help  us  that  we  may  do  well !  For  I  was 
minded  to  grease  the  wagon  to-day,  in  ira  mea, 
but  pity  for  my  fatherland  withheld  me.  I  too 
am  become  a  jurist.  But  it  will  not  go.  It  were 
better  they  let  me  remain  a  theologian.  *  *  * 
They  demean  themselves  as  they  were  God  ; 
which  they  were  best  cease  from  betimes,  ere 
their  God-head  becomes  a  devil-head,  as  it  hap- 
pened unto  Lucifer,  who  could  not  remain  in 
heaven  by  reason  of  his  arrogance.  Well,  God's 
will  be  done !  *  *  *  The  domestic  wine 
here  is  good,  and  the  Naumburg  beer  is  very 
good,  except  that  I  think  it  makes  my  breast 
full  of  phlegm  with  its  pitch.  The  Devil  has 
spoiled  us  the  beer,  in  all  the  world,  with  his 
pitch,  and,  with  you,  the  wine,  with  sulphur. 
*  *  *  And  know  that  all  the  letters  which 
thou  hast  written  have  arrived  here  ;  and  to-day 
came  that  which  thou  wrotest  next  Friday,  to- 
gether with  the  letter  of  M.  Philipps, — that  thou 
mayest  not  be  impatient.  The  Sunday  after 
Dorothy's  day,  1546. 

Thy  dear  Lord, 

M.  Ltjther. 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 

To  my  friendly,  dear  Kate  Luther,  at  Witten- 
berg. For  her  own  hands,  &c. 
Grace  and  Peace  in  the  Lord  !  Dear  Kate, 
we  arrived  to-day,  at  8  o'clock,  in  Halle ;  but 
could  not  proceed  to  Eisleben,  for  there  met  us 
a  great  Anabaptist  with  billows  of  water  and 
cakes  of  ice,  covering  the  country,  and  threaten- 
ing us  with  baptism.  For  the  same  cause  we 
could  not  return  again,  on  account  of  the  Mulda ; 
but  were  forced  to  lie  still  at  Halle,  between 
the  waters.  Not  that  we  thirsted  to  drink  of 
them.  We  took,  instead,  good  Torgau  beer  and 
good  Rhenish  wine,  and  comforted  and  refreshed 
ourselves  with  the  same,  while  we  waited  till 
the  Saale  should  have  spent  her  wrath.  For, 
since  the  people  and  the  coachmen  and  we 
ourselves,  were  fearful,  we  did  not  wish  to 
venture  into  the  water  and  tempt  God.  For 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


27 


the  Devil  is  our  enemy  and  dwelleth  in  the 
water,  and  prevention  is  better  than  complain- 
ing, and  there  is  no  need  to  give  the  Pope  and 
his  officers  occasion  for  a  foolish  joy.  *  *  * 
For  the  present,  nothing  more,  except  to  bid  thee 
pray  for  us  and  be  good.  I  think  if  thou  hadst 
been  with  us,  thou  wouldst  also  have  counselled 
us  to  do  as  we  have  done.  Then,  for  once,  we 
had  followed  thy  counsel.  Herewith  be  com- 
mended to  God.  Amen.  Halle,  on  the  day  of 
Paul's  conversion,  anno  1546. 

Martinus  Luther,  Doct. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

A  LETTER  OF  CONSOLATION  IN  SICKNESS. 

To  my  dear  Father,  Hans  Luther,  citizen  at 
Mansfeld  in  the  valley. — Grace  and  Peace  in 
Jesus  Christ  our  Lord  and  Saviour  !  Amen. 
Dear  Father,  Jacob,  my  brother,  has  written 
me  that  you  are  dangerously  sick.  Seeing  then 
that  the  air  is  now  bad,  and  that  otherwise 
there  is  danger  from  all  quarters, — also  in  regard 
of  the  times,  I  am  moved  with  anxiety  on  your 
account.  For  although  God  has  hitherto  given 
and  preserved  to  you  a  firm  and  hardy  body, 
yet  doth  your  age,  at  this  time,  cause  me  anxious 
thoughts.  Albeit,  without  that,  we  are  none  of 
us  secure  of  our  life  a  single  hour,  neither  ought 
we  to  be.  Wherefore,  I  had  been  beyond  mea- 
sure delighted  to  come  to  you  bodily,  but  my 
good  friends  have  dissuaded  me  therefrom,  and 
I  myself  must  think  that  I  ought  not  to  tempt 
God  by  venturing  upon  danger,  for  you  know 
with  what  favour  lords  and  peasants  regard 
me. 

But  great  joy  would  it  be  to  me, — so  it  were 
possible — that  you,  together  with  the  mother, 
would  suffer  yourselves  to  be  brought  hither  to 
us ;  which  my  Kate  also  with  tears  desireth, 
and  we  all.  I  hope  it;  we  would  wait  upon 
you  after  the  best  manner.  To  this  end  have  I 
despatched  Cyriac  to  you,  to  see  if  your  weak- 
ness might  allow  of  it.  For  whether,  according 
to  the  will  of  God,  you  are  destined  for  longer 
life  here,  or  for  life  hereafter,  I  would,  from  my 
heart,  as  is  fitting,  be  bodily  near  you,  and, 
according  to  the  fourth*  commandment,  with 
childlike  faith  and  service,  prove  myself  grate- 
ful toward  God  and  you. 

Meanwhile,  I  pray  the  Father, — who  hath 
created  and  given  you  for  a  father  to  me, — from 
my  heart's  ground,  that  he  would  strengthen 
you  according  to  his  groundless  love,  and  en- 
lighten and  preserve  you  by  his  Spirit,  that  you 
may  know,  with  joy  and  thanksgiving,  the 
blessed  doctrine  of  his  Son,  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  to  which  you  have  now,  by  his  grace, 
been  called,  and  have  come  out  of  the  horrible 
former  darkness  and  errors.    And  I  hope  that 


*  According  to  the  Lutheran  Catechism,  which  adopts 
the  Roman  Catholic  arrangement  of  the  Decalogue. 


his  Grace  which  hath  given  you  this  knowledge, 
and  therewith  hath  begun  his  work  in  you,  will 
preserve  and  continue  it  to  the  end,  into  yonder 
life  and  the  joyful  future  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  Amen! 

For  he  hath  already  sealed  this  doctrine  and 
faith  in  you,  and  confirmed  it  with  tokens,  to 
wit:  that  you  have  suffered,  for  my  name's 
sake,  much  reviling,  contumely,  scorn,  mockery, 
contempt,  hatred,  enmity,  and  danger,  together 
with  us  all.  But  these  are  the  true  signs  wherein 
we  must  be  like  unto  our  Lord  Christ,  as  St. 
Paul  saith,  Rom.  viii.  17,  that  we  may  be  glori 
fied  together  with  him. 

Wherefore  let  your  heart  be  refreshed  and 
comforted  now  in  your  weakness,  for  we  have, 
in  yonder  life  with  God,  a  sure  and  faithful 
helper,  Jesus  Christ,  who,  for  us,  hath  destroyed 
death  together  with  sin,  and  now  sitteth  there 
for  us,  and,  together  with  all  the  angels,  looketh 
down  upon  us  and  tendeth  us,  when  we  go  out, 
that  we  need  not  care,  nor  fear  to  sink,  nor  fall 
into  ruin.  For  he  hath  said  it  and  promised, 
he  will  and  cannot  lie  nor  deceive  us.  Thereof 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  Ask !  saith  he,  and  ye 
shall  receive,  seek  and  ye  shall  find !  Knock 
and  it  shall  be  opened  unto  you !  And  the 
whole  psalter  is  full  of  such  comfortable  assu- 
rances, especially  the  91st  psalm,  which  is  par- 
ticularly good  to  be  read  by  all  that  are  sick. 
*  *  *  But,  if  it  be  his  will  that  you  be  still 
withheld  from  that  better  life,  and  continue  to 
suffer  with  us  in  this  troubled  and  unblest  vale 
of  sorrows,  and  to  see  and  hear  our  misery,  and, 
together  with  all  Christians,  help  to  bear  and 
overcome  it,  he  will  also  give  you  grace  to  ac- 
cept all  this  with  willing  obedience.  For  this 
cursed  life  is  nothing  else  but  a  right  vale  of 
sorrows.  The  longer  one  remaineth  in  it,  the 
more  sin,  wickedness,  plague  and  misery  one 
sees  and  experiences,  and  there  is  no  cessation 
nor  diminution  of  the  same  until  we  are  beaten 
upon  with  the  spade.  Then,  at  last,  it  must 
cease  and  suffer  us  to  sleep  contentedly,  in  the 
peace  of  Christ,  until  he  shall  come  and  wake 
us  again  with  gladness.  Amen ! 

Herewith  I  commend  you  to  Him  who  loveth 
you  better  than  you  love  yourself,  and  hath 
proved  his  love  in  that  he  hath  taken  your  sins 
upon  himself,  and  paid  with  his  blood,  and  hath 
given  you  to  know  the  same  by  his  gospel  and 
to  believe  it  by  his  Spirit.  *  *  *  The  same, 
our  dear  Lord  and  Saviour  be  with  you  and  by 
you,  until — God  grant  it  may  come  to  pass  here 
or  yonder  —  we  see  each  other  again  in  joy. 
For  our  faith  is  sure,  and  we  doubt  not  that  we 
shall  shortly  see  each  other  again  with  Christ; 
seeing  the  departure  from  this  life  to  God  is 
much  less  than  if  I  should  come  hither  from  you 
at  Mansfeld,  or  you  should  go  hence  from  me 
at  Wittenberg.  That  is  true,  of  a  certainty.  It 
is  but  an  hour  of  sleep,  and  then  all  shall  be 
changed. 

Howbeit,  I  hope  that  your  pastor  and  preacher 
will  show  you  richly  a  true  service  in  these 


28 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


things,  so  that  you  scarce  shall  need  ray  gossip, 
— yet  could  I  not  omit  to  excuse  ray  bodily  ab- 
sence, which,  God  knows,  grieveth  me  from  the 
heart. 

My  Kate,  Hanschen,  Lenichen,  Aunt  Lehne 
and  the  whole  house  greet  you  and  pray  for 
you  faithfully.  Greet  my  dear  mother  and  all 
our  friends!  God's  Grace  and  Power  be  and 
remain  with  you  forever!  Amen. 

Your  dear  son, 

MaRTINUS  LtJTHER. 

Wittenberg,  15th  February,  anno  1530. 


TO  HIS  SON  JOHN. 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ,  my  dear  little 
son.  I  see  with  pleasure  that  thou  learnest 
well  and  prayest  diligently.  Do  so,  my  son,  and 
continue.  When  I  come  home  I  will  bring  thee 
a  pretty  fairing. 

I  know  a  pretty,  merry  garden  wherein  there 
are  many  children.  They  have  little  golden 
coats,  and  they  gather  beautiful  apples  under 
the  trees,  and  pears,  cherries,  plums  and  wheat- 
plums; —  they  sing  and  jump  and  are  merry. 
They  have  beautiful  little  horses,  too,  with  gold 
bits  and  silver  saddles.  And  I  asked  the  man 
to  whom  the  garden  belongs,  whose  children 
they  were  ?  And  he  said,  They  are  the  children 
that  love  to  pray  and  to  learn,  and  are  good. 
Then  I  said,  Dear  man,  I  have  a  son  too,  his 
name  is  Johnny  Luther.  May  he  not  also  come 
into  this  garden  and  eat  these  beautiful  apples 
and  pears,  and  ride  these  fine  horses'?  Then 
the  man  said,  If  he  loves  to  pray  and  to  learn, 
and  is  good,  he  shall  come  into  this  garden,  and 
Lippus  and  Jost  too,  and  when  they  all  come 
together  they  shall  have  fifes  and  trumpets, 
lutes,  and  all  sorts  of  music,  and  they  shall  dance, 
and  shoot  with  little  cross-bows. 

And  he  showed  me  a  fine  meadow  there  in 
the  garden,  made  for  dancing.  There  hung 
nothing  but  golden  fifes,  trumpets,  and  fine  silver 
cross-bows.  But  it  was  early,  and  the  children 
had  not  yet  eaten ;  therefore  I  could  not  wait 
the  dance,  and  I  said  to  the  man :  Ah  !  dear  sir ! 
I  will  immediately  go  and  write  all  this  to  my 
little  son  Johnny,  and  tell  him  to  pray  diligently, 
and  to  learn  well,  and  to  be  good,  so  that  he 
may  also  come  to  this  garden.  But  he  has  an 
aunt  Lehne,  he  must  bring  her  with  him.  Then 
the  man  said,  It  shall  be  so ;  go  and  write  him 
so. 

Therefore,  my  dear  little  son  Johnny,  learn 
and  pray  away !  and  tell  Lippus  and  Jost  too, 
that  they  must  learn  and  pray.  And  then  you 
shall  come  to  the  garden  together.  Herewith  I 
commend  thee  to  Almighty  God.  And  greet 
aunt  Lehne,  and  give  her  a  kiss  for  my  sake. 
Thy  dear  Father, 

Martinus  Luther. 

Anno  1530. 


TO  JONAS  VON  STOCKHAUSEN. 

A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE  INSTRUCTING  HIM  HOW  TO  CONTEND  WITH 
HIS  WEARINESS  OF  LIFE.    WRITTEN  THE  2  7th  NOV.,  1632. 

To  the  severe  and  firm  Jonas  von  Stockhausen, 
Captain  at  Nordhausen,  my  Gracious  Master 
and  good  friend. 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ!  Severe,  firm, 
dear  Master  and  friend.  It  hath  been  made 
known  to  me  by  good  friends  how  hardly  the 
foul  Fiend  assaileth  you  with  weariness  of  life 
and  desire  of  death.  0  !  my  dear  friend,  here 
is  high  time  not  to  trust,  by  any  means,  nor  to 
follow  your  own  thoughts,  but  to  hear  other 
people  who  are  free  from  such  buffetings.  Yea! 
bind  your  ear  firmly  to  our  mouth,  and  let  our 
word  enter  your  heart;  so  shall  God  through 
our  word  comfort  and  strengthen  you. 

In  the  first  place,  you  know  that  man  shall 
and  must  obey  God,  and  diligently  guard  him, 
self  against  disobedience  to  his  will.  Since 
then  you  are  sure  and  must  comprehend  that 
God  gives  you  life,  and  will  not  yet  have  you 
dead,  your  thoughts  should  yield  to  his  Divine 
will,  and  you  should  obey  him  cheerfully,  and 
have  no  doubt  that  such  thoughts,  as  disobedient 
to  the  will  of  God,  are,  of  a  certainty,  shot  and 
thrust  with  force  into  your  heart  by  the  Devil. 
Wherefore  you  behove  to  resist  them  firmly, 
and  forcibly  bear,  or  tear  them  out  again. 

To  our  Lord  Christ,  also,  life  was  sore  and 
bitter,  yet  would  he  not  die  without  his  Father's 
will,  and  he  fled  death,  and  preserved  life 
while  he  could,  and  said,  My  hour  is  not  yet 
come.  And  Elias  and  Jonas,  and  other  pro- 
phets, called  and  cried  for  death,  by  reason  of 
great  sorrow  and  impatience  of  life,  and,  more- 
over, cursed  their  birth,  their  day  and  life.  Yet 
were  they  constrained  to  live  and  to  bear  their 
weariness  with  all  their  might,  until  their  hour 
came. 

Truly,  you  behove  to  follow  these  words  and 
examples,  as  the  words  and  admonitions  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  and  to  spue  out  and  throw  from 
you  the  thoughts  which  drive  you  the  contrary 
way.  And,  though  it  may  be  sore  and  difficult 
to  do,  let  it  seem  to  you  as  if  you  were  bound 
and  fettered  with  chains,  out  of  which  you  must 
twist  and  work  yourself  loose,  till  the  sweat 
breaks  from  you.  For  the  Devil's  darts,  when 
they  stick  so  deep,  may  not  be  drawn  forth 
with  laughter,  nor  without  labour ;  but  with 
force  must  they  be  torn  out. 

Wherefore  it  is  needful  that  you  take  heart 
and  comfort  against  yourself,  and  speak  with 
indignation  against  yourself:  "Nay,  fellow!  be 
thou  never  so  unwilling  to  live,  yet  shalt  thou 
and  must  thou  live;  for  my  God  will  have  it 
so,  and  I  will  have  it  so.  Get  you  gone!  ye 
devil's  thoughts  of  dying  and  death,  into  the 
abyss  of  hell.  Ye  have  nothing  to  do  here," 
&c.  And  grind  your  teeth  together  against  such 
thoughts,  and  set  up  such  a  hard  head  for  God"s 
will,  and  make  yourself  more  obstinate  and  stiff- 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


29 


necked  than  any  curst  boor  or  shrew,  yea,  harder 
than  any  anvil  of  iron. 

If  you  shall  so  attack  yourself  and  contend 
against  yourself,  God  will  surely  help  you. 
But  if  you  do  not  struggle  nor  defend  yourself, 
but  leave  such  thoughts  free  to  plague  you  at 
their  leisure,  you  will  soon  be  lost. 

But  the  best  of  all  advice  is,  not  to  fight  with 
them  always,  but,  if  you  can,  to  despise  them, — 
to  act  as  though  you  felt  them  not,  to  think  of 
something  else,  and  to  speak  in  this  wise : 
Come!  Devil,  do  not  teaze  me!  I  cannot  now 
attend  to  thy  thoughts  ;  I  must  ride,  drive,  eat, 
drink,  do  this  or  that ; — also,  I  must  be  merry 
now.  Come  again  to-morrow  !  &c.  And  take 
in  hand  whatever  else  you  can,  play  and  the 
like,  that  you  may  be  able,  freely  and  easily,  to 
despise  such  thoughts,  and  send  them  from  you, 
even  with  coarse,  uncivil  words,  as:  Dear  Devil, 
if  thou  canst  come  no  nearer  to  me,  then 
■   ,  &c.,  I  cannot  wait  for  thee  now. 

Let  them  read  you,  as  touching  such  matters, 
the  example  of  the  "  Louse-cracker,''  of  the 
"  Goose-fife,"  and  the  like,  in  Gerson,  de  cogita- 
tionibus  blasphemice.  This  is  the  best  counsel ; 
and  our  prayer,  and  the  prayers  of  all  good 
Christians,  shall  help  you.  Herewith  I  com- 
mend you  to  our  dear  Lord,  the  only  Saviour, 
and  true  conqueror,  Jesus  Christ.  May  he 
maintain  his  victory  and  triumph  against  the 
Devil  in  your  heart,  and  rejoice  us  all  by  his  aid 
and  his  wonders  in  you ;  which  we  comfortably 
hope  and  pray,  according  as  he  hath  bidden 
and  assured  us.   Amen  ! 

Doctor  Martinus  Luther. 
Wittenberg,  Wednesday  after  Catharinse. 


TO  THE  LADY  VON  STOCKHAUSEN. 

LUTHER  COUNSELS  HER  IN  RELATION  TO  THE  MELANCHOLY  OF  HER 
HUSBAND. 

To  the  honourable  and  virtuous  Lady  N.  von 
Stockhausen,  Captain's  lady  at  Nordhausen, 
—my  gracious  and  kind  friend. 
Grace  and  peace  in  Christ !  Honourable  and 
virtuous  Lady !  I  have  written,  in  haste,  a 
brief  letter  of  consolation  to  your  dear  Lord. 
Well!  the  Devil  is  hostile  to  you  both,  for  that 
you  love  his  enemy,  Christ.  You  must  pay  the 
price  of  that,  as  he  himself  saith :  "Because  I 
have  chosen  you,  therefore  the  world  hateth 
you  and  the  prince  thereof ;  but  be  of  good 
cheer."  Precious,  in  the  sight  of  God,  are  the 
sufferings  of  his  saints.  But  now,  in  haste,  I 
can  write  but  little.  Take  heed,  before  all 
things,  that  you  leave  not  your  husband  one 
moment  alone  ;  and  let  him  have  nothing  where- 
with he  might  do  injury  to  himself.  Solitude, 
to  him,  is  pure  poison,  and  therefore  the  Devil 
himself  driveth  him  to  it.  But  it  were  well  to 
tell  or  to  have  read  in  his  presence,  many 
stories,  new  tidings,  and  strange  matters.  It 
will  not  be  amiss,  if,  at  times,  they  are  idle  and 


false  tidings,  and  tales  of  Turks,  Tartars,  and 
the  like  ; — if  haply  he  may  be  incited  thereby, 
to  laugh  and  to  jest.  And  then,  down  upon 
him  with  comfortable  words  of  Scripture. 
Whatsoever  you  do,  let  it  not  be  lonesome  or 
still  about  him ;  that  he  may  not  sink  into 
thought.  It  shall  do  no  harm,  if  he  should  be 
made  angry  on  account  thereof.  Pretend  as  if 
you  were  sorry  for  it,  and  scold,  &c.  But  still 
do  it  the  more.  Take  this  in  haste,  for  want  of 
better.  Christ,  who  is  the  cause  of  such  sorrow, 
will  help  him,  as  he  hath  lately  conferred  help 
on  yourself.  Only  hold  fast !  you  are  the  apple 
of  his  eye.  Whoever  toucheth  that,  toucheth 
him.    Amen ! 

Doctor  Martinus  Luther. 
Wittenberg,  Wednesday  after  Catharinse,  1532. 


TO  CHANCELLOR  BRUCK. 

A  LRTTER  OF  ENCOURAGEMENT  IN  RELATION  TO  THE  CAUSE  OF 
THE  REFORMERS. 

To  the  estimable  right  learned  Master  Gregory 
Bruck,  Doctor  of  Laws,  the  Elector  of  Saxony 
his  Chancellor  and  Counsellor,  my  gracious 
Master  and  friendly,  dear  Gossip. 
Grace  and  peace  in  Christ !  Estimable,  right 
learned,  dear  Master  and  dear  Gossip.  I  have 
written  now  several  times  to  my  most  gracious 
Lord  and  to  our  friends,  so  that  I  think  I  have 
overdone  the  matter, — especially,  as  concerneth 
my  most  gracious  Lord  ; — as  if  I  doubted  that 
the  aid  and  grace  of  God  were  more  abundant 
and  more  powerful  with  his  Electoral  Princely 
Grace  than  with  me.  I  have  done  it  at  the  in- 
stigation of  our  people,  of  whom  some  are  so 
careful  and  cast  down,  as  if  God  had  forgotten 
us. — who  cannot  forget  us  except  he  first  forget 
himself.  Then  were  our  cause  not  his  cause, 
nor  our  doctrine  his  Word.  Otherwise,  if  we 
be  assured  and  doubt  not  that  it  is  his  cause  and 
Word,  then  is  our  prayer  certainly  heard,  and 
aid  is  already  decreed  and  prepared,  and  we 
shall  be  helped.  It  cannot  fail.  For  he  saith  : 
"  Can  a  woman  forget  her  child,  that  she  should 
not  have  compassion  on  the  fruit  of  her  womb  ? 
And  though  she  should  forget,  yet  will  not  I  for- 
get thee,"  &c. 

I  saw  lately  two  miracles.  First,  as  I  looked 
out  at  the  window,  I  saw  the  stars  in  the  hea- 
vens and  the  whole  fair  dome  of  God  ;  yet  did 
I  see  no  pillars  on  which  the  Master  had  placed 
this  dome.  Nevertheless,  the  heavens  fell  not, 
and  the  dome  stands  yet  fast.  Now  there  are 
some  that  seek  for  such  pillars.  They  would 
fain  lay  hold  of  and  feel  them.  And  because 
they  cannot  do  this,  they  struggle  and  tremble 
as  though  the  heaven  must  certainly  fall,  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  they  cannot  seize  or 
see  the  pillars.  Could  they  but  lay  hold  of  these, 
the  heaven  would  stand  firm. 

Next,  I  saw  also  great  thick  clouds  hover  over 
us  with  such  weight  that  they  might  be  likened 
3* 


30 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


to  a  great  sea.  Yet  saw  I  no  floor  upon  which 
they  rested  or  found  footing,  nor  any  vessels  in 
which  they  were  contained.  Still  they  fell  not 
down  upon  us,  but  greeted  us  with  a  sour  face 
and  flew  away.  When  they  were  gone,  then 
shone  forth  both  the  floor  and  our  roof  which 
had  held  them,  —  the  rainbow.  That  was  a 
weak,  thin,  small  floor  and  roof;  and  it  va- 
nished in  the  clouds ;  and,  in  appearance,  was 
more  like  an  image,  such  as  is  seen  through  a 
painted  glass,  than  a  strong  floor.  So  that  one 
might  despair  on  account  of  the  floor,  as  well 
as  on  account  of  the  great  weight  of  water. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  found  in  truth,  that  this 
almighty  image  (such  it  seemed)  bore  the  bur- 
den of  the  waters  and  protected  us.  Yet  there 
be  some  who  consider,  regard  and  fear  the 
water  and  the  thickness  of  the  clouds  and  the 
heavy  burden  of  them,  more  than  this  thin,  nar- 
row and  light  image.  For  they  would  fain  feel 
the  strength  of  the  image,  and  because  they  can- 
not do  this,  they  fear  that  the  clouds  will  occa- 
sion an  everlasting  sin-flood. 

Thus,  in  friendly  wise,  must  I  jest  with  your 
Honour,  and  yet  write  without  jesting ;  for  I 
have  had  special  joy,  in  that  I  learned  that  your 
Honour  hath  had,  before  all  others,  good  courage 
and  a  cheerful  heart  in  this,  our  buffeting.  I 
had  hoped  that,  at  the  least,  a  pax  politica  might 
have  been  obtained,  but  God's  thoughts  are  far 
above  our  thoughts.  And  it  is  even  right,  for 
He,  as  St.  Paul  saith,  heareth  and  doth  supra 
quam  intelligimus  aut  petimus.  "  For  we  know 
not  how  to  pray  as  we  ought."  (Rom.  viii.  26.) 
If  he  should  hear  us  now,  after  the  same  man- 
ner in  which  we  pray, — that  the  emperor  may 
give  us  peace,  —  it  might  be  infra,  not  supra 
quam  intelligimus,  and  the  emperor,  not  God, 
should  have  the  glory.  *  *  *  But  this  work 
which  God  hath  vouchsafed  to  us  by  his  Grace, 
he  will  also  bless  and  further  by  his  Spirit.  He 
will  find  way,  time  and  place  to  help  us,  and 
will  neither  forget  nor  delay.  They  have  not 
yet  accomplished  the  half  of  what  they  under- 
take, the  viri  sanguinis.  Nor  have  they  yet  all 
returned  to  their  homes,  or  whither  they  would 
go.  Our  rainbow  is  weak,  their  clouds  are 
mighty,  but  in  fine  videbitur  cujus  toni.  Your 
Honour  will  pardon  my  gossip,  and  comfort 
Magister  Philip  and  all  the  rest.  Christ  shall 
also  comfort  and  preserve  me  our  most  gracious 
Lord.  To  Him  be  praise  and  thanks  in  eter- 
nity! Amen!  To  His  Grace  I  also  faithfully 
commend  your  Honour. 

Martinus  Luther,  Doct. 
Ex  Eremo,  5  Aug.  anno  mdxxx. 


TO  JOSEPH  LEVIN  METZSCH  AT  MILA. 

ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION  WHETHER  INHERITED  DEBTS  ARE  TO 
BE  CONSIDERED  AS  A  PART  OF  THE  CROSS  LAID  UPON  US  BY  GOD. 

To  the  severe  and  firm  Joseph  Levin  Metzsch, 
at  Mila,  my  kind,  good  Master  and  friend. 


Grace  and  peace  in  Christ!  Severe,  firm, 
dear  master  and  friend.  Whereas  you  are 
moved  to  know  if  pecuniary  debt,  inherited 
from  parents,  be  also  a  cross  imposed  by  God, — 
you  may  suppose  that  every  scourge  wherewith 
God  scourgeth  his  children  is  a  portion  of  the 
holy  cross.  Seeing  then  that  debts,  or  need,  or 
poverty  are  no  light  scourge,  for  him  who  knows 
not  how  to  bear  them,  they  are  also,  without 
doubt,  a  perceptible  particle  of  the  holy  cross, 
with  the  children  of  God  who  know  how  to  bear 
and  to  use  it.  But,  like  every  other  chastise- 
ment of  the  dear  Father,  it  ought  not  to  terrify 
the  conscience,  as  a  serious  disfavour,  but  to 
comfort  and  strengthen  it,  as  a  fatherly  rod  or 
fox-tail.*  For  whether  one  fall  into  debt  wan- 
tonly or  carelessly,  or  whether  one  innocently 
inherit  it,  it  is  nevertheless  appointed  by  God, 
and  the  rod  is  laid  upon  us  through  our  own 
carelessness  and  wantonness.  Herewith  be 
commended  to  God !  Amen. 

Martinus  Luther. 

L2th  March,  1520. 


TO  THE  POPE,  LEO  X. 

EXTRACTS. 

Luther,  in  this  letter,  defends  himself  from  the  charge  of  hav- 
ing attacked  the  person  of  the  Pope  ;  expresses  his  willingness 
to  do  all  that  is  required  of  him,  except  to  recant  or  renounce 
the  right  of  private  interpretation,  and  admonishes  the  Pope 
not  to  listen  to  flatterers,  but  to  those  who  speak  the  truth. — 
This  letter  was  originally  written  in  Latin,  and  afterwards 
translated  by  Luther  himself  into  German. 

To  the  most  Holy  Father  in  God,  Leo  the  tenth, 
Pope  at  Rome,  all  blessedness  in  Christ  Jesus 
our  Lord !  Amen. 

Most  holy  Father  in  God,  the  troubles  and  the 
controversy  in  which  I  have  been  entangled 
now,  these  three  years,  with  certain  wild  men, 
compel  me,  from  time  to  time,  to  look  toward 
thee,  and  to  think  of  thee.  Yea!  seeing  it  is 
believed  that  thou  art  the  only  principal  cause 
of  this  controversy,  I  cannot  avoid  to  think  of 
thee  without  cessation.  For  though  I  am  com- 
pelled by  some  of  thy  unchristian  flatterers,  who, 
without  all  reason,  are  incensed  against  me, — 
to  appeal  from  thy  chair  and  judgment  to  a  free 
Christian  council  in  my  cause  ;  yet  have  I  never 
so  estranged  my  mind  from  thee,  as  not,  with  all 
my  powers,  to  wish  the  best  at  all  times  to  thee 
and  thy  Romish  Chair,  and,  with  diligent,  hearty 
prayer,  as  much  as  I  was  able,  to  implore  the 
same  from  God.  True  it  is,  that  I  have  taken 
upon  myself  greatly  to  despise  and  to  overcome 
them  that  hitherto  have  been  at  pains  to  threaten 
me  with  the  loftiness  and  greatness  of  thy  name 
and  power.  But  there  is  now  one  thing  which 
I  may  not  despise,  which  also  is  the  reason  that 
I  write  to  thee  again ;  and  that  is,  that  I  per- 
ceive that  I  am  maligned  and  misinterpreted, 
and  am  said  not  even  to  have  spared  thy  person. 


*  A  kind  of  whip. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


31 


But  I  will  freely  and  openly  confess  that,  so 
far  as  I  am  conscious,  as  oft  as  I  have  made 
mention  of  thy  person,  I  have  ever  said  the  best 
and  most  honourable  things  concerning  thee. 
And  if,  at  any  time,  I  have  not  done  so,  I  can, 
myself,  in  no  wise  commend  it,  and  must  con- 
firm the  judgment  of  my  accusers  with  full  con- 
fession, and  wish  for  nothing  more  dearly,  than 
to  sing  the  counterpart  of  this  my  insolence  and 
wickedness,  and  to  retract  my  faulty  word.  I 
have  called  thee  a  Daniel  in  Babylon  ;  and  how 
diligently  I  have  defended  thy  innocence  against 
the  slanderer  Sylvester,  every  one  who  reads  it 
may  superabundantly  understand.     *      *  * 

*  *  *  But  this  is  true,  I  have  freely  at- 
tacked the  Romish  Chair,  which  they  name  the 
Roman  Court,  concerning  which  thou  thyself 
must  confess, — and  no  one  upon  earth  can  con- 
fess otherwise, — that  it  is  viler  and  more  shame- 
ful than  ever  was  Sodom  or  Gomorrah  or  Baby- 
lon. And,  as  far  as  I  perceive,  its  wickedness 
henceforth  is  neither  to  be  counselled  nor  helped. 
Everything  there  has  become  altogether  despe- 
rate and  bottomless.  Wherefore  it  hath  vexed 
me,  that  under  thy  name  and  the  semblance  of 
the  Romish  Church,  the  poor  people,  in  all  the 
world,  have  been  cheated  and  injured.  Against 
which  I  have  contended  and  will  yet  contend, 
while  my  Christian  spirit  liveth  within  me.  *  * 

*  *  *  Meanwhile  thou  sittest,  holy  Father 
Leo,  like  a  sheep  among  the  wolves,  and  like 
Daniel  among  the  lions,  and  like  Ezekiel  among 
the  scorpions.  What  canst  thou  alone  do  among 
so  many  wild  monsters  ?  And  though  three  or 
four  learned  and  pious  Cardinals  should  fall  to 
thy  lot,  what  were  they  among  such  a  multi- 
tude? Ye  should  sooner  perish  with  poison  ere 
ye  could  undertake  to  help  the  matter.  It  is 
over  with  the  Romish  Chair.  God's  wrath, 
without  cessation,  hath  overtaken  it.  It  is  op- 
posed to  the  general  Councils.  It  will  not  suffer 
itself  to  be  instructed  nor  reformed.  Yet  shall 
not  its  raging  and  unchristian  manners  hinder 
it  from  fulfilling  that  which  is  said  of  its  mother, 
the  ancient  Babylon,  "We  would  have  healed 
Babylon  and  she  is  not  healed, — we  will  let  her 
go."  Jer.  li.  9. 

Haply,  it  were  thy  task  and  that  of  the  Car- 
dinals to  prevent  this  misery ;  but  the  sickness 
mocks  medicine  ; — horse  and  carriage  obey  not 
the  coachman.  This  is  the  cause  why  I  have 
ever  so  grieved,  thou  good  Leo,  that  thou  hast 
been  made  a  pope  at  this  time,  who  wert  well 
worthy  to  have  been  pope  in  better  times.  The 
Roman  Chair  is  not  worthy  of  thee  and  the  like 
of  thee  ;  rather  the  evil  Spirit  ought  to  be  pope, 
who  also  surely  doth  reign  in  Babylon,  more 
than  thou. 

0  !  would  to  God  thou  wert  rid  of  the  honour, 
as  they  call  it, — thy  most  mischievous  friends,— 
and  mightest  maintain  thyself  with  some  pre- 
bend, or  with  thy  paternal  inheritance!  Truly, 
none  but  Judas  Iscariot  and  his  like,  whom 
God  hath  rejected,  should  be  honoured  with 
such  honour.    For  tell  me,  whereunto  art  thou 


yet  of  use  in  Popedom  ?  Save,  that  the  worse 
and  more  desperate  it  grows,  the  more  vehe- 
mently it  abuseth  thy  power  and  title  to  injure 
the  people  in  body  and  soul,  to  increase  sin  and 
shame,  and  to  quench  faith  and  truth.  O!  thou 
most  unhappy  Leo!  thou  sittest  in  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  chairs.  Verily!  I  tell  thee  the 
truth,  for  I  bear  thee  good-will.      *        *  * 

*  *  *  I  will  speak  yet  farther.  It  had 
never  entered  my  heart  to  storm  against  the 
Roman  Court  nor  to  dispute  concerning  it.  For 
since  I  saw  that  there  was  no  help, — that  cost 
and  pains  were  lost,  I  treated  it  with  contempt, 
gave  it  a  letter  of  dismission,  and  said ;  Adieu 
dear  Rome !  That  which  stinketh,  let  it  stink 
on !  and  that  which  is  filthy,  let  it  be  filthy  still ! 
(Revel,  xx.  11.)  And  so  I  betook  myself  to  the 
silent,  quiet  study  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  that  I 
might  become  profitable  to  them  among  whom 
I  dwelt.  And,  when  now  I  laboured  not  un- 
fruitfully  in  this  matter,  the  evil  Spirit  opened 
his  eyes  and  became  aware  of  the  same. 
Straightway  he  stirred  up,  with  a  mad  ambition, 
his  servant  John  Eck.^ — a  special  enemy  of 
Christ  and  the  truth, — and  bade  him  drag  me, 
unawares,  into  a  disputation ; — seizing  upon  a 
word  touching  the  popedom  that  had  escaped 
me  by  chance.  ****** 

*  *  *  So  now  I  come,  holy  Father  Leo, 
and  laying  myself  at  thy  feet,  entreat  thee,  if  it 
be  possible,  to  put  forth  thine  hand,  and  to  place 
a  bridle  upon  those  flatterers  who  are  enemies 
of  peace,  and  yet  pretend  peace.  But,  as  to 
retracting  my  doctrine,  of  that  nothing  will  come. 
And  let  no  one  take  it  upon  himself,  except  he 
wish  to  entangle  the  matter  in  still  greater  con- 
fusion. Moreover,  I  may  not  suffer  rule  or 
measure  in  the  interpretation  of  the  Scripture, 
seeing  that  the  word  of  God,  which  teacheth  all 
freedom,  must  not  and  shall  not  be  bound.  If 
these  two  articles  be  allowed  me,  nothing  else 
shall  be  laid  upon  me,  that  I  will  not  do  and 
suffer  with  all  willingness.  I  am  an  enemy  to 
strife  and  will  incense  or  provoke  no  one,  but 
neither  will  I  be  provoked.  And  if  I  be  pro- 
voked I  will  not  be  without  a  word,  spoken  or 
written,  God  willing.  Thy  Holiness  may  with 
short  and  easy  words  take  it  upon  thyself,  and 
extinguish  all  this  controversy,  and  thereupon 
be  silent  and  command  peace,  which  I  have, 
alway,  been  altogether  eager  to  hear. 

Wherefore,  my  Holy  Father,  do  not  listen  to 
thy  sweet  ear-singers,  who  say  that  thou  art  not 
mere  man,  but  united  with  God,  and  hast  all 
things  to  command  and  to  require.  It  may  not 
be,  and  thou  wilt  not  effect  it.  Thou  art  the 
servant  of  all  the  servants  of  God,  and  art  in  a 
more  dangerous  and  miserable  condition  than 
any  man  upon  the  earth.  Let  them  not  deceive 
thee,  who  lie  to  thee  and  pretend  that  thou  art 
lord  of  the  world  ;  and  who  will  not  suffer  any 
one  to  be  a  Christian  except  he  be  subject  to 
thee;  —  who  babble  that  thou  hast  power  in 
heaven,  in  hell,  and  in  purgatory.  They  are 
thy  enemies,  and  seek  to  destroy  thy  soul. 


32 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


*  *  *  They  err  all,  who  say  thou  art  above 
the  Council  and  universal  Christendom.  They 
err  who  give  to  thee  alone  the  power  to  inter- 
pret Scripture.  They,  all  of  them,  seek  nothing 
else  than  how  they  may  sanction  their  unchris- 
tian doings  in  Christendom  by  means  of  thy 
name;  as  the  evil  Spirit, alas!  hath  done  through 
many  of  thy  predecessors.  In  brief,  believe 
none  who  exalt  thee,  but  only  them  who  humble 
thee.  That  is  God's  judgment,  as  it  is  written  : 
"He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seats, 
and  exalted  them  of  low  degree."  Luke  i.  52. 

See  how  unlike  are  Christ  and  his  vicege- 
rents !  For  they  would  all  fain  be  his  vicege- 
rents, and,  verily,  I  fear,  they  are  too  truly  his 
vicegerents.  For  a  vicegerent  is  so  in  the  ab- 
sence of  his  lord.  If  then  a  pope  reigneth  in 
the  absence  of  Christ,  who  dwelleth  not  in  his 
heart,  is  he  not  too  truly  the  vicegerent  of  Christ? 

*  *  *  But  what  may  such  a  pope  be  except 
an  antichrist  and  an  idol?  How  much  better 
did  the  apostles,  who  called  themselves,  and 
suffered  themselves  to  be  called,  only  servants 
of  Christ,  who  dwelt  in  them,  and  not  vicege- 
rents of  an  absent  Christ. 

Peradventure  I  am  impudent,  in  that  I  seem 
to  instruct  so  great  a  height,  from  which  every 
one  should  receive  instruction,  —  and  as  some 
of  thy  poisonous  flatterers  represent  thee, — from 
which  all  kings  and  judgment- seats  receive 
judgment.  But  I  follow  in  this  St.  Bernard,  in 
his  book  addressed  to  pope  Eugene,  which  all 
popes  ought  to  know  by  heart.  I  do  it,  not 
with  the  design  to  instruct  thee,  but  from  a  pure 
fidelity  of  care  and  duty  which,  of  right,  con- 
straineth  every  man  to  take  thought  for  his 
neighbour  even  in  those  things  which  are  secure, 
and  suffereth  us  to  regard  neither  honour  nor 
dishonour,  so  diligently  doth  it  consider  a  neigh- 
bour's danger  and  mishap.  Wherefore,  since  I 
know  that  thy  Holiness  floateth  and  hovereth 
at  Rome, — that  is,  upon  the  highest  seas, — with 
countless  dangers  raging  on  all  sides,  and  liveth 
and  worketh  in  such  misery  that,  haply,  thou 
hast  need  of  the  help,  even  of  the  meanest 
Christian,  I  have  thought  it  not  unmeet  that  I 
should  forget  thy  majesty  until  I  had  fulfilled 
the  duty  of  brotherly  love.  I  may  not  flatter  in 
so  serious  and  dangerous  a  matter,  in  which,—- 
if  there  be  some  who  will  not  understand  that 
I  am  thy  friend  and  more  than  subject, — there 
shall  yet  be  found  one  who  understandeth  it. 

In  conclusion,  that  I  may  not  appear  empty 
before  thy  Holiness,  I  bring  with  me  a  little 
book,*  which  has  gone  forth  under  thy  name; 
for  a  good  wish  and  a  beginning  of  peace  and 
good  hope ;  from  which  thy  Holiness  may  taste 
with  what  kind  of  business  I  would  fain  occupy 
myself,  and  not  unprofitably,  if  thy  unchristian 
flatterers  would  let  me.  It  is  a  little  book,  if 
thou  regardest  the  paper ;  but  yet  the  whole 
sum  of  a  Christian  life  is  comprehended  in  it, 
if  the  sense  be  understood.    I  am  poor  and 

*  Liber  dc  Libertate  Christiana. 


have  nothing  else  wherewith  I  may  make 
proof  of  my  service ;  neither  canst  thou  be 
benefited  more  than  with  spiritual  benefits. 
Herewith  I  commend  myself  to  thy  Holiness, 
whom  may  Jesus  Christ  preserve  forevermore ! 
Amen. 

Wittenberg,  6th  September,  1520. 


TO  BARBARA  LISCHNERIN. 

EXTRACT. 

LUTHER  SEEKS  TO  PACIFY  HER  IN  REGARD  TO  HER  DOUBTS  OF 

FUTURE  BLESSEDNESS. 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ!  Virtuous,  dear 
Lady!  Your  dear  brother,  Jerome  Weller, hath 
made  known  to  me  that  you  are  greatly  troubled 
with  doubts  respecting  the  eternal  Providence. 
For  which  I  am  heartily  sorry.  May  Christ, 
our  Lord,  deliver  you  therefrom  !  Amen. 

For  I  know  the  sickness  well,  and  have  lain 
in  the  hospital  with  it,  even  unto  eternal  death. 
Now  would  I  fain,  over  and  above  my  prayers, 
counsel  and  comfort  you.  But  writing  in  such 
matters  is  a  feeble  thing;  yet,  as  much  as  in  me 
lies,  will  I  not.  refrain  therefrom,  if  God  will 
give  me  grace  for  the  work.  And  I  will  make 
known  to  you  how  God  hath  helped  me  to  es- 
cape such  buffetings,  and  with  what  art  I  yet 
preserve  myself  from  them  day  by  day. 

First,  you  must  fix  it  firmly  in  your  heart, 
that  such  thoughts  are  assuredly  the  inflation 
and  the  fiery  darts  of  the  Devil.  So  saith  the 
Scripture,  Prov.  xxv.  27,  "  He  that  searcheth  the 
height  of  majesty  shall  be  cast  down.'1*  Now 
are  such  thoughts  nothing  but  a  searching  of  the 
Divine  Majesty;  they  would  fain  search  his 
high  Providence.  And  Jesus  Sirach  saith: 
"Mtiora  ne  qucesieris"  "  Thou  shalt  not  inquire 
after  that  which  is  too  high  for  thee  ;"  but  what 
God  hath  commanded  thee,  that  look  after.  For 
it  profiteth  thee  nothing  to  gaze  after  that  which 
is  not  commanded  thee.  And  David  also  com- 
plaineth  that  he  had  brought  evil  upon  himself, 
when  he  would  inquire  after  things  that  were 
too  high  for  him. 

Wherefore  it  is  certain,  that  this  cometh  not 
from  God  but  from  the  Devil.  He  plagues  the 
heart  therewith  ;  that  men  may  become  enemies 
of  God  and  despair  ;  which,  notwithstanding, 
God  hath  strictly  forbidden  in  the  first  com- 
mandment; and  he  willeth  that  men  shall  trust 
and  love  and  praise  Him  by  whom  we  live. 

Secondly,  when  such  thoughts  occur,  you  shall 
learn  to  ask  yourself:  "  Friend,  in  what  com- 
mandment is  it  written  that  I  should  think  of 
these  things  or  handle  them?"  And  if  no  such 
commandment  is  found,  then  learn  to  say:  "  So 
get  thee  gone,  thou  ugly  Devil !  Thou  wouldst 
fain  drive  me  to  care  for  myself;  whereas  God 
everywhere  speaketh:  "I  care  for  thee;  look 

*  English  version  :  For  men  to  search  their  own  glory 
is  not  glory. 


MARTIN 


unto  me  and  wait  that  which  I  shall  appoint, 
and  let  me  care,"  —  as  St.  Peter  teacheth, — 1 
Pet.  v.  7  :  "  Cast  all  your  care  upon  him  for  he 
careth  for  you;"  and  David,  Ps.  lv.  22:  "Cast 
thy  burden  upon  the  Lord  and  he  shall  sustain 
thee." 

Thirdly,  albeit,  such  thoughts  do  not  imme- 
diately cease,  (for  the  Devil  doth  not  willingly 
desist,)  you  likewise,  on  your  part,  must  not 
cease,  but  must  still  turn  your  heart  away  from 
them,  and  say :  "  Hearest  thou  not,  Devil,  that  I 
will  not  have  such  thoughts'?  And  God  hath 
forbidden  them.  Get  thee  gone,  I  must  now 
be  thinking  of  his  commandments,  and  let  him 
care  for  me  himself  the  while.  If  thou  art  so 
exceeding  wise  in  such  matters,  then  get  thee  to 
heaven,  and  dispute  with  God  himself.  He 
can  sufficiently  answer  thee."  And,  in  this 
way,  you  must  still  send  him  from  you,  and 
turn  your  heart  toward  the  commandments  of 
God. 


FROM  A  LETTER 

TO  THE  CHRISTIANS  AT  ANTWERP,  IN  WHICH  LUTHER  CAUTIONS 
THEM  AGAINST  FALSE  TEACHERS. 

Grace  and  peace  from  God  our  Father  and 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ !  My  very  dear  masters 
and  friends  in  Christ !  I  am  moved  by  Chris- 
tian love  and  carefulness  to  send  this  writing 
unto  you.  For  I  have  learned  how  that  Spirits 
of  error  are  bestirring  themselves  among  you, 
which  have  the  boldness  to  hinder  and  defile 
the  Christian  doctrine,  as  happeneth  in  various 
places.  ******* 

*  *  *  This  one  will  have  no  baptism, 
that  one  denies  the  sacrament,  another  supposes 
a  world  between  this  and  the  last  day.  Some 
teach  that  Christ  is  not  God  ;  some  say  this  and 
some  say  that;  and  there  are  almost  as  many 
sects  and  creeds  as  there  are  heads.  There  is 
no  simpleton  now  so  rude,  but  if  he  dream  or 
imagine  somewhat,  the  Holy  Spirit  must  have 
inspired  it,  and  he  claims  to  be  a  prophet.  * 

*  *  *  So  then,  dear  friends,  there  hath 
come  among  you  also  a  Spirit  of  disorder,  in 
bodily  shape,  who  would  fain  cause  you  to  err, 
and  lead  you  astray  from  the  right  under- 
standing, into  his  conceits.  Therefore  take  heed 
and  be  warned !  But  that  you  may  the  better 
avoid  his  tricks,  I  will  here  relate  some  of  them. 

One  article  is  :  he  holds  that  every  man  hath 
the  Holy  Spirit. 

The  second :  The  Holy  Spirit  is  nothing  else 
than  our  own  reason  and  understanding. 

The  third  :  Every  man  believes. 

The  fourth:  There  is  no  hell  or  damnation, 
but  only  the  flesh  is  damned. 

The  fifth  :  Every  soul  will  have  eternal  life. 

The  sixth  :  Nature  teaches  that  I  should  do 
unto  my  neighbour  as  I  would  that  he  should 
do  to  me';  and  to  will  this  is  faith. 

E 


LUTHER.  33 


The  seventh:  The  Law  is  not  violated  by 
evil  lust,  so  I  do  not  gratify  the  lust. 

The  eighth  :  He  who  hath  not  the  Holy  Spirit, 
hath  also  no  sin,  for  he  hath  no  reason. 

All  these  are  mere  wanton  articles  of  folly, 
and  excepting  the  seventh,  not  worth  answering. 
And  your  love  shall  do  right  to  despise  this 
Spirit.  For  he  is  as  many  others  are  now,  here 
and  there,  w  ho  care  not  much  what  they  teach, 
and  only  desire  that  men  may  speak  of  them, 
and  have  to  do  with  them.  And  the  Devil  also 
seeketh  this  uneasiness,  that  he  may  wrestle 
with  us,  and  the  while  hinder  us,  so  that  we 
forget  the  true  doctrine,  or  converse  not  with  it. 
Even  so  he  useth  to  deceive  the  people  with 
other  hobgoblins,  that  they  may  miss  their  way, 
&c.  And  he  setteth  their  mouth  agape,  that 
they  cannot  attend  to  their  business  the  while. 
Just  so  this  Spirit  does  with  you,  in  these  arti- 
cles. 

Wherefore,  be  warned,  for  God's  sake,  and 
take  heed  that  ye  despise  and  let  go  all  that 
presenteth  itself  as  new  and  strange,  and  which 
it  is  not  necessary  to  the  salvation  of  the  soul  to 
know.  For,  with  such  goblins,  he  seeketh  to 
catch  the  idle.  ****** 

We  have  all  enough  to  do,  our  whole  life 
long,  to  learn  the  commandments  of  God  and 
his  Son  Christ.  When  we  are  well  instructed 
in  these,  we  will  further  inquire  into  these 
secret  articles,  which  this  Spirit  stirreth  up 
without  cause,  only  that  he  may  obtain  honour 
and  fame.  So  then  continue  in  the  way,  and 
learn  what  Paul  teacheth  the  Romans,  and  look 
at  my  preface  there,  that  you  may  know  which 
is  the  right  method  of  learning  in  the  Scriptures ; 
and  withdraw  yourselves  from  useless  prattlers. 
Herewith  I  commend  you  to  God.  And  pray 
for  me !  Amen. 


TO  HIS  MESSMATES. 

HE  COMPARES  THE  ACTIONS  OF  THE  BIRDS  ABOUT  HIM  TO  A  DIET. 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ,  dear  Masters  and 
friends!  I  have  received  the  letters  written 
by  you  all,  and  have  learned  how  it  fareth  on 
every  hand.  That  you,  on  your  part,  may  learn 
how  it  fareth  here,  I  give  you  to  know  that  we, 
namely  I,  Master  Veit  and  Cyriac,  go  not  to  the 
Diet  at  Augsburg,  but  we  have  come  to  a  diet 
of  a  different  sort,  elsewhere. 

There  is  a  rookery  just  beneath  our  window  like 
to  a  little  forest.  There  the  jackdaws  and  the 
crows  have  established  a  diet.  There  is  such 
a  riding  to  and  fro, — such  a  screaming  day  and 
night  without  cessation,  as  if  they  were  all 
drunk,  full  and  mad.  Young  and  old  chatter 
together,  so  that  I  wonder  how  voice  and  breath 
can  hold  out  so  long.  And  I  would  like  to  know 
if  any  of  this  nobility  and  military  gentry  are 
left  with  you  ;  for  methinks  they  have  assembled 
together  here,  from  all  the  world.  I  have  not 
yet  seen  their  emperor,  but  the  nobility  and  the 


34  MARTIN 


great  fellows  hover  and  wriggle  constantly  be- 
fore our  eyes.  They  are  not  very  splendidly 
clad,  but  simply,  in  uniform  colour,  all  alike 
black,  all  alike  gray-eyed,  and  all  alike  sing  one 
song;  yet  with  a  pleasant  difference  of  young 
and  old,  great  and  small.  They  care  not  for 
great  palaces  and  halls;  for  their  hall  is  arched 
with  the  fair  wide  heaven ;  their  floor  is  the 
field,  wainscotted  with  beautiful  green  bows  ; 
and  the  walls  are  as  wide  as  the  ends  of  the 
world.  Neither  do  they  care  for  steed  or  har- 
ness. They  have  feathered  wheels  with  which 
they  can  fly  from  the  firelocks  and  escape  from 
wrath.  They  are  grand,  mighty  lords ;  but  what 
they  will  decree,  I  know  not  yet. 

But  so  far  as  I  have  learned  from  their  inter- 
preter, they  intend  a  mighty  expedition  and 
warfare  against  wheat,  rye,  oats,  malt,  and  all 
kinds  of  grain ;  and  there  will  be  many  a  knight 
made  in  this  cause,  and  great  deeds  will  be 
done. 

Thus  do  we  sit  here  at  the  diet,  and  hear  and 
see  with  great  joy  and  love  how  the  princes  and 
lords,  together  with  the  other  estates  of  the  em- 


LUTHER. 


pire,  sing  and  luxuriate  so  joyfully  together. 
But  a  special  joy  have  we  when  we  see  in  what 
a  knightly  fashion  they  wriggle,  wipe  their  bills, 
and  overthrow  the  defence,  that  they  may  con- 
quer and  acquire  glory  against  corn  and  malt. 
We  wish  them  joy  and  weal,  and  especially 
that  they  may  be  spitted  upon  a  hedge-stake. 
But  I  hold  that  they  are  nothing  else  but  sophists 
and  papists,  with  their  preaching  and  writing ; 
whom  I  must  needs  have  before  me  in  a  heap, 
that  I  may  hear  their  lovely  voice  and  discourse, 
and  see  how  useful  a  gentry  it  is,  to  devour  all 
that  is  on  the  earth,  and,  in  return,  to  chatter 
for  pastime. 

To-day  we  have  heard  the  first  nightingale, 
for  they  have  not  been  willing  to  trust  April. 
Hitherto  we  have  had  only  splendid  weather. 
It  hath  not  rained  once,  except  yesterday,  a 
little.  With  you  peradventure  it  may  be  other- 
wise. Herewith  be  commended  to  God,  and 
keep  house  well ! 

Martixus  Luther,  Doct. 
From  the  Diet  of  the  Malt-Turks,  28th  April, 
anno  1530. 


JACOB  BOEHME.* 


Born  1576.   Died  1824. 


This  celebrated  mystic,  whose  speculations 
procured  for  him,  in  his  own  age,  the  significant 
title  of  "Philosophies  Teutonicus,"  appears  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  great  Reformer  by 
whose  side  he  is  placed  in  these  pages.f  He 
may  be  regarded  as  the  antipodes  of  Luther  in 
all  the  leading  tendencies  of  his  mind.  Lu- 
ther's fame  rests  on  his  character,  —  that  of 
Boehme  is  derived  from  his  thought.  The  one 
was  a  man  of  action,  with  an  eye  to  practical 
effect  in  all  that  he  wrote  and  did  ;  the  other 
was  a  quietist,  whose  spirit  reposed  with  intense 
inwardness  on  itself,  and  who  knew  no  world 
but  that  of  his  own  dreams.  Luther  sought  to 
ground  a  popular  theology,  Boehme  strove  to 
penetrate  the  deepest  mysteries  of  Being.  Lu- 
ther aimed  at  what  was  needful  or  profitable 
for  the  daily  use  and  conduct  of  life,  Boehme 
aspired  to  the  highest  truth.  The  one  laboured 
to  instruct  the  masses,  the  other  to  instruct 
himself.  The  former  had  his  sphere  in  the 
actual,  the  other  in  the  absolute.  They  relate 
to  each  other  as  Paul  and  John. 

Boehme,  like  Luther,  was  a  son  of  the  people. 
His  birthplace  was  Alt  Seidenberg,  in  Lower 
Lusatia,  near  Gorlitz,  where  he  afterward 
practised  his  craft.  His  parents  were  peasants 
of  the  poorest  sort;  his  calling  that  of  shoe- 
maker. Born  to  narrow  fortunes  and  humble 
hopes,  the  shoemaker  of  Gorlitz,  like  his  Eng- 
lish fellow-craftsman,  the  shoemaker  of  Leices- 
ter, was  "one  of  those  to  whom  under  ruder  or 
purer  form,  the  Divine  Idea  of  the  Universe  is 
pleased  to  manifest  itself,  and  across  all  the 
hulls  of  ignorance  and  earthly  degradation, 
shine  through,  in  unspeakable  awfulness,  in 
unspeakable  beauty,  on  their  souls."]:    He  re- 

*  Called  by  English  writers,  Bekmen.  This  corruption 
seems  past  recovery. 

f  Although  placed  by  his  side,  in  accordance  with  the 
plan  of  this  work,  Boehme  is  more  than  half  a  century 
removed  from  Luther  in  chronological  order.  The  in- 
terval between  them  is  far  from  being  a  blank  in  the 
literary  history  of  Germany.  It  contains  many  names  of 
note  ;— among  which  those  of  Zwingli,  Ulrich  von  Hutten, 
Sebastian  Frank,  and  Johann  Fischart,  would  claim  a 
distinguished  place  in  a  complete  survey  of  German  lite- 
rature,—but  none  which  properly  come  within  the  scope 
of  this  Collection. 

|  Carlyle. 


ceived  no  instruction  from  books  until  his 
eleventh  year,  and  then,  from  no  other  but 
the  bible,  the  ability  to  read  which,  was  the 
extent  of  his  schooling.  But,  before  this,  he 
had  received  instruction  of  a  different  sort, 
while  tending  cattle  in  the  fields. 

"His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills." 

And  there  the  God  who  delights  to  pour  out 
his  Spirit  in  vessels  of  this  quality, — "  Der  stets 
den  Schafern  gnadig  sich  bewies"  —  drew 
near  to  his  soul  in  the  eternal  melodies  of 
Nature.  Established  in  his  calling  at  Gorlitz, 
"  sitting  in  his  stall,  working  on  tanned  hides, 
amid  pincers,  paste-horns,  rosin,  swine-bristles, 
and  a  nameless  heap  of  rubbish,"  he  continued 
to  see  visions  and  to  dream  dreams,  and  be- 
lieved himself  the  recipient  and  medium  of 
Divine  revelations.  At  three  different  times, 
according  to  his  own  account,  he  was  environed 
with  supernatural  light,  which  attended  him, 
in  one  instance,  for  seven  successive  days. 
"Replenished  with  heavenly  knowledge,"  he 
went  out  into  the  fields,  and  "viewing  the 
herbs  and  the  grass,  he  saw  into  their  essences 
and  properties,  which  were  discovered  to  him 
by  their  lineaments,  figures,  and  signatures."* 
The  first  reflection  of  this  illumination  was  the 
"Aurora,"  or  "The  Morning-redness  in  the 
East,"  which  he  wrote  with  no  view  to  publi- 
cation, but  merely  by  way  of  record  and  mem- 
orandum,— "  that  the  mysteries  revealed  to  him 
might  not  pass  through  him  as  a  stream."  It 
became  public  without  his  consent,  and  was 
seized  and  condemned  as  heretical  by  the 
Senate  of  Gorlitz,  at  the  instigation  of  a  clerical 
persecutor.  The  author  was  admonished  to 
write  no  more  books,  but  to  confine  himself  to 
his  proper  calling.  As  if  the  proverb,  "iVe 
swtor,"  &c,  had  been  made  expressly  for  him, 
Boehme  meekly  promised  obedience,  not  doubt- 
ing, in  his  simplicity,  that  he  had  committed 

♦  See  "Jacob  Behmen's  Theosophick  Philosophy,  un- 
folded in  divers  Considerations  and  Demonstrations,  by 
Edward  Taylor.  With  a  short  account  of  the  life  of  Jacob 
Behmen."   London,  1691. 


36 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


an  error.  A  silence  of  seven  years  ensued.  At 
the  expiration  of  this  term,  having  meanwhile 
removed  from  Gorlitz  to  Dresden,  and  expe- 
riencing new  motions  of  the  Spirit,  he  no  longer 
hesitated  to  write  and  to  publish.  He  composed, 
in  rapid  succession,  a  large  number  of  works, 
in  which  he  endeavors  to  communicate  his 
revelations;  struggling  painfully  with  want  of 
culture  and  of  language,  in  his  attempts  to 
express  ideas  so  far  beyond  the  range  of  that 
experience  which  had  furnished  the  only  dialect 
he  knew.  Latin  words  and  scientific  terms, 
picked  up  in  conversation  with  scholars,  without 
any  clear  understanding  of  their  import,  are 
brought  in  to  eke  out  his  slender  vocabulary ; 
and  serve  only  to  enhance  the  obscurity,  by  the 
unusual  and  illegitimate  sense  in  which  they 
are  employed.  "Art,"  he  says,  "hath  not 
written  here,  neither  was  there  any  time  to 
consider  how  to  set  it  punctually  down,  accord- 
ing to  the  right  understanding  of  the  letters, 
but  all  was  ordered  according  to  the  direction 
of  the  Spirit,  which  often  went  in  haste.  And 
though  I  could  have  written  in  a  more  accurate, 
fair,  and  plain  manner,  yet  the  reason  was  this, 
that  the  burning  fire  did  often  force  forward 
with  speed,  and  the  hand  and  pen  must  hasten 
directly  after  it,  for  it  cometh  and  goeth  as  a 
sudden  shower." — "  I  can  write  nothing  of  my- 
self, but  as  a  child  which  neither  knowTeth  nor 
understandeth,  but  only  that  which  the  Lord 
vouchsafeth  to  know  in  me." 

Never,  since  the  days  of  the  Apostles,  has 
such  defective  scholarship  been  united  with 
such  intellectual  fecundity  and  such  important 
results.  Jacob  Boehme  has  been  a  guide  and  a 
prophet  to  men  of  the  profoundest  intellect,  of 
the  most  exalted  station,  and  the  most  distin- 
guished piety.  Religious  sects  have  been 
founded  on  his  doctrine,  and  called  by  his  name. 
William  Law,  the  most  devout  of  English 
mystics,  was  his  disciple,  and  published  an 
English  edition  of  his  works.  Schelling,  the 
most  cultivated  of  German  Transcendentalists, 
author  of  the  "  Philosophy  of  Identity,"  bears 
witness  to  the  depth  and  wealth  of  his  intuitive 
wisdom,  and  reflects  it  in  his  Ontology.  Goethe, 
in  his  youthful  speculations,  seems  to  have 
borrowed  from  him  the  leading  idea  of  his  cos- 
mogony.*   King  Charles  I.  of  England  is  said 

*  The  idea  that  the  material  universe  was  created  out 
of  the  ruins  of  a  fallen,  spiritual  world.  See  "Aus  mei- 
nem  Leben,"  Book  VIII. 


to  have  sent  a  special  messenger  to  Gorlitz  to 
learn  of  Boehme,  and,  after  reading,  in  the 
English,  the  "Answers  to  the  forty  questions  of 
the  soul,"  to  have  declared,  that  "  if,  as  he  had 
been  informed,  the  author  was  no  scholar,  it 
was  evident  that  the  Holy  Ghost  yet  dwelled 
in  men." 

It  is  not  easy  to  collect  the  true  form  of 
Boehme's  philosophy  out  of  the  thick  obscurity 
of  his  writings.  And  it  is  more  difficult  still, 
to  separate  the  pure  idea  from  the  form,  in  a 
system  so  complicated  with  Christian  mythology 
and  Christian  dogmatics.  One  knows  not  how 
much  or  how  little  may  be  intended  by  the 
theological  phraseology  in  which  the  author  has 
clothed  his  speculations,  where  biblical  terms 
are  often  so  warped  from  their  literal  import. 
But  if  we  divide  the  various  systems  of  philoso- 
phy, according  to  their  ontological  characteris- 
tics, into  three  classes;  viz:  the  Magian  or 
Dualistic, — the  Unitarian,  with  its  numberless 
varieties,  theistic,  atheistic,  and  pantheistic, 
from  Anaximander  to  Spinoza,  —  and,  thirdly, 
the  Platonic  or  Trinitarian ; — the  speculations 
of  Boehme  will  be  found  in  the  last  of  these 
divisions.  He  belongs  to  the  Platonic  family 
of  philosophers,  by  virtue  of  the  triune  nature 
which  he  ascribes  to  Being.  His  system* 
supposes  three  Principles,  in  which  all  Being 
is  comprised.  The  first  Principle,  or  the  Fa- 
ther,— "  the  eternal  Darkness,"  like  the  to  sv  of 
the  Platonic  Trinity,  is  destitute  of  intelligence 
in  itself  (oaoyo$),  although  the  Father  of  intelli- 
gence. It  is  not  so  much  God  as  the  source  of 
God.  "  Fons  deitatis."  From  this  first  Prin- 
ciple proceeds,  by  eternal  generation,  the  second 
Principle,  the  Son,  "the  eternal  Light."  And 
from  these  two  proceeds,  by  eternal  generation, 
the  third,  "the  Outbirth,"  which  is  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  the  material  creation.  These 
three  Principles  are  undivided  in  God;  but, 
through  the  fall  of  Lucifer  and  his  angels,  they 
have  become  separated  in  Nature  and  in  man. 
Man,  in  his  natural  state,  partakes  of  the  first 
Principle,  and  of  the  life  which  proceeds  from 
the  third.  He  becomes  possessed  of  the  second 
only  by  regeneration  in  Christ.  Furthermore, 
these  three  Principles  are  manifested  in  seven 
elements  or  "  Fountain  Spirits,"  as  they  are 
denominated  by  Boehme.    The  first  is  called 

*  For  an  account  of  this  system,  see  "A  Compendious 
View  of  the  Grounds  of  the  Teutonic  Philosophy,  pub- 
lished by  a  gentleman  retired  from  business."  London, 
1770. 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


37 


Astringency ;  the  second,  Attraction  ;  the  third, 
Anguish;  the  fourth,  Heat.  These  four  con- 
stitute the  first  Principle.  The  fifth  is  Light ; 
the  sixth,  Sound.  These  two  constitute  the 
second  Principle.  The  seventh  is  the  Body 
generated  by  the  other  six,  in  which  they  live 
and  work,  and  which  represents  the  third 
Principle. 

A  full  account  of  this  system  would  far 
exceed  the  limits  and  design  of  this  sketch. 
The  points  which  have  been  mentioned  are 
those  which  seemed  to  be  most  characteristic 
and  fundamental,  as  well  as  most  necessary  for 
the  right  understanding  of  the  extracts  given 


below.  As  to  the  practical  part  of  Boehme's 
doctrine,  it  may  be  summed  up  in  his  own 
words, — said  to  have  been  written  in  an  album 
— which  contain,  in  fact,  the  substance  of  all 
practical  philosophy. 

"  Wem  Zeit  ist  wie  die  Ewigkeit 
Und  Ewigkeit  is  wie  die  Zeit 
Der  ist  befreit  von  allem  Streit,"* 

When  he  felt  himself  seized  with  what  he 
supposed  to  be  his  last  sickness,  he  caused 
himself  to  be  removed  to  his  old  residence, 
Gorlitz,  and  having,  as, it  is  said,  predicted  the 
hour  of  his  death,  departed,  saying,  "  Now  I  go 
hence  into  Paradise." 


TO  THE 

READER  OF  THESE  WRITINGS  * 

It  is  written,  "The  natural  man  understand- 
etli  not  the  things  of  the  Spirit,  nor  the  mysteries 
of  the  kingdom  of  God,  they  are  foolishness  unto 
him,  neither  can  he  know  them  :"  therefore  I 
admonish  and  exhort  the  Christian  lover  of 
mysteries,  if  he  will  study  these  high  writings, 
and  read,  search,  and  understand  them,  that  he 
do  not  read  them  outwardly  only,  with  sharp 
speculation  and  reasoning ;  for  in  so  doing,  he 
shall  remain  in  the  outward,  imaginary  ground 
only,  and  obtain  no  more  than  a  counterfeited 
colour  or  feigned  shadow  of  them. 

For  a  man's  own  reason,  without  the  light  of 
God,  cannot  come  into  the  ground  of  them,  it  is 
impossible ;  for  let  his  wit  be  never  so  subtil,  it 
apprehends  spiritual  things  but,  as  it  were,  the 
shadow  in  a  glass.  ***** 

Now  if  any  would  search  the  divine  ground, 
that  is,  the  divine  Revelation,  or  manifestation, 
that  God  has  been  pleased  to  make  of  himself, 
he  must  first  consider  with  himself,  for  what 
end  he  desires  to  know  such  things,  whether  he 
desires  to  practise  that  which  he  might  obtain, 
and  bestow  it  to  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  wel- 
fare of  his  neighbour  ;  also  whether  he  desires 
to  die  to  earthliness,  and  to  his  own  will,  and 
to  live  in  that  which  he  seeks  and  desires,  and 
to  be  one  spirit  with  it. 

If  he  have  not  a  purpose,  that,  if  God  should 
reveal  himself  and  his  mysteries  to  him,  he 
would  be  one  spirit  and  have  one  will  with 
God,  and  wholly  resign  and  yield  himself  up  to 
him,  that  God's  Spirit  may  do  what  he  pleases 
with  him,  and  by  him,  and  that  God  may  be  his 
knowledge,  will  and  working-  he  is  not  yet  fit 
for  such  knowledge  and  understanding. 

For  there  are  many  that  seek  mysteries  and 
hidden  knowledge,  merely  that  they  may  be 
respected  and  highly  esteemed  by  the  world, 

*  From  the  "  Compendious  View  of  the  grounds  of  the 
Teutonic  Philosophy." 


and  for  their  own  gain  and  profit;  but  they  at- 
tain not  this  ground,  "  where  the  Spirit  searches 
all  things,  even  the  deep  things  of  God." 

It  must  be  a  totally  resigned  and  yielded 
will,  in  which  God  himself  searches  and  works, 
and  which  continually  pierces  into  God,  in 
yielding  and  resigned  humility,  seeking  nothing 
but  his  eternal  native  country,  and  to  do  his 
neighbour  service ;  and  then  it  may  be  attained. 
He  must  begin  with  effectual  repentance  and 
amendment,  and  with  prayer  that  his  under- 
standing may  be  opened  from  within;  for  then 
the  inward  spirit  will  bring  itself  into  the  out- 
ward understanding. 

But  when  he  reads  such  writings  and  yet 
cannot  understand  them,  he  must  not  presently 
throw  them  away,  and  think  it  is  impossible  to 
understand  them  ;  no,  but  he  must  turn  his  mind 
to  God,  beseeching  him  for  grace  and  under- 
standing, and  read  again,  and  then  he  shall  see 
more  and  more  in  them,  till  at  length  he  be 
drawn,  by  the  power  of  God.  into  the  very  depth 
itself,  and  so  come  into  the  supernatural  and 
supersensual  ground,  namely,  into  the  eternal 
unity  of  God,  where  he  shall  hear  unspeakable 
and  effectual  words  of  God,  which  will  bring 
him  back  and  outward  again  (by  the  divine  ef- 
fluence) to  the  very  grossest  and  meanest  matter 
of  the  earth,  and  afterward  back  and  inwards 
to  God  again ;  then  it  is  that  the  Spirit  of  God 
searches  all  things  with  him,  and  by  him,  and 
so  he  is  rightly  taught  and  driven  by  God. 


Of  God  and  the  Divine  Nature. 


The  soul,  which  has  its  original  out  of  God's 
first  principle  in  creation,  and  was  breathed 
from  God  into  man  in  the  third  principle,  (that 
is,  into  the  sidereal  and  elementary  birth,)  is 


*  To  whom  time  is  as  eternity, 
And  eternity  as  time, 
He  is  freed  from  all  strife. 
4 


38 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


capable  of  seeing  further  than  any  other  crea- 
ture into  the  first  principle  of  God,  out  of  and 
in  and  from  the  essence  of  which  it  proceeded. 
And  this  is  not  marvellous,  for  it  does  but  be- 
hold itself  in  the  rising  of  its  birth,  out  of  which 
it  came  originally,  and,  by  the  power  of  its  light, 
can  see  the  whole  depth  of  the  Father  in  the 
first  principle,  by  which  he  manifested  himself 
in  creation. 

This  the  devils  also  see  in  a  degree  ;  for  they 

also  are  out  of  the  same  first  principle,  they  also 

wish  that  they  might  not  see  nor  feel  it;  but  it 

is  their  own  fault  that  they  separated  themselves 

from  the  second  principle,  which  is  called,  and 

is  God,  one  in  essence  and  threefold  in  personal 

distinction,  which  is  shut  up  to  them. 
******         *  * 

******* 

When  I  consider  what  God  is,  then  I  say,  He 
is  the  One!  in  reference  to  the  creature,  as  an 
eternal  nothing.  He  has  neither  foundation,  be- 
ginning nor  abode ;  he  needs  not  either  space  or 
place  ;  he  begetteth  himself  in  himself,  from  eter- 
nity to  eternity  •  and  the  outgoing  out  of  the  will 
in  itself  is  God. 

He  is  neither  like  or  resembleth  any  thing, 
and  has  no  peculiar  place  where  he  dwells; 
the  true  heaven  where  God  dwells  is  all  over  and  in 
all  places,  for  wheresoever  he  was  before  the  creation, 
there  he  is  still,  namely,  in  himself,  the  Essence  of 
all  essences;  all  is  generated  from  him,  and  is 
originally  from  him. 

******** 

God,  without  nature  and  creature,  has  no 
name,  but  is  called  only  the  eternal  Good,  that 
is,  the  eternal  One!  the  Profundity  of  all  beings! 
There  is  no  place  found  for  him,  therefore  can 
no  creature  rightly  name  him:  for  all  names 
stand  in  the  formed  word  of  power,  but  God  is, 
himself,  the  root  of  all  power,  without  beginning 
and  name  •  therefore  said  he  to  Jacob,  "  Where- 
fore askest  thou  what  is  my  name  V 
*****  *** 

Of  God's  first  manifestation  of  himself  in 
the  trinitt. 

God  is  the  will  of  the  wisdom ;  the  wisdom 
is  his  manifestation. 

In  this  eternal  generation  we  are  to  under- 
stand three  things;  namely,  1.  An  eternal  will. 
2.  An  eternal  mind  of  the  will.  3.  The  egress, 
efflux,  or  effluence  from  the  will  and  mind, 
which  is  a  spirit  of  the  will  and  mind. 

The  will  is  the  Father  :  the  mind  is  the  con- 
ceived comprehension,  or  receptacle  of  the  will, 
or  the  centre  to  something;  and  it  is  the  will's 
heart,  that  is  the  Son  of  God  ;  and  the  egress  of 
the  will  and  mind  is  the  power  and  spirit. 
******** 

And  as  we  perceive  that  in  this  world  there 
is  fire,  air,  water,  and  earth,  also  the  sun  and 
the  stars,  and  therein  consist  all  the  things  of 
this  world ;  so  you  may  conceive,  by  way  of 
similitude,  that  the  Father  is  the  fire  of  the 
whole,  holy,  constellations,  and  that  the  Son, 


namely,  his  heart,  is  the  sun  which  sets  all  the 
constellations  in  a  light,  pleasant  habitation ; 
and  that  the  Holy  Ghost  is  the  air  of  the  life, 
without  which  neither  sun  nor  constellation 
would  subsist. 

******  ** 

Of  eternal  nature  after  the  fall  of  Luci- 
fer, AND  OF  THE  CREATION  OF  THIS  WORLD, 
AND  OF  MAN. 

Reader,  understand  and  consider  my  writings 
aright.  We  have  no  power  or  ability  to  speak 
of  the  birth  of  the  Deity,  for  it  never  had  any 
beginning  from  all  eternity  ;  but  we  have  power 
to  speak  of  God  our  Father,  what  he  is,  and  how 
the  eternal  geniture  is,  and  of  the  nativity,  birth, 
and  working  of  nature. 

And  though  it  is  not  very  good  for  us  to  know 
the  austere,  earnest,  strong,  fierce,  severe,  and 
original  birth  of  nature,  as  it  came  to  be  sepa- 
rated, and  first  manifested  by  the  apostasy  of 
Lucifer,  and  into  the  knowledge,  feeling,  and 
comprehensibility  of  which  our  first  parents 
brought  upon  themselves,  and  upon  us  their 
posterity,  through  the  poisoning  venom  and  in- 
fection they  received,  by  the  instigation  and  de- 
ceit of  the  devil ;  yet  we  have  very  great  need 
of  this  knowledge,  that  we  thereby  may  learn 
to  know  the  devil,  who  dwells  in  the  most 
strong,  severe,  and  cruel  birth  of  all,  and  to 
know  our  own  enemy,  SELF,  which  our  first 
parents  awakened  and  roused  up,  and  we  carry 
within  us,  and  which  we  ourselves  now  are. 
******  ** 

I  know  very  well,  and  my  spirit  and  mind 
shows  me,  that  many  will  be  offended  at  the 
simplicity  and  meanness  of  the  author,  for  offer- 
ing to  write  of  such  high  things,  and  will  think 
he  has  no  authority  to  do  it,  and  that  he  sins, 
and  runs  contrary  to  God  and  His  will,  in  pre- 
suming, being  but  a  man,  to  go  about  to  speak 
and  say  what  God  is.  For  it  is  lamentable, 
that,  since  the  fall  of  Adam,  we  should  be  so 
continually  cheated  by  the  devil,  as  to  think 
that  we  are  not  the  children  of  God,  nor  of  his 
essence,  or  offspring. 

Your  monstrous,  outward,  bestial  form  or 
shape  indeed  is  not  God,  nor  of  his  essence ;  but 
the  hidden  man,  which  is  the  soul,  is  the  proper 
essence  of  God,  forasmuch  as  the  love  in  the 
light  of  God,  is  sprung  up  in  your  centre,  out  of 
which  the  Holy  Ghost  proceeds,  and  wherein 
the  second  principle  of  God  consists.  How 
then  should  you  not  have  power  and  authority 
to  speak  of  God,  who  is  your  Father,  of  whose 
essence  you  (the  regenerated)  are,  as  a  child  is 
the  Father's  own  substance?  The  Father  is 
the  eternal  power,  or  virtue ;  the  Son  is  the 
heart  and  light  continuing  eternally  in  the  Fa- 
ther; and  all  regenerated  souls  continue  in  the 
Father  and  the  Son;  and  now  seeing  the  Holy 
Ghost  proceeds  from  the  Father  and  the  Son, 
the  eternal  power  of  the  Father  is  in  you,  and 
the  eternal  light  of  the  Son  shines  in  you. 
******** 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


39 


If  you  lift  up  your  thoughts  and  minds,  and 
ride  upon  the  chariot  of  the  soul,  (as  is  before- 
mentioned,)  and  look  upon  yourself,  and  all 
creatures,  and  consider  how  the  birth  of  life  in 
you  takes  its  original,  and  what  the  light  of  your 
life  is,  whereby  you  can  behold  the  sun,  and 
also  look  with  your  imagination  beyond  the  sun 
into  a  vast  space  to  which  the  eyes  of  your 
body  cannot  reach,  and  then  consider  what  the 
cause  might  be  that  you  are  more  rational  than 
the  other  creatures,  seeing  you  can,  by  the  ope- 
rations of  your  mind,  search  into  every  thing ; 
you  will,  if  you  be  born  of  God,  attain  to  what 
God  and  the  eternal  birth  is ;  for  you  will  see, 
feel,  and  find,  that  all  creation  must  yet  have  a 
higher  root,  from  whence  it  proceeded,  which 
is  not  visible,  but  hidden.  Now  if  you  farther 
consider  what  preserveth  all  thus,  and  whence 
it  is,  then  you  will  find  the  Eternal  that  has 
no  beginning,  the  Original  of  the  eternal  princi- 
ple, namely,  the  eternal,  indissoluble  band  of 
Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit.  And  then,  secondly, 
you  will  see  the  separation ;  in  that  the  mate- 
rial world,  with  the  stars  and  elements,  are  out 
of  the  first  principle  of  creation,  which  contains 
the  outward  and  third  principle  of  this  world. 
For  you  will  find  in  the  elementary  kingdom 
or  dominion,  a  cause  in  every  thing  wherefore 
it  generates  and  moves  as  it  does ;  but  you 
will  not  find  the  first  cause  whence  it  is  so ; 
and  that  therefore  there  must  be  two  several 
principles,  for  you  find  in  the  visible  things  a 
corruptibility,  and  perceive  that  they  must  have 
a  beginning,  because  they  have  an  end,  and 
these  two  principles  are  the  first  and  third. 

You  find  in  all  things  a  glorious  power  and 
virtue,  which  is  the  life  growing  and  springing 
of  every  thing,  and  that  therein  lies  its  beauty 
and  pleasant  welfare.  Now  look  upon  an  herb 
or  plant,  and  consider  what  is  its  life  which 
makes  it  grow,  and  you  shall  find  in  the  ori- 
ginal, harshness,  bitterness,  fire,  and  water, 
whence  proceeds  the  pleasant  smell  and  colours, 
for  if  it  be  severed  from  its  own  mother  that  gene- 
rated it  at  the  beginning,  then  it  remains  dead. 

Thus  you  see  that  there  is  an  eternal  root 
which  affords  this,  and  must  be  a  principle, 
which  the  stock  itself  is  not,  and  that  principle 
has  its  original  from  the  light  of  nature.  *  * 
******** 

But  what  do  you  think  was  before  the  times 
of  the  creating  of  this  world  ?  For  out  of  that 
proceeded  the  root  of  this  earth  and  stones,  as 
also  the  stars  and  elements.  But  of  what  con- 
sists the  root?  You  will  find  therein  nothing 
else  but  bitterness,  harshness,  astringent  sour- 
ness and  fire,  and  these  are  but  one  thing, 
namely,  the  pure,  eternal  element,  and  from 
which  all  outward,  natural  things  were  gene- 
rated after  the  fall  of  Lucifer;  for,  before  his 
fall,  there  was  but  one  pure  element.  Now  in 
these  forms  you  cannot  find  God ;  the  pure  Deity 
being  incomprehensible,  unperceivable,  al- 
mighty, and  all  powerful.  Where  is  it  then 
men  may  find  God? 


Here  open  your  noble  mind,  and  search  fur- 
ther. For  seeing  God  is  only  good,  whence 
comes  the  evil  ?  And  seeing  also  that  he  alone 
is  the  life,  and  the  light,  and  the  holy  power, 
as  is  undeniably  true,  whence  comes  the  anger 
of  God  ?  Whence  comes  the  devil,  and  his 
evil  will?  And  whence  has  hell -fire  its  ori- 
ginal? Seeing  there  was  nothing  before  God 
manifested  himself  in  creation,  but  only  God, 
who  was,  and  is  a  Spirit,  and  continues  so  in 
eternity.  Whence  then  is  the  first  matter  of 
evil?  Here  blind  reason  gives  this  judgment, 
that  there  must  needs  have  been  in  the  spirit 
of  God,  a  will  to  generate  the  source  and  foun- 
tain of  anger  and  evil. 

But  the  Scripture  says,  the  devil  was  created 
a  holy  angel ;  and  it  further  says,  "  Thou  art  not 
a  God  that  wills  evil;"  and,  by  Ezekiel,  God 
declares,  "that  as  sure  as  he  lives,  he  wills  not 
the  death  of  a  sinner ;"  and  this  is  testified  by 
God's  earnest  and  severe  punishing  of  the  devil, 
and  of  all  sinners,  that  he  is  not  pleased  with 
death. 

What  then  is  the  first  matter  of  evil  in  the 
devil?  And  what  moved  him  to  anger,  seeing 
he  was  created  out  of  the  original,  eternal  Spirit 
of  God?  Or  whence  is  the  original  of  evil, 
and  of  hell,  wherein  the  devils  shall  remain 
forever,  when  this  world,  with  the  stars,  ele- 
ments, earth,  and  stones,  shall  perish  in  the  end 
of  time? 

Beloved  Reader,  open  the  eyes  of  your  mind 
here,  and  know,  that  no  other  anguish  or  source 
of  punishment  will  spring  up  in  Lucifer  than 
his  own  quality,  or  working  property ;  for  that 
is  his  hell  which  he  himself  formed;  and  be- 
cause the  light  of  God  is  his  eternal  shame, 
therefore  is  he  God's  enemy,  because  he  is  no 
more  in  the  light  of  God. 

Now,  nothing  can  be  here  produced  by  rea- 
son, that  God  should  ever  have  used  any  matter 
out  of  which  to  create  the  devil,  for  then  the 
devil  might  justify  himself,  that  he  was  made 
evil,  and  created  of  evil  matter.  But  God  cre- 
ated him  out  of  nothing  but  merely  and  entirely 
out  of  his  own  divine  essence,  as  well  as  the 
other  angels;  as  it  is  written,  "Through  him 
and  in  him  are  all  things."  And  his  only  is  the 
kingdom,  the  power  and  the  glory ;  and  all  is 
in  him,  as  the  Holy  Scriptures  witness.  And 
if  it  were  not  thus,  no  sin  could  be  imputed  to 
the  devil,  nor  to  men,  if  they  were  not  eternal, 
and  had  their  being  out  of  God  himself. 
******  ** 

If,  therefore,  you  will  speak  or  think  of  God, 
you  must  consider  that  he  is  All.  *  * 
#***  **** 

And  seeing  that  he  himself  witnesses,  that 
his  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power,  from  eternity 
to  eternity;  and  that  he  calls  himself  Father, 
(and  the  Son,  the  Second  Person  in  the  Trinity, 
begotten  of  his  Father,)  therefore  we  must  seek 
for  him  in  the  original  of  his  manifesting  him- 
self in  the  tri-une  One ;  namely,  Father,  Son, 
and  Spirit ;  from  whom  all  creation  proceeded ; 


40 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


and  we  can  say  no  otherwise,  but  that  the  first 
principle  in  creation  is  God  the  Father  himself, 
as  the  source,  or  fountain  of  life. 

Yet  there  is  found  in  the  original  of  life  the 
most  fierce  and  strong  birth,  namely,  harshness, 
bitterness,  anguish,  and  fire  ;  of  which  we  can- 
not say  that  it  is  God ;  and  yet  is  the  most  in- 
ward first  source  of  all  light,  and  that  is  in  God 
the  Father;  according  to  which  he  calls  him- 
self an  angry,  zealous,  or  jealous  God,  and  a 
consuming  fire.  And  this  source  is  the  first 
principle,  and  that  is  God  the  Father  in  the  ori- 
ginality, or  first  manifestation  of  himself,  at  the 
beginning  in  creation. 

******** 
And  in  this  first  principle,  prince  Lucifer, 
at  the  extinguishing  in  himself  the  light  of  the 
second  principle,  continued  ;  and  is  ever  the 
same  abyss  of  hell;  wherein  the  soul  also  con- 
tinues which  extinguishes  that  light  which  shines 
from  the  heart  of  God,  (into  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world,)  being  then  separated 
from  the  second  principle.  For  which  cause 
also,  at  the  end  of  time,  there  will  be  a  separa- 
tion or  parting  asunder  of  the  saints  of  light 
from  the  damned,  whose  source  of  life  will  be 
without  the  light  of  God,  and  the  working  foun- 
tain of  their  condition  as  a  boiling,  springing 
torment. 

******** 
I  will  now  write  of  the  second  principle,  of 
the  clear,  pure  Deity ;  namely,  of  the  heart  of 
God,  that  is,  the  power,  glory,  or  lustre  of  God 
the  Father,  in  the  Son.  In  the  first  principle,  I 
have  mentioned  harshness,  bitterness,  anguish, 
and  fire,  yet  they  are  not  separate  but  one  only 
thing,  and  they  generate  one  another  in  the  first 
source  of  all  creation.  And  if  now  the  second 
principle  did  not  break  forth,  and  spring  up  in 
the  birth  of  the  Son,  then  the  Father  would  be 
a  dark  valley ;  and  the  Son,  who  is  the  heart, 
the  love,  the  brightness,  and  the  sweet  rejoicing 
of  the  Father  (in  whom  the  Father  is  well 
pleased)  opens  another  principle. 

This  is  now  what  the  evangelist  John  says, 
chap.  1,  "In  the  beginning  was  the  word;  and 
the  word  was  with  God ;  and  the  word  was 
God.  The  same  was  in  the  beginning  with 
God.  All  things  were  made  by  him,  and  with- 
out him  was  not  anything  made.  In  him  was 
life."  And  he  is  another  person  than  the  Fa- 
ther, for  in  his  centre  there  is  nothing  else  but 
mere  joy,  love  and  pleasure.  *  *  * 
The  evangelist  says  further,  "And  the  life 
was  the  light  of  men."  Here,  0  man,  take  now 
this  light  of  life,  which  was  in  the  word  and  is 
eternal ;  and  behold  the  Being  of  all  beings,  and 
especially  thyself;  seeing  thou  art  an  image, 
life,  and  derive  thy  being  of  the  unsearchable 
God ;  and  a  likeness  as  to  him.  Here  consider 
time  and  eternity ;  heaven  and  hell ;  this  world ; 
light  and  darkness ;  pain,  and  the  source;  life 
and  death.  Here  examine  thyself,  whether 
thou  hast  the  light  and  life  of  the  Word  in  thee  ; 
so  shalt  thou  be  able  to  see  and  understand  all 


things  :  for  thy  life  was  in  the  word,  and  was 
made  manifest  in  the  image  which  God  created  ; 
it  was  breathed  into  it  from  the  Spirit  of  the 
Word.  Now  lift  up  thy  understanding  in  the 
light  of  thy  life;  and  behold  the  formed  Word! 
Consider  its  generation,  for  all  is  manifest  in  the 
light  of  life. 

Although  here  the  tongue  of  man  cannot  utter, 
declare,  express  nor  fathom  this  great  depth, 
where  there  is  neither  number  nor  end  ;  yet  we 
have  power  to  speak  thereof,  as  children  talk 
of  their  father. 

Now  being  to  speak  of  the  holy  Trinity,  we 
must,  first,  say  that  there  is  one  God,  and  he  is 
called  God  the  Father  and  Creator  of  al!  things, 
who  is  almighty,  and  all  in  all;  whose  are  all 
things,  and  in  whom  and  from  whom  all  tilings 
proceed,  and  in  whom  they  remain  eternally. 
And  then  we  say,  that  he  is  three  in  persons, 
and  has,  from  eternity,  generated  his  Son  out 
of  himself,  who  is  his  heart,  light  and  love  :  and 
yet  they  are  not  two,  but  one  eternal  essence. 
And  further  we  say,  the  Scripture  tells  us  that 
there  is  a  Holy  Ghost,  which  proceeds  from  the 
Father  and  the  Son,  and  there  is  but  one  es- 
sence in  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 
******** 

But  the  Holy  Ghost  is  not  known  or  mani- 
fested in  the  original  of  the  Father  before  the 
light,  or  son  [break  forth]  but  when  the  soft 
fountain  springs  up  in  the  light,  then  he  goes 
forth  as  a  strong  almighty  spirit  in  great  joy 
from  the  pleasant  source  of  water  and  of  the 
light;  and  he  makes  the  forming  [shaping, 
figuring]  and  images  [or  species],  and  he  is  the 
centre  in  all  created  essences ;  in  which  centre 
the  light  of  life,  in  the  light  of  the  son  or  heart 
of  the  father,  takes  its  original.  And  the  Holy 
Ghost  is  a  several  person,  because  he  proceeds 
[as  a  living  power  and  virtue]  from  the  Father 
and  the  Son;  and  confirms  the  birth,  generating 
or  working  of  the  holy  Trinity. 
******** 

Thus  God  is  one  only  undivided  essence,  and 
yet  threefold  in  personal  distinction,  one  God, 
one  Will,  one  heart,  one  desire,  one  pleasure, 
one  beauty,  one  almightiness,  one  fulness  of  all 
things,  neither  beginning  nor  ending:  for  if  I 
should  go  about  to  seek  for  the  beginning  or 
ending  of  a  small  dot,  or  punctum,  or  of  a  per- 
fect circle,  I  should  be  confounded. 

And  although  I  have  written  here  of  the 
springing  of  the  second  principle,  and  the  birth 
of  the  divine  essence  in  the  Trinity,  as  if  it  took 
a  beginning,  yet  you  must  not  understand  it  as 
having  any  beginning,  for  the  eternal  manifes- 
tation of  the  pure  Deity  is  thus,  without  begin- 
ning or  end ;  and  that  in  the  originalness  in 
creation :  for  I  am  permitted  to  write  as  far  as 
of  the  originalness.  to  the  end  that  man  might 
learn  to  know  himself,  what  he  is,  and  what 
God  in  the  Triune  One,  heaven,  angels,  devils, 
and  hell  are.  And  also  what  the  wrath  of  God 
and  hell  fire  is,  by  the  extinguishment  of  the 
divine  light. 


JACOB  BOEHME.  41 


Of  the  creation  of  Angels,  and  of  Lucifer; 
describing  how  he  was  in  the  angeli- 
cal form,  and  how  he  is  now  in  his  own 
proper  form,  bt  his  rejecting,  and  there- 
by extinguishing,  the  divine  light  of 
the  second  principle  in  himself. 

Behold,  0  child  of  man,  all  the  angels  were 
created  in  the  first  principle,  and  by  the  flowing 
forth  of  the  Holy  Spirit  were  formed,  and  bodied 
in  a  true  angelical  and  spiritual  manner,  and 
enlightened  from  the  light  of  God,  that  they 
might  increase  the  paradisical  joy,  and  abide 
therein  eternally;  'but  being  they  were  to  abide 
eternally,  they  must  be  formed  out  of  the  first 
principle  which  is  an  indissoluble  band;'  and 
they  were  to  look  upon  the  heart  or  Son  of  God, 
to  receive  his  light,  and  to  feed  upon  the  word, 
which  food  was  to  be  their  holy  preservation, 
and  to  keep  their  image  clear  and  light;  even 
as  the  heart  or  Son  of  God  in  the  second  prin- 
ciple, manifests  and  enlightens  the  Father, 
namely,  the  first  principle ;  and  in  those  two 
principles  the  divine  power,  the  pure  elements, 
paradise,  and  kingdom  of  heaven  spring  up. 

Thus  it  is  with  those  angels  that  continued 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  in  the  first  paradise ; 
they  stand  in  the  first  principle  in  the  indisso- 
luble band,  enlightened  by  the  Son  in  the  second 
principle;  their  food  is  the  divine  word;  and 
their  thoughts  and  mind  is  in  the  will  of  the 
Trinity  in  the  Deity.  The  confirming  and  es- 
tablishing of  their  life,  will,  and  doings,  is  the 
power  of  the  Holy  Ghost :  whatever  the  Holy 
Spirit  does  in  the  regenerating  of  paradise,  and 
the  holy  wonders,  the  angels  rejoice  at,  and  sing 
the  joyful  Hallelujahs  of  Paradise  concerning 
the  pleasant  saving  and  eternal  birth.  All  they 
do  is  an  increase  of  their  heavenly  joy,  delight, 
and  pleasure  in  the  heart  or  Son  of  God;  and 
they  sport  in  holy  obedience  in  the  will  of  the 
eternal  Father;  and  to  this  end  their  God  cre- 
ated them :  that  he  might  be  manifested,  and 
rejoice  in  his  creatures,  and  his  creatures  in  him ; 
so  that  there  might  be  an  eternal  sport  of  love, 
in  the  centre  of  the  multiplying  of  the  pure 
eternal  nature  in  the  indissoluble  eternal  band. 

But  this  sport  of  love  was  spoiled  by  Lucifer 
himself,  who  is  so  called,  because  of  the  extin- 
guishment of  the  light  of  the  Son  of  God  in  him, 
and  his  being  cast  out  of  his  throne. 

DESCRIBING    WHAT    HE    THEN   WAS,   AND  ALSO 
WHAT  HE  NOW  IS. 

He  was  the  most  glorious  prince  in  heaven, 
and  king  over  many  legions  of  angels,  and  had 
he  introduced  his  will  into  the  divine  meekness, 
and  the  light  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  continued 
in  the  harmony  wherein  God  had  created  him, 
then  he  would  have  stood,  and  nothing  could 
have  cast  him  out  of  the  light.  For  he,  as  well 
as  the  other  angels,  was  created  of  the  pure 
eternal  nature,  out  of  the  indissoluble  band,  and 
stood  in  the  first  Paradise.  He  felt  and  saw 
the  generation  of  the  holy  Deity  in  the  birth  of 
F 


the  second  principle,  namely,  of  the  heart  or  Son 
of  God,  and  the  outflowing  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 
his  food  was  of  the  word  of  the  Lord,  and  therein 
he  should  have  continued  an  angel  of  light. 

But  he  saw  his  own  great  beauty  and  glory, 
and  that  he  was  a  prince  standing  in  the  first 
principle,  and  in  his  own  desire  went  into  the 
centre,  and  would  himself  be  God.  He  despised 
the  birth  of  the  Son  and  heart  of  God,  and  the 
soft  and  very  lovely  influence,  working,  and 
qualification  thereof.  He  entered  with  his  will 
into  SELF,  and  meant  to  be  a  very  potent  and 
terrible  Lord  in  the  first  principle,  and  would 
work  in  the  strength  of  the  fire,  in  the  centre  of 
nature  ;  he  therefore  could  no  longer  be  fed  from 
the  word  of  the  Lord,  and  so  his  light  went  out 
by  the  heart  or  Son  of  God  departing  from  him  ; 
for  thereby  the  second  principle  was  shut  up  to 
him;  and  presently  he  became  loathsome  in 
Paradise,  and  was  cast  out  with  all  his  legions 
that  stuck  to  and  depended  upon  him. 

And  so  he  lost  God,  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
and  all  paradisical  knowledge,  pleasure  and 
joy;  he  also  presently  lost  the  image  of  God, 
and  the  confirmation  of  the  Holy  Ghost ;  for  be- 
cause he  despised  the  second  principle,  wherein 
he  was  an  angel  and  image  of  God,  all  heavenly 
things  departed  from  him,  and  he  fell  into  the 
dark  vale,  or  valley  of  darkness,  and  could  no 
more  raise  his  imagination  up  into  God,  but  re- 
mained in  the  anguishes  of  the  first  four  forms 
of  the  original  of  nature. 

For  he  is  always  shut  up  in  the  first  principle, 
(as  in  the  eternal  death,)  and  yet  he  raises  him- 
self up  continually,  thinking  to  reach  the  heart 
of  God,  and  to  domineer  over  it;  for  his  bitter 
sting  climbs  up  eternally  in  the  source  or  root 
of  the  fire,  and  affords  him  a  proud  will  to  have 
all  at  his  pleasure,  but  he  attains  nothing.  His 
food  is  the  source  or  fountain  of  poison,  namely, 
the  brimstone  spirit :  his  refreshing  is  the  eternal 
cold  fire  :  he  has  an  eternal  hunger  in  the  bit- 
terness ;  an  eternal  thirst  in  the  source  of  the 
fire.  His  climbing  up  is  his  fall,  and  the  more 
he  climbs  up  in  his  will  the  greater  is  his  fall : 
as  one  standing  upon  a  high  clift  would  cast 
himself  down  into  a  bottomless  pit,  he  looks  still 
further,  and  he  falls  in  further  and  further,  and 
yet  can  find  no  ground. 

Thus  he  is  an  eternal  enemy  to  the  heart  or 
Son  of  God,  and  to  all  the  holy  angels,  and  he 
cannot  now  frame  any  other  will  in  himself. 

His  angels  or  devils  are  of  very  many  several 
sorts;  for,  at  the  time  of  Lucifer's  creation,  he 
stood  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  in  the  point, 
locus,  or  place,  where  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the 
birth  of  the  heart  of  God  in  Paradise,  did  open 
infinite  and  innumerable  centres  in  the  eternal 
birth  of  pure  eternal  nature ;  and  therefore  their 
quality  was  also  manifold,  and  all  should  have 
been  and  continued  angels  of  God,  if  Lucifer 
had  not  corrupted  and  thereby  destroyed  them  : 
and  so  now  every  one  in  his  fall  continues  in 
his  own  essences,  -excluded  from  the  light  of  the 
second  principle,  which  they  extinguished  in 
4* 


42 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


themselves  :  and  so  it  is  with  the  soul  of  man, 
when  it  rejects  the  light  of  God,  and  it  goes  out 
of  that  soul. 

Of  the  third  principle,  oh  creation  of  the 
material  world,  with  the  stars  and  ele- 
ments ;  wherein  the  first  and  second 
principle  is  more  clearly  understood. 

The  eternal  and  indissoluble  band,  which  is 
the  first  principle  wherein  the  essence  of  all 
essences  stands,  is  not  easily  nor  in  haste  to  be 
understood ;  therefore  it  is  necessary  that  the 
desirous  reader  should  the  more  earnestly  con- 
sider himself  what  he  is,  and  whence  his  rea- 
son, his  inward  senses,  and  thoughts  do  pro- 
ceed, for  therein  he  finds  the  similitude  of  God, 
especially  if  he  considers  and  meditates  what 
his  soul  is,  which  is  an  eternal,  incorruptible 
spirit. 

For  if  the  reader  be  born  of  God  in  true  re- 
signation, there  is  no  nearer  way  for  him  to 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  third  principle, 
than  by  considering  the  new  birth,  how  the 
soul  is  new  born  by  the  love  of  God  in  the  light, 
and  how  it  is  translated  out  of  darkness  into  the 
light  by  a  second  birth.  And  now  every  one 
finds  by  experience,  that  falls  into  the  wrath  of 
God,  and  whereof  there  are  terrible  examples, 
that  the  soul  must  endure  uneasiness  and  tor- 
ment in  itself,  in  the  birth  of  its  own  life,  so 
long  as  it  is  in  the  wrath  of  God ;  and  then  if  it 
be  born  again,  there  is  great  exulting  joy  arises 
in  it;  and  thus  there  is  found  very  clearly  and 
plainly  two  principles ;  also  God,  Paradise  and 
the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

For  you  find  in  the  root  of  the  original  of  the 
spirit  of  the  soul,  the  most  inimicitious,  irksome 
source,  torment,  or  working  property,  wherein 
the  soul  without  the  light  of  God  is  like  all  de- 
vils, being  an  enmity  in  itself,  striving  against 
God  and  goodness,  and  climbing  up  with  pride 
in  the  strength  of  the  fire,  in  a  bitter,  fierce,  ma- 
licious wrathfulness  against  God,  against  heaven, 
against  all  creatures  in  the  light  of  the  second 
principle,  and  also  against  all  creatures  in  the 
third  principle  of  this  world,  setting  up  them- 
selves alone. 

Now  the  Scripture  witnesses  throughout,  and 
the  new-born  man  finds  it  so,  that  when  the 
soul  is  new  born  in  the  light  of  God,  then  it  is 
quite  otherwise,  and  contrary  to  what  it  was 
before.  It  finds  itself  very  humble,  meek,  cour- 
teous, and  pleasant;  it  readily  bears  all  manner 
of  crosses  and  persecution;  it  turns  the  outward 
body  from  out  of  the  way  of  the  wicked ;  it  re- 
gards no  reproach,  disgrace  or  scorn,  put  upon 
it  from  the  devil  or  man;  it  places  its  confi- 
dence, refuge  and  love  in  the  heart  or  Son  of 
God ;  it  is  fed  by  the  word  of  God,  and  cannot 
be  hurt,  or  so  much  as  touched  by  the  devil;  for 
although  it  is  in  its  own  substance,  and  stands 
in  the  first  principle  in  the  indissoluble  band, 
it  is  enlightened  with  the  light  of  God  in  the 
Son  or  second  principle,  and  the  Holy  Ghost 
(who  goes  forth  out  of  the  eternal  birth  or  gene- 


ration of  the  Father,  in  the  light  of  the  heart  or 
Son  of  God)  goes  in  it,  and  establishes  it  the 
child  of  God  ;  therefore  all  that  it  does,  living 
in  the  light  of  God,  is  done  in  the  love  of  God  ; 
and  the  devil  cannot  see  that  soul,  for  the  second 
principle,  in  which  it  then  lives,  and  in  which 
God,  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is,  as  also  the 
angels  and  Paradise,  is  shut  up  from  him,  and 
he  cannot  get  to  it.  *  *  *  *  * 
******** 

Therefore,  0  man,  consider  with  thyself, 
where  thou  art ;  namely,  on  one  part,  [that  is, 
thy  body  and  outward  carcass  of  clay,  thou  art 
a  guest  for  awhile  in  this  outward  world,  travel- 
ling in  the  vanity  of  time]  under  the  influence 
of  the  stars,  and  four  elements ;  one  other  part, 
[namely,  thy  soul  in  its  own  self  and  creaturely 
being,  that  is,  in  its  fallen  state,  without  the 
divine  light  or  regeneration]  in  the  dark  world 
among  the  devils ;  and  as  to  the  third  part, 
[namely,  thy  divine  image  and  spirit  of  love,  in 
the  eternal  light]  in  the  divine  power  in  heaven : 
that  property  which  is  master  in  thee,  its  servant 
thou  art ;  prank  and  vapour  as  stately  and  glo- 
riously as  thou  wilt  in  the  sun's  light,  yet  thy 
fountain  shall  be  made  manifest  to  thee. 

Of  Paradise. 

Moses  says,  that,  when  God  had  made  man, 
he  planted  a  garden  in  Eden,  and  there  he 
put  man,  to  till  and  keep  the  same ;  and  caused 
all  manner  of  fruits  to  grow,  pleasant  for  the 
sight  and  good  for  food ;  and  planted  the  tree 
of  life  also,  and  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  midst. 

Here  lies  the  veil  before  the  face  of  Moses, 
in  that  he  had  a  bright  shining  countenance, 
that  sinful  Israel  cannot  look  him  in  the  face  ; 
for  the  man  of  vanity  is  not  worthy  to  know 
what  Paradise  is;  and  albeit  it  be  given  us  to 
know  it  according  to  the  inward,  hidden  man, 
yet  by  this  description  we  shall  remain  as  dumb 
to  the  beast,  but  yet  be  sufficiently  understood 
by  our  fellow  scholars  in  the  school  of  the  great 
master. 

Poor  reason,  which  is  gone  forth  with  Adam 
out  of  Paradise,  asks  where  is  Paradise  to  be 
had  or  found  ?  Is  it  far  off  or  near?  Or,  when 
the  souls  go  into  Paradise,  whither  do  they  go  ? 
Is  it  in  the  place  of  this  world,  or  without  the 
.place  of  this  world  above  the  stars  ?  where  is 
it  that  God  dwells  with  the  angels  ?  and  where 
is  that  desirable  native  country  where  there  is 
no  death  1  Being  there  is  no  sun  nor  stars  in 
it,  therefore  it  cannot  be  in  this  world,  or  else 
it  would  have  been  found  long  ago. 

Beloved  reason;  one  cannot  lend  a  key  to 
another  to  unlock  this  withal ;  and  if  any  have 
a  key,  he  cannot  open  it  to  another,  as  antichrist 
boasts  that  he  has  the  keys  of  heaven  and  hell  ; 
it  is  true,  a  man  may  have  the  keys  of  both  in 
this  life  time,  but  he  cannot  open  with  them  for 
any  body  else ;  every  one  must  unlock  it  with 
his  own  key,  or  else  he  cannot  enter  therein  ; 
for  the  Holy  Ghost  is  the  key,  and  when  any 


JACOB  BOEHME.  43 


one  has  that  key,  then  he  may  go  both  in  and 
out. 

Paradise  was  the  heavenly  essentiality  of  the 
second  principle.  It  budded  in  the  beginning 
of  the  world  through  the  earthly  essentiality,  as 
the  eternity  is  in  the  time,  and  the  divine  power 
is  through  all  things ;  and  yet  is  neither  com- 
prehended or  understood  of  any  earthly  thing 
in  self-hood. 

In  Paradise  the  essence  of  the  divine  world 
penetrated  the  essence  of  time,  as  the  sun  pene- 
trates the  fruit  upon  a  tree,  and  effectually  works 
in  it  into  a  pleasantness,  that  it  is  lovely  to  look 
upon  and  good  to  eat;  the  like  we  are  to  un- 
derstand of  the  garden  of  Eden. 

The  garden  Eden  was  a  place  upon  the  earth 
where  man  was  tempted ;  and  the  Paradise 
was  in  heaven,  and  yet  was  in  the  garden  Eden  ; 
for  as  Adam  before  his  sleep,  and  before  his 
Eve  was  made  out  of  him,  was,  as  to  his  inward 
man,  in  heaven,  and,  as  to  the  outward,  upon 
the  earth ;  and  as  the  inward,  holy  man  pene- 
trated the  outward,  as  a  fire  through  heats  an 
iron,  so  also  the  heavenly  power  out  of  the  pure, 
eternal  element  penetrated  the  four  elements, 
and  sprang  through  the  earth,  and  bare  fruits, 
which  were  heavenly  and  earthly,  and  were 
qualified,  sweetly  tempered  of  the  divine  power, 
and  the  vanity  in  the  fruit  was  held  as  it  were 
swallowed  up,  as  the  day  hides  the  night,  and 
holds  it  captive  in  itself,  that  it  is  not  known 
and  manifest. 

The  whole  world  would  have  been  a  mere 
Paradise  if  Lucifer  had  not  corrupted  it,  who 
was  in  the  beginning  of  his  creation  an  hierarch 
in  the  place  of  this  world  ;  but  seeing  God  knew 
that  Adam  would  fall,  therefore  Paradise  sprang 
forth  and  budded  only  in  one  certain  place,  to 
introduce  and  confirm  man  in  his  obedience 
therein.  God  nevertheless  saw  he  would  de- 
part thence,  whom  he  would  again  introduce 
thereinto  by  Christ,  and  establish  him  anew  in 
Christ  to  eternity  in  Paradise,  therefore  God 
promised  to  regenerate  it  anew  in  Christ,  in  the 
Spirit  of  Christ  in  the  human  property. 

There  is  nothing  that  is  nearer  you,  than  hea- 
ven, Paradise,  and  hell ;  unto  which  of  them  you 
are  inclined,  and  to  which  of  them  you  tend  or 
walk,  to  that  in  this  life-time  you  are  most  near. 
You  are  between  both ;  and  there  is  a  birth  between 
each  of  them.  You  stand  in  this  world  between 
both  the  gates,  and  you  have  both  the  births  in 
you.  God  beckons  to  you  in  one  gate,  and  calls 
you ;  the  devil  beckons  you  in  the  other  gate  and 
calls  you ;  with  whom  you  go,  with  him  you  enter 
in.  The  devil  has  in  his  hand,  power,  honour, 
pleasure,  and  worldly  joy;  and  the  root  of  these 
is  death  and  hell -fire.  On  the  contrary,  God 
has  in  his  hand,  crosses,  persecution,  misery, 
poverty,  ignominy,  and  sorrow ;  and  the  root  of 
these  is  a  fire  also,  but  in  the  fire  there  is  a  light, 
and  in  the  light  the  virtue,  and  in  the  virtue  the 
Paradise ;  and  in  the  Paradise  are  the  angels, 
and  among  the  angels,  joy.  The  gross  fleshly 
eyes  cannot  behold  it,  because  they  are  from  the 


third  principle,  and  see  only  by  the  splendour 
of  the  sun ;  but  when  the  Holy  Ghost  comes 
into  the  soul,  then  he  regenerates  it  anew  in 
God,  and  then  it  becomes  a  paradisical  child, 
who  gets  the  key  of  Paradise,  and  that  soul 
sees  into  the  midst  thereof. 

But  the  gross  body  cannot  see  into  it,  because 
it  belongs  not  to  Paradise  ;  it  belongs  to  the 
earth,  and  must  putrefy  and  rot,  and  rise  in  a 
new  virtue  and  power  in  Christ,  at  the  end  of 
days;  and  then  it  may  also  be  in  Paradise,  and 
not  before  ;  it  must  lay  off  the  third  principle, 
namely,  this  skin  or  covering  which  father  Adam 
and  mother  Eve  got  into,  and  in  which  they 
supposed  they  should  be  wise  by  wearing  all 
the  three  principles  manifested  on  them.  Oh! 
that  they  had  preferred  the  wearing  two  of  the 
principles  hidden  in  them,  and  had  continued 
in  the  principle  of  light,  it  had  been  good  for  us. 
But  of  this  I  purpose  to  speak  hereafter  when  I 
treat  about  the  fall. 

Thus  now  in  the  essence  of  all  essences,  there 
are  three  several  distinct  properties,  with  one 
source  or  property  far  from  one  another,  yet 
not  parted  asunder,  but  are  in  one  another  as 
one  only  essence;  nevertheless  the  one  does 
not  comprehend  the  other,  as  in  the  three  ele- 
ments, fire,  air,  water;  all  three  are  in  one 
another,  but  neither  of  them  comprehend  the 
other.  And  as  one  element  generates  another 
and  yet  is  not  of  the  essence,  source,  or  property 
thereof;  so  the  three  principles  are  in  one  an- 
other, and  one  generates  the  other;  and  yet 
none  of  them  all  comprehends  the  other,  nor  is 
any  of  them  the  essence  or  substance  of  the 
other. 

The  third  principle,  namely,  this  material 
world,  shall  pass  away  and  go  into  its  ether,  and 
then  the  shadow  of  all  creatures  remain,  also 
of  all  growing  things  [vegetables  and  fruits] 
and  of  all  that  ever  came  to  light;  as  also  the 
shadow  and  figure  of  all  words  and  works  ;  and 
that  incomprehensibly,  like  a  nothing  or  shadow 
in  respect  of  the  light,  and  after  the  end  of  time 
there  will  be  nothing  but  light  and  darkness; 
where  the  source  or  property  remain  in  each 
of  them  as  it  has  been  from  eternity,  and  the 
one  shall  not  comprehend  the  other. 

Yet  whether  God  will  create  more  after  this 
world's  time,  that  my  spirit  doth  not  know  ;  for 
it  apprehends  no  farther  than  what  is  in  its 
centre  wherein  it  lives,  and  in  which  the  Para- 
dise and  the  kingdom  of  heaven  stands. 


CONCERNING  THE  SUPERSENSUAL 
LIFE.* 

A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  MASTER  AND  DISCIPLE.    FROM  THE  SIXTH 
BOOK  OF  THE  WORK  ENTITLED  "  THE  WAY  TO  CHRIST." 

1.  The  Disciple  said  to  the  Master :  How 


*  Translated  from  the  Extract  in  Kunzel's  "  Drei  Bii* 
cher  Deutscher  Prosa." 


44 


JACOB  BOEHME. 


may  I  attain  to  the  supersensual  life,  that  I  may 
see  God  and  hear  him  speak  ? 

The  Master  said  :  If  thou  canst  raise  thyself 
for  a  moment  thither,  where  no  creature  dwell- 
eth,  thou  shalt  hear  what  God  saith. 

2.  The  Disciple  said  :  Is  that  near  or  far? 
The  Master  said  :  It  is  in  thee,  and  if  thou 

canst  be  silent  and  cease,  for  an  hour,  from  all 
thy  willing  and  brooding,  thou  shalt  hear  un- 
speakable words  of  God. 

3.  The  Disciple  said  :  How  may  I  hear,  if  I 
cease  from  all  willing  and  brooding  ? 

The  Master  said  :  If  thou  wilt  cease  from  all 
brooding  and  willing  of  thine  own,  then  the 
eternal  Hearing  and  Seeing  and  Speaking  shall 
be  revealed  in  thee,  and  shall  discern  God 
through  thee.  Thine  own  hearing  and  willing 
and  seeing  hinders  thee,  that  thou  canst  not  see 
nor  hear  God. 

4.  The  Disciple  said  :  Wherewith  shall  I  hear 
and  see  God,  seeing  he  is  above  nature  and 
creature? 

The  Master  said  :  If  thou  keepest  silence,  thou 
art  what  God  was  before  nature  and  the  creature, 
and  out  of  which  he  made  thy  nature  and 
creature.  Then  shalt  thou  hear  and  see  with 
that  wherewith  God,  in  thee,  saw  and  heard, 
before  thine  own  willing  and  seeing  and  hearing 
did  begin. 

5.  The  Disciple  said  :  What  doth  hinder  me 
that  I  cannot  attain  thereunto  ? 

The  Master  said :  Thine  own  willing  and 
hearing  and  seeing,  and  because  thou  dost  strive 
against  that  whence  thou  hast  proceeded.  With 
thine  own  will  thou  separatest  thyself  from 
God's  willing,  and  with  thine  own  seeing  thou 
seest  only  in  thy  willing.  And  thy  willing 
stoppeth  thine  hearing  with  the  obstinate  con- 
cupiscence of  earthly,  natural  things,  and  leadeth 
thee  into  a  pit,  and  overshadoweth  thee  with 
that  which  thou  desirest,  so  that  thou  canst  not 
attain  to  the  supernatural,  supersensual. 

G.  The  Disciple  said:  Seeing  I  am  in  nature, 
how  can  I  pass  through  nature  into  the  super- 
sensual deep,  without  destroying  nature? 

The  Master  said:  To  that  end  three  things 
are  requisite.  The  first  is,  that  thou  shouldst 
surrender  thy  will  unto  God  and  let  thyself 
down  into  the  deeps  of  his  mercy.  The  second 
is,  that  thou  shouldst  hate  thine  own  will,  and 
not  do  that  whereunto  thy  will  impelleth  thee. 
The  third  is,  that  thou  shouldst  bring  thyself 
into  subjection  to  the  Cross,  that  thou  mayest  be 
able  to  bear  the  assaults  of  nature  and  creature. 
If  thou  doest  this,  God  will  in-speak  into  thee, 
and  will  lead  thy  passive  will  into  himself, — 
into  the  supernatural  deep,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
what  the  Lord  speaketh  in  thee. 

7.  The  Disciple  said  :  It  were  necessary  that 
I  should  quit  the  world  and  my  life,  in  order  to 
do  this. 

The  Master  said :  If  thou  leave  the  world, 
thou  wilt  come  into  that  whereof  the  world  is 
made.  And  if  thou  losest  thy  life,  and  comest 
into  impotence  of  thine  own  faculty,  then  shall 


thy  life  be  in  that,  for  the  sake  of  which  thou 
didst  leave  thy  life, — that  is  in  God,  whence  it 
came  into  the  body. 

8.  The  Disciple  said :  God  has  created  man 
in  the  life  of  nature,  that  he  may  have  dominion 
over  all  creatures  upon  the  earth,  and  be  lord 
of  everything  in  this  world.  Therefore,  surely, 
he  ought  to  possess  it  for  his  own. 

The  Master  said  :  If,  in  the  outward  alone, 
thou  governest  all  animals,  then  thou  art  with 
thy  will  and  thy  government  according  to  the 
manner  of  beasts,  and  exercisest  only  a  symbo- 
lical and  perishable  dominion,  and  bringest  thy 
desire  into  the  beastly  Essence  wherewith  thou 
wilt  become  infected  and  entangled,  and  acquire 
the  nature  of  a  beast.  But  if  thou  hast  left  the 
symbolical  way,  thou  shalt  stand  in  the  super- 
symbolical  and  shalt  reign  over  all  creatures,  in 
the  ground  out  of  which  they  were  created. 
And  then  nothing  upon  earth  shall  harm  thee, 
for  thou  wilt  have  relations  with  all  things,  and 
nothing  will  be  foreign  from  thee. 


CONCERNING  THE  BLESSING  OF  GOD 
IN  THE  GOODS  OF  THIS  WORLD* 

FROM  THE  WORK  ENTITLED  "  THE  THREEFOLD  LIFE  OF  MAN." 

Matt  has  free  permission  to  disport  himself, 
on  the  earth,  in  whatsoever  employment  he  will. 
Do  what  he  will,  everything  stands  in  the  mira- 
culous power  of  God.  A  swineherd  is  as  dear 
to  him  as  a  Doctor,  so  he  be  pious  and  confide 
purely  in  God's  will.  The  simple  is  as  useful 
to  him  as  the  wise.  For  with  the  wise  man 
he  rules,  and  with  the  simple  he  builds.  Both 
are  equally  instruments  of  his  wondrous  deeds. 
Each  has  his  calling  wherein  he  passeth  his 
time  ;  and  all  are  equal  before  him.    *     *  * 

*  *  *  As  the  flowers  of  the  earth  do  not 
envy  one  another,  although  one  is  more  beauti- 
ful and  more  powerful  than  another,  but  all,  in 
a  friendly  manner,  stand  side  by  side,  and  each 
rejoices  in  the  other's  virtue; — and,  as  a  physi- 
cian mingles  together  various  kinds  of  herbs  of 
which  each  gives  forth  its  power  and  its  virtue 
and  all  minister  unto  the  sick;  —  so,  likewise, 
do  we  all  please  God,  as  many  of  us  as  enter 
into  his  will.  We  all  stand  together  in  his  field. 
And  as  thorns  and  thistles  spring  forth  from  the 
ground  and  choke  and  devour  many  a  good  herb 
and  flower ;  so,  likewise,  is  the  godless  who 
trusteth  not  in  God,  but  buildeth  upon  himself, 
and  thinketh  :  "  I  have  my  God  in  my  box,  I 
will  hoard  and  leave  great  treasures  to  my  chil- 
dren, that  they  also  may  sit  in  the  place  of  mine 
honour  ;  that  is  the  true  way  ;" — and  therewith 
rendeth  many  a  heart  that  it  also  waxeth  care- 
less and  thinketh  that  is  the  right  way  to  hap- 
piness ;  that  a  man  possess  riches,  and  power 
and  honour,  he  hath  happiness.     Yet,  if  we 


*  From  the  above-mentioned  work  of  Kiinzel. 


JACOB  B 


consider  it,  it  happeneth  to  one  as  to  another; 
and  the  poor  soul  is  none  the  less  lost.  For  the 
rich  man's  dainties  taste  no  hetter  to  him  than 
the  hungry  man's  morsel  of  bread.  Everywhere 
there  is  care,  grief,  fear,  sickness,  and,  at  last, 
death.  It  is  all  a  fighting  with  shadows,  in  this 
world.  The  mighty  sitteth  in  the  dominion  of 
the  spirit  of  this  world,  and  he  that  feareth  God 
sitteth  in  the  dominion  of  divine  power  and 
wisdom.  The  dominion  of  this  world  endeth 
with  the  body,  but  the  dominion  in  the  Spirit 
of  God  endureth  forever. 


OF  TRUE  RESIGNATION* 

If  we  would  inherit  the  filiation,  we  must 
also  put  on  the  new  man,  which  can  inherit 
the  filiation,  which  is  like  the  Deity.  God  will 
have  no  sinner  in  heaven,  but  such  as  are  born 
anew,  and  become  children,  who  have  put  on 
heaven. 

A  man  must  wrestle  so  long,  until  the  dark 
centre  that  is  shut  up  so  close,  break  open,  and 
the  spark  in  the  eentre  kindle,  and  from  thence 
immediately  the  noble  lily,  twig  and  branch, 
sprouts,  as  from  the  divine  grain  of  mustard- 
seed,  as  Christ  says.  A  man  must  pray  ear- 
nestly, with  great  humility,  and  for  a  while 
become  a  fool  in  his  own  reason,  and  see  him- 
self as  void  of  understanding  thereon,  until 
Christ  be  formed  in  this  new  incarnation. 

And  then  when  Christ  is  born,  Herod  is  ready 
to  kill  the  child ;  which  he  seeks  to  do  out- 
wardly by  persecutions,  and  inwardly  by  tempt- 
ations, to  try  whether  this  lily  branch  will  be 
strong  enough  to  destroy  the  kingdom  of  the 
Devil,  which  is  made  manifest  in  the  flesh. 

Then  the  destroyer  of  the  serpent  is  brought 
into  the  wilderness,  after  he  is  baptized  with 
the  Holy  Spirit,  and  tempted  and  tried  whether 
he  will  continue  in  resignation  in  the  will  of 
God  :  he  must  stand  so  fast,  that  if  need  re- 
quire, he  would  leave  all  earthly  things,  and 
even  the  outward  life,  to  be  a  child  of  God. 

No  temporal  honor  must  be  preferred  before 
the  filiation,  but  he  must  with  his  will  leave 
and  forsake  it  all,  and  not  account  it  his  own, 
but  esteem  himself  as  a  servant  in  it  only,  in 
obedience  to  his  master  ;  he  must  leave  all 
worldly  property.  We  do  not  mean  that  he 
may  not  have,  or  possess  anything ;  but  his 
heart  must  forsake  it,  and  not  bring  his  will 
into  it,  nor  count  it  his  own  ;  if  he  sets  his  heart 
upon  it,  he  has  no  power  to  serve  them  that 
stand  in  need,  with  it. 

Self  serves  only  that  which  is  temporary ; 
but  resignation  has  rule  over  all  that  is  under 


*  From  "  the  Way  to  Christ.' 


OEHME.  45 


it.  Self  must  do  what  the  Devil  will  have  it 
to  do  in  fleshly  voluptuousness  and  pride  of 
life  ;  but  resignation  treads  it  under  the  feet  of 
the  mind.  Self  despises  that  which  is  lowly 
and  simple  ;  but  resignation  sits  down  with  the 
lowly  in  the  dust:  it  says,  I  will  be  simple  in 
myself,  and  understand  nothing,  lest  my  under- 
standing should  exalt  itself,  and  sin.  I  will  lie 
down  in  the  courts  of  my  God,  at  his  feet,  that  I 
may  serve  the  Lord  in  that  which  he  commands 
me.  I  will  know  nothing  of  myself  that  the 
commandment  of  the  Lord  may  lead  and  guide 
me,  and  that  I  may  only  do  what  God  doth 
through  me,  and  will  have  done  by  me:  I  will 
sleep  until  the  Lord  awaken  me  with  his  spi- 
rit;  and  if  he  will  not,  then  will  I  cry  out  eter- 
nally in  him  in  silence,  and  wait  his  commands. 

Beloved  Brethren,  men  boast  much  now-a- 
days  of  Faith,  but  where  is  that  faith  ?  The 
modern  faith  is  but  the  history.  Where  is  that 
child  that  believes  that  Jesus  is  born  ?  If  that 
child  were  in  being,  and  did  believe  that  Jesus 
is  born,  it  would  also  draw  near  to  the  sweet 
child  Jesus,  and  receive  him,  and  nurse  him. 

Alas !  the  faith  now-a-days  is  but  historical, 
and  a  mere  knowledge  of  the  story  that  the 
Jews  killed  him,  that  he  left  this  world,  that 
he  is  not  king  on  earth  in  the  animal  man,  but 
that  men  may  do  as  they  list,  and  need  not  die 
from  sin,  and  their  evil  lusts  ;  all  this  the  wicked 
child  self-rejoices  in,  that  it  may  fatten  the  Devil 
by  living  deliciously. 

This  shows  that  true  faith  was  never  weaker 
since  Christ's  time  than  it  now  is  ;  when,  never- 
theless, the  world  cries  aloud,  and  says,  we 
have  found  the  true  faith,  and  contend  about  a 
child,  so  that  there  was  never  worse  contention 
since  men  were  on  earth. 

If  thou  have  that  new-born  child  which  was 
lost  and  is  found  again,  then  let  it  be  seen  in 
power  and  virtue,  and  let  us  openly  see  the 
sweet  child  Jesus  brought  forth  by  thee,  and 
that  thou  art  his  nurse  ;  if  not,  then  the  children 
in  Christ  will  say,  thou  hast  found  nothing  but 
the  history,  namely,  the  cradle  of  the  child. 

Beloved  Brethren,  this  is  a  time  of  seeking 
and  of  finding  :  it  is  a  time  of  earnestness ; 
whom  it  touches,  it  touches  home:  he  that 
watches  shall  hear  and  see  it;  but  he  that 
sleeps  in  sin,  and  says  in  the  fat  days  of  his 
voluptuousness,  all  is  peace  and  quiet,  we  hear 
no  sound  from  the  Lord  ;  he  shall  be  blind. 
But  the  voice  of  the  Lord  has  sounded  in  all 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  in  the  trouble  that 
is  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  a  smoke  arises, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  smoke  there  is  a  great 
brightness  in  the  divine  light  that  is  in  the 
children  of  God.  Hallelujah.  Amen.  Shout 
unto  the  Lord  in  Sion,  for  all  mountains  and 
hills  are  full  of  his  glory:  he  flourishes  like  a 
green  branch,  and  who  shall  hinder  it? 


ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA. 


Born  1642.   Died  1709. 


This  celebrated  ecclesiastic — the  most  popu- 
lar preacher  of  his  day,  was  descended  from 
noble  ancestors,  and  bore  the  family  name  of 
Ulrich  Megerle.  His  parents,  Jacob  and  Ve- 
rona Megerle,  resided  at  Krahenhennstetten,  a 
village  near  the  city  of  Moskirch,  in  Suabia. 
He  distinguished  himself  in  early  youth  by  his 
industry  and  talents,  and  an  ardent  thirst  for 
knowledge.  He  received  a  classical  education 
at  the  Latin  schools  at  Moskirch,  Ingolstadt 
and  Salzburg.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he  en- 
tered the  order  of  the  barefooted  Augustine 
monks,  at  Mariabrunn,  and  studied  philosophy 
and  theology  in  a  convent  of  that  order  at  Vi- 
enna. Two  years  later,  having  been  conse- 
crated priest  and  made  doctor  of  theology,  he 
went  as  holiday  -  preacher  to  the  convent  of 
Taxa,  near  Dachau,  in  Bavaria.  From  there 
he  returned  to  Vienna,  where  he  soon  acquired 
an  extended  fame  by  his  popular  eloquence. 
In  1669  he  was  made  imperial  court-preacher 
by  Leopold  L,  an  office  which  he  filled  with 
general  acceptance  for  twenty  years.  During 
this  time  he  rose  from  grade  to  grade  in  his 
order,  and  became  successively  provincial  pro- 
curator, lector,  pater  spiritualis,  prior  and  defi- 
nitor  of  his  province.  As  prior,  he  attended 
the  meeting  of  the  general  chapter  of  his  order, 
in  Rome,  1689,  preached  there  several  times 
with  great  applause,  and  was  presented  by 
pope  Innocent  XI.  with  a  consecrated  cross. 


ON  ENVY. 

FROM  A  WORK  ENTITLED  "  JUDAS  THE  ARCH  VILLAIN." 
****** 

I  have  always  heard  indeed  that: 
As  the  bell  is,  so  it  dingeth, 
As  the  singer,  so  he  singeth. 
As  the  spawn  is,  so  the  fish, 
As  the  cook,  so  is  the  dish. 
As  the  cobbler,  the  shoe  will  look. 
As  the  writer,  so  the  book. 
As  the  leech  is,  so  the  salve, 
As  the  cow,  so  is  the  calf. 
As  the  teacher,  so  the  rede, 
As  the  pasture,  so  the  feed. 
(46) 


As  definitor,  he  contributed  greatly  to  the  im- 
provement of  several  of  the  convents  of  his 
order.  He  died  at  Vienna,  December  1st,  1709, 
in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age. 

As  a  pulpit-orator,  Pater  Abraham  a  Sancta 
Clara  was  distinguished  by  a  broad  humor,  in 
which  he  resembles  some  of  his  contemporaries 
in  the  English  and  Scottish  churches.  By 
Protestants  he  was,  for  a  long  time,  considered 
as  a  mere  clerical  zany,  or  spiritual  buffoon. 
But  he  glowed  with  a  genuine  enthusiasm  for 
virtue  and  religion,  was  deeply  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  what  he  taught,  and  possessed  a 
profound  knowledge  of  man  and  the  world, 
sound  practical  morality,  a  complete  mastery 
of  his  native  language,  great  affluence  of  ima- 
gination, a  brilliant  wit,  an  animated  delivery, 
and  an  excoriating  satire.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  characteristic  faults  were  utter  want  of 
taste,  a  perpetual  striving  after  effect,  delight 
in  puns  and  antitheses,  a  fondness  for  the  bi- 
zarre, and  a  style  which,  though  suited  to  his 
peculiar  manner,  is  altogether  beneath  the  dig- 
nity of  his  subject.  He  was  an  orator  for  the 
people  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word,  and  al- 
though beyond  his  age  in  many  respects,  con- 
formed himself  to  the  tastes  and  habits  of  the 
times.  He  was  devoted  to  his  order,  which  he 
served  with  great  fidelity  and  beneficent  effect 
during  the  whole  of  his  active  life. 


As  the  soil  is,  so  the  crop, 

As  the  dancer,  so  the  hop. 

As  the  tree  is,  so  the  pear, 

As  the  ma'am,  the  maidens  are. 

As  the  soldier,  so  the  battle, 

As  the  herdsman,  so  the  cattle. 

As  the  lord,  the  servants  be, 

As  the  parent,  the  progeny. 
I  have  always  heard,  have  always  read,  have 
always  written,  have  always  said  that  these 
things  are  so ;  but  now  I  perceive  that  not  al- 
ways as  the  parents  are,  so  is  the  progeny. 
Adam  a  good  father  ;  Cain,  his  son,  an  arch 
villain;  Noah,  the  father,  a  saint;  Ham,  the 
son,  a  scamp  ;  Abraham,  the  father,  God-blessed ; 


ABRAHAM  A  S 


Ishmael,  the  son,  God-cursed ;  Isaac,  the  father, 
an  angel ;  Esau,  his  son,  a  devil  ;  Jacob,  the 
father,  a  lamb ;  Reuben,  the  son,  a  ram ;  David, 
the  father,  a  friend  of  God ;  Absalom,  the  son, 
a  foe  of  God,  &c.  Yea,  I  know  and  I  can  show 
a  lady  before  whose  beauty  Helena  of  Greece 
must  hide  herself,  a  lady  before  whose  white 
face  lilies  must  blush  with  shame,  a  lady  be- 
fore whose  grace  of  form  Spring  comes  too  late 
with  its  decorations,  a  lady  whose  countenance 
is  more  sun-bright  than  the  sun,  before  whose 
loveliness  the  morning-red  pales  with  wonder; 
and  yet  this  beautiful  and  elect  lady  has  a  daugh- 
ter who  is  to  view,  like  a  heap  of  impurity ;  for 
she  is  savage  as  a  dung-heap,  black  as  a  coal- 
heap,  inopportune  as  a  funeral-heap,  stiff-necked 
as  a  stone-heap,  unclean  as  an  ant-heap,  ugly 
as  a  dirt-heap,  yea  as  the  Devil  himself.  This 
most  beautiful  lady  is  Virtue,  Honour,  Science — 
everything  good ;  but  the  daughter  which  she 
produces  is  cursed  Envy.  In  the  island  of 
Malta  there  are  no  serpents,  in  Sardinia  there 
are  no  wolves,  in  Germany  there  are  no  croco- 
diles, in  Tuscany  there  are  no  ravens,  in  Hel- 
lespontus  there  are  no  dogs,  in  Iceland  there  is 
nothing  poisonous,  but  in  the  whole  world  there 
is  not  a  place  where  there  is  no  envy. 

Daniel  lived  at  court,  and  was  quite  a  distin- 
guished lord  at  court ;  nay  he  rose  so  high  that 
he  was  all-potent  with  King  Darius,  and  that 
prince  never  saw  better  than  when  Daniel  was 
the  apple  of  his  eye ;  and  well  shall  it  be  with 
every  monarch  who  has  such  a  right  hand  as 
was  the  faithful  Daniel.  Nevertheless,  this 
pious  minister  experienced,  at  last,  a  change  in 
his  king,  from  the  best  wine  into  the  sharpest 
vinegar.  For  he  commanded  by  an  inhuman 
decree  that  Daniel  should  be  cast  into  the  den 
of  lions,  that  those  voracious  animals  might  be 
gorged  with  so  stately  a  crumb.  But  the  meat 
was  too  good  for  such  guests.  Now  I  read  it  in 
thy  forehead,  how  thou  art  tickled  with  curiosity 
to  know  the  crime  and  misdeed  of  Daniel,  Per- 
haps he  was  untrue  to  his  king  ?  though  truth, 
at  court,  is  generally  quite  genuine  and  almost 
brand-new,  because  it  is  so  seldom  used.  Per- 
haps he  suffered  himself  to  be  bribed  with  <k- 
narii,  and  afterwards  used  spadilles  against  his 
own  king*  whereby  he  lost  his  game  ?  Perhaps 
he  betrayed  the  designs  and  ripe  resolves  of  the 
king  to  the  opposite  party,  and  so  blabbed 
blameably  out  of  school  ?  Perhaps  he  divided 
the  king's  rents  and  moneys,  as  the  wolf  divided 
the  sheep  ?  The  wolf,  namely,  divided  six 
sheep  with  the  shepherd,  in  this  way  :  The  first 
is  mine,  the  second  ought  to  be  yours ;  but  he 
took  it  likewise  to  himself;  the  third  is  mine 
again,  the  fourth,  in  strict  justice,  should  be 
yours;  but  he  took  that  also,  &c;  so  that  at  la3t 
nothing  was  left  to  the  shepherd.  Perhaps 
Daniel  had  been  sleepy  in  his  service  at  court, 
and  made  his  appearance  only  on  occasions 
when  some  offices  had  become  vacant?  Per- 


*  An  allusion  to  the  game  of  quadrille,  or  ombre.  Tr. 


ANCTA  CLARA.  47 


haps  Daniel  had  shown  a  friendly  rudeness  or 
a  rude  friendliness  to  one  or  the  other  of  the 
court-dames  ?  Nothing  of  the  kind  !  Not  at  all ! 
Daniel  was  a  right,  upright,  well-disposed,  just, 
intelligent,  conscientious  minister  at  court;  not 
a  guilty  but  a  guiltless,  not  a  blameable  but  a 
blameless  servant,  and  a  prophet  besides,  and 
an  interpreter  of  dreams  into  the  bargain,  and 
a  chronicler  on  the  top  of  that.  If  so,  what  was 
it  then  that  plunged  him  into  the  tyrannous 
lions-den?  Ask  not  long!  A  court-dog  bit  him, 
a  court-cat  scratched  him,  a  court-arrow  pierced 
him.  He  burned  his  mouth  with  a  court-soup, 
he  knocked  his  head  against  a  court-door.  Un- 
derstand me  right ;  it  was  envy  among  the  mi- 
nisters and  courtiers  at  court  that  caused  him 
to  fall.  So  it  happened  to  Henry,  Count  of  Hol- 
stein,  at  the  court  of  Edward  III.,  king  of  Eng- 
land. So  it  happened  to  Belisarius,  the  great 
war-chief,  at  the  court  of  the  emperor  Justinian. 
So  it  happened  to  Aristides,  to  Scipio,  to  The- 
mistocles,  to  Tully,  to  Epaminondas,  to  Socrates, 
to  Pompey,  to  Iphicrates,  to  Conon,  to  Chabrias. 
But  those  are  all  foreign  names.  So  it  happened 
to  many  Ferdinands,  Henrys,  Rudolphs,  Casi- 
mirs,  Philips,  Conrads,  Wolfgangs,  &c,  whom 
cursed  envy  plunged  into  misery.  0,  envy  !  0, 
envy!  ******* 
******** 
Goodly  brothers  had  Joseph.  Gen.  37.  If 
these  be  brothers,  then  sloe-bushes  maybe  called 
grape-vines.  If  these  be  brothers,  then  the 
wolf  may  be  called  the  burgomaster  of  the  sheep 
Not  brothers  were  they,  but  brooders  of  all  evil. 
When  the  honest  youth,  Joseph,  out  of  brotherly 
love  and  sincerity,  told  them  his  dream, — of 
which  it  might  be  easily  surmised  that  it  was 
no  empty  vision  but  a  prophecy  of  his  future 
good  fortune, — they  straightway  grew  pale  at 
the  relation.  What !  said  they,  thou  young  pi- 
geon-bill! wilt  thou  be  a  king,  and  shall  thy 
fortune  mount  so  high  that  we  shall  bow  the 
knee  to  thee  and  serve  thee  ?  Nay,  the  Devil 
bend  thy  neck,  arrogant  booby !  &c.  They  were 
so  embittered  against  him  that  they  could  not 
look  upon  him.  Yea  they  were  driven  so  far 
by  damned  envy,  that  they  resolved  to  throttle 
this  their  brother.  But  let  us  reason  together  a 
little,  ye  shepherds !  (although  you  ought  more 
properly  to  have  been  swine-herds.)  Hear  me. 
Either  it  is  true  that  your  brother  is  to  be  king, 
or  it  is  not  true.  If  it  be  not  true,  then  laugh 
at  the  empty  dream,  and  rather  banter  this 
young  A.  B.  C.-smith  with  brotherly  jests.  Put 
a  shepherd's  staff  in  his  hand  instead  of  a  scep- 
tre, and  say  laughingly,  God  save  your  majesty! 
&c.  But  if  it  is  true  that  he  is  to  be  king,  then 
you  ought  not  to  be  angry  with  him  on  that  ac- 
count, but  rather  to  rejoice,  and  to  say :  So  then 
Joseph  is  to  be  a  king !  That  is  the  greatest 
honour  for  us,  and  everlasting  renown  for  our 
whole  family.  Well,  we  shall  no  longer  wear 
our  dirty  shepherds'  knapsacks,  but  every  one 
of  us  will  be  a  gentleman,  and  how  good  it  will 
seem  when  we  are  called,  my  lord !    Then,  of 


•lb 


ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA. 


a  surety,  brother  Reuben  will  be  made  chief 
master  of  ceremonies;  then,  certainly,  brother 
Zebulon  will  have  the  situation  of  president  of 
the  chamber  ;  brother  Issachar  cannot  fail  to 
become  chief  of  the  kitchen  department ;  he 
loves  a  good  bit,  anyhow.  Brother  Simeon, 
without  doubt,  will  be  lord  chamberlain,  for  he 
knows  how  to  sport  the  compliments.  Think 
on  me!  brother  Ashur  will  be  master  of  the 
chase.  How  he  will  hunt !  Then  we  will 
have  a  different  state  of  things.  Now  we  must 
stuff  our  hungry  stomachs  with  sour  turnips; 
then  they  will  serve  up  to  us  other  bits.  0,  God 
grant  that  our  brother  may  be  a  king!  That  is 
the  kind  of  talk  that  Joseph's  brothers  should 
have  held.  But  cursed  envy  perverted  their 
understanding,  disordered  their  reason,  and  they 
would  rather  suffer  evil  days  and  laborious  days 
than  to  see  Joseph  exalted  to  royal  dignity.  O, 
hellish  envy!  The  envious  man  is  contented 
with  his  own  poverty  if  he  only  sees  that  his 
neighbour  is  not  rich.  The  envious  man  finds 
satisfaction  in  his  own  misery  if  he  only  notes 
that  it  is  not  well  with  his  neighbour.  The 
envious  man  complains  not  of  his  want  of  un- 
derstanding and  his  ignorance  if  he  only  per- 
ceives that  his  neighbour  also  hath  not  much 
faculty.  The  envious  man  is  willing  to  remain 
abject  if  he  only  finds  that  his  neighbour  does 
not  rise.  The  envious  man  laments  not  his 
mis-shape  and  his  scarecrow  face  if  he  only 
knows  that  his  neighbour  is  not  fair.  O,  cursed 
envy !  thou  sippest  and  suckest  out  of  gall,  honey, 
and  out  of  honey,  gall;  for  thy  neighbour's  good 
is  to  thee  an  evil,  and  thy  neighbour's  evil  is  to 
thee  a  good.  0!  0!  0!  *^  *  *  * 
*****         *  * 

The  envious  are,  how  are  they  ?  They  are 
like  muck-chafers,  which  from  the  fairest  roses 
suck  only  poison,  not  honey;  so  the  envious 
seek  in  their  object  only  what  is  defective,  the 
good  they  pass  over  in  silence.  The  envious 
are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like  files  or  rasps, 
which  devour,  gnaw,  bite  and  tear  other  things, 
but  destroy  themselves  also  thereby.  So  the 
envious  seek  to  injure  their  neighbour  and  waste 
the  health  of  their  own  body  and  soul.  The 
envious  are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like 
wells,  which  are  generally  cool  when  the  wea- 
ther is  warm,  and  generally  warm  when  the 
weather,  especially  in  winter,  is  cold  ;  so  is  it 
well  with  the  envious  when  it  is  ill  with  others, 
and  ill  with  them  when  it  is  well  with  others. 
The  envious  are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like 
the  thunderbolt  which,  for  the  most  part,  strikes 
only  lofty  edifices,  not  those  which  are  low  ;  so 
the  envious  hate  those  whom  God  has  exalted. 
The  envious  are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like 
the  quails.  Those  evil  birds  sigh  when  the  sun 
rises;  sc  the  envious  sigh  and  are  pained  when 
they  see  their  neighbours  rise,  and  grow  in 
riches  and  honour.  The  envious  are,  how  are 
they?  They  are  like  a  tree  beneath  which 
young  trees  are  growing,  but  the  great  tree  op- 
presses them  with  its  branches,  for  it  cannot 


bear  that  other  trees  shall  grow  to  equal  it.  So 
the  envious  labour  diligently  to  prevent  that  any 
one  should  rise  from  low  to  high  estate.  The 
envious  are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like  men 
sick  of  a  fever,  to  whom  sweet  food  tastes  bitter. 
Even  so  nothing  more  embitters  the  envious 
than  when  they  perceive  that  their  neighbour 
enjoys  good  and  sweet  fortune.  The  envious 
are,  how  are  they?  They  are  like  flies,  which 
usually  plague  men  there  where  they  are  sore 
or  wounded.  So  the  envious  seek  only  that  in 
their  neighbour  which  is  blameworthy;  what 
is  virtuous  and  commendable  they  freely  pass 
over  in  silence.  The  envious  are,  how  are  they  ? 
They  are  like  buckets  in  a  well ;  when  one 
goes  down  the  other  mounts,  when  one  goes  up 
the  other  descends.  So  it  is  well  with  the  en- 
vious, and  he  prospers  greatly  when  he  sees 
his  neighbour  fall,  and  when  his  neighbour 
mounts,  the  envious  is  cast  down  thereby. 

0,  thou  cursed  vice !  Thou  art  a  maggot  of 
the  soul ;  further  yet,  thou  art  an  imposthume 
of  the  heart;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  pest  of  the 
five  senses  ;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  poison  of  the 
limbs;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  dangerous  fever 
of  the  blood  ;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  giddiness 
of  the  brain  ;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  darkness  of 
the  understanding ;  further  yet,  thou  art  a  hang- 
man and  torturer  and  tyrant  of  the  human  body. 
Other  vices  have  a  little  pleasure  and  imaginary 
delight.  The  wooing  of  Bathsheba  sugared  the 
heart  of  David  somewhat.  When  Herod  shared 
the  board  and  bed  of  his  brother's  wife,  he  en- 
joyed a  momentary  satisfaction.  When  Nebu- 
chadnezzar set  up  for  a  god,  and,  in  his  arrogance 
and  pride,  suffered  himself  to  be  worshipped  ; 
the  reputation  of  the  thing  tickled  him  a  little. 
When  the  rich  man  gorged  himself  every  day, 
his  daily  gormandizing,  no  doubt,  gave  him 
pleasure.  When  Achan  made  too  long  fingers 
and  stumbled  over  the  seventh*  commandment, 
he  enjoyed  becoming  rich  without  labour.  *  * 
In  short,  all  other  vices  have  on  them  and  in 
them  and  with  them  a  honey,  although  in  small 
weight,  but  the  envious  finds  nothing  but  sor- 
rows. ****** 

An  envious  man  may  eat  what  he  will  and 
how  he  will  and  when  he  will  and  as  much  as 
he  will  and  where  he  will,  he  will  nevertheless 
remain  dog-meagre,  because  everything,  with 
him,  is  changed  into  poison.  *  *  *  There- 
fore God  the  Lord  himself  asked  Cain,  after  he 
had  washed  his  hands  in  his  brother's  blood  : 
"  Quare  concidit  fades  tua ?"  "Cain,  why  hath 
thy  countenance  fallen?''  The  fellow  was  as 
lean  as  a  ramrod  ;  but  there  was  no  other  cause 
for  it  than  damned  envy,  which  is  a  poison  to 
human  health. 

****** 

Of  what  country  the  prodigal  son  was,  is  not 
precisely  known;  but  I  believe  he  was  an  Irish- 


*The  eighth,  according  to  the  division  of  most  Pro- 
testant sects.  Tr. 


ABRAHAM   A  SANCTA  CLARA, 


40 


man*  What  his  name  was,  is  not  generally 
understood ;  but  I  believe  it  was  Malefacius. 
From  what  place  he  took  his  title  (seeing  he 
was  a  nobleman),  has  not  yet  been  discovered ; 
but  I  believe  it  was  Maidsberg  or  Womenham. 
What  was  the  device  in  his  coat  of  arms,  no 
one  has  described ;  but  I  believe  it  was  a  sow's 
stomach  in  a  field  verd. 

This  chap  travelled  with  well-larded  purse 
through  various  countries  and  provinces,  and 
returned  no  better  but  rather  worse.  So  it  often 
happens  still,  that  many  a  noble  youth  has  his 
travels  changed  to  travails.  Not  seldom  also, 
he  goes  forth  a  good  German  and  returns  a  bad 
Herman.^  What  honour  or  credit  is  it  to  the 
noble  river  Danube  that  it  travels  through  dif- 
ferent lands,  through  Suabia,  Bavaria,  Austria, 
Hungary,  and  at  last  unites  with  a  sow?*  The 
pious  Jacob  saw,  in  his  journey,  a  ladder  to 
heaven;  but  alas!  many  of  our  Quality  find,  in 
their  journeys,  a  ladder  into  hell.  If,  nowadays, 
a  man  travel  not,  he.is  called  a  Jack-in-the-cor- 
ner  and  one  who  has  set  up  his  rest  behind  the 
stove.  But  tell  me,  dear  half-Germans!  (for 
whole  Germans  ye  have  long  ceased  to  be.)  Is 
it  not  true  ?  Ye  send  your  sons  out  that  they 
may  learn  strange  vices  at  great  cost  in  stranger- 
lands,  when,  with  far  less  expense,  they  might 
be  acquiring  virtues  at  home.  They  return  with 
no  more  point  to  them  than  they  went  out,  ex- 
cept that  they  bring  home  some  new  fashion  of 
point-lace.  They  return  no  more  gallant,  unless 
it  be  that  gallant  comes  from  the  French  galant. 
They  return  more  splendidly  clad,  but  good 
habits  were  better  than  to  be  finely  habited. 
New-fashioned  hats,  new-fashioned  periwigs, 
new-fashioned  collars,  new-fashioned  coats, 
new-fashioned  breeches,  new-fashioned  hose, 
new-fashioned  shoes,  new-fashioned  ribbons, 
new-fashioned  buttons,  —  also  new-fashioned 
consciences  creep  into  our  beloved  Germany 
through  your  travels.  Your  fool's-frocks  change 
too  with  every  moon ;  and  soon  the  tailors  will 
have  to  establish  a  university  and  take  Doctors' 
degrees,  and  afterwards  bear  the  title  of  Right- 
reverend  Doctors  of  fashion. 

If  I  had  all  the  new  fashions  of  coats  for  four 
and  twenty  years,  I  would  almost  make  a  cur- 
tain before  the  sun  with  them,  so  that  men 
should  go  about  with  lanterns  in  the  day-time. 
At  least,  I  would  undertake  to  hide  all  Turkey 
with  them,  so  that  the  Constantinopolitans  should 
think  their  Mahomed  was  playing  blind-the-cat 
with  them.  An  old  witch,  at  the  request  of 
king  Saul,  called  the  prophet  Samuel  from  the 
dead,  that  he  might  know  the  result  of  his  arms. 


*An  untranslateable  pun.  Irrliinder,  literally,  err- 
lander,  one  who  wanders  from  country  to  country,  a 
vagabond.  Tr. 

t  The  translator  is  in  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  this 
quip.  Perhaps  Herman  stands  for  the  Spanish  Hermano; 
and  the  meaning  is— a  bad  brother,  a  loose  companion. 

%  The  river  Save,  called  in  Germau  Sau,  which  is  the 
German  for  sow.  This  river  joins  the  Danube  between 
Semlin  and  Belgrade.  Tr. 

a 


It  will  soon  come  to  pass,  that  people  will  want 
to  call  from  the  dead  the  identical  tailor  and 
master  who  made  the  beautiful  Esther's  gar- 
ment, when  she  was  so  well-pleasing  in  the 
eyes  of  Ahasuerus.  ***** 
*  *  *  So  the  prodigal  son  learned  but  little 
good  in  foreign  lands.  His  doing  was  wooing ; 
his  thinking  was  drinking;  his  Latin  was  "Pro- 
ficiat*  his  Italian,  Brindisi*  his  Bohemian, 
Sasdravi*  his  German,  Gesegnefs  Gott*  In  one 
word,  he  was  a  goodly  fellow  always  mellow, 
a  vagrant,  a  bacchant,  an  amant,  a  turbant,  a 
distillant,  &c.  Now  he  had  wasted  his  sub- 
stance in  foreign  provinces  and  torn  his  con- 
science to  tatters  as  well  as  his  clothes.  He 
might,  with  truth,  have  said  to  his  father  what 
the  brothers  of  Joseph  said,  without  truth,  to 
Jacob  when  they  showed  him  the  bloody  coat, 
" fera  pessima"  &c,  "an  evil  beast  hath  devoured 
him."  An  evil  beast  devoured  the  prodigal  son; 
an  evil  beast,  the  golden  eagle,  an  evil  beast, 
the  golden  griffin,  an  evil  beast,  the  golden  buck, 
an  evil  beast,  the  golden  bear.  These  tavern- 
beasts  reduced  the  youngster  to  that  condition 
that  his  breeches  were  as  transparent  as  a 
fisherman's  net,  his  stomach  shrunk  together 
like  an  empty  bladder,  and  the  mirror  of  his 
misery  was  to  be  seen  on  the  sleeve  of  his  dirty 
doublet,  &c.  And  now  when  the  scamp  had 
got  sick  of  the  swine-diet,  more  wholesome 
thoughts  came  into  his  mind  and  he  would  go 
straight  home  to  his  old  father  and  seek  a  favour- 
able hearing  at  his  feet;  in  which  he  succeeded 
according  to  his  wish.  And  his  own  father  fell 
quite  lovingly  on  the  neck  of  the  bad  vocativo, 
for  which  a  rope  would  have  been  fitter.  Yea, 
he  was  introduced  with  special  joy  and  jubilee 
into  the  paternal  dwelling,  sudden  preparations 
were  made  for  a  feast,  kitchen  and  cellar  were 
put  in  requisition,  and  the  best  and  fattest  calf 
must  be  killed  in  a  hurry  and  cooked  and 
roasted.  Away  with  the  rags  and  tatters!  and 
hurrah !  for  the  velvet  coat  and  the  prinked  up 
hat  and  a  gold  ring!  Bring  on  your  fiddlers! 
allegro  ! 

Meanwhile,  the  other  brother  comes  home 
and  hears  from  afar  a  fiddling,  and  a  fifing,  and 
a  scraping,  and  a  dancing,  and  a  hopping,  and  a 
shouting,  &c.  Holloa!  he  says,  what"s  that? 
The  devil  and  his  grand-mother !  What's  to  pay 
now  ?  Surely  my  sister  is  not  having  a  wedding? 
I  heard  nothing  about  any  bride  when  I  went 
out  this  morning.  While  he  hovers  in  these 
thoughts,  some  one  reaches  him  a  glass  of  wine 
out  of  the  window  and  the  house-servant  runs 
toward  him  with  the  tidings  that  his  brother, 
who  fared  so  ill  in  foreign  parts,  was  come 
home,  and  he  must  come  in  immediately  and 
sit  down  to  a  roast  of  veal.  At  this  he  became 
entirely  pale  with  sheer  envy,  and,  while  they 
waited  on  his  brother  in  that  style,  he  sat  down 
before  the  door  of  the  house  and  bit  his  nails, 


*  Proficiat  or  prosit,  a  salutation  at  drinking, equivalent 
to  "  Your  health."  Tr. 

5 


50  ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA. 


and  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  scratched  his  head, 
and  turned  up  his  nose,  and  sighed  from  his 
heart,  and  fasted  and  tormented  himself  so  with 
his  envy,  that  he  had  well  nigh  been  struck 
with  apoplexy.  O  fool !  How  much  better 
would  it  have  been,  had  the  gispus  gone  in  and 
welcomed  his  brother  home !  And  if  he  had 
given  him  an  old  felt,  it  would  have  done  no 
harm,  seeing  he  had  brought  no  hat  with  him. 
And  if  he  had  sat  down  to  table  with  him  and 
helped  to  make  way  with  the  roasted  calf,  and 
pledged  him  heartily  in  a  few  healths,  and 
hopped  about  to  the  voice  of  the  clear-sounding 


horns,  and  worn  through  a  pair  of  shoe-soles 
and  half  another  with  dancing,  it  would  have 
been  much  better  and  God  would  not  have  been 
so  much  offended  thereat.  But  with  his  fasting 
and  his  envy,  which  tormented  him  more  than 
the  fiery  serpents  did  the  people  of  Israel,  he 
deserved  hell.  In  other  cases  affliction  is  a 
road  to  heavenly  courts,  and  suffering  a  way  to 
eternal  joys ;  and  pains  are  the  outriders  of 
eternal  merriment;  but  the  torments  of  the  en- 
vious fool  are  the  earnest-money  of  eternal 
damnation.  ****** 
******         *  * 


JUSTUS 


MOSER. 


Born  J720. 

The  following  account  of  this  genial  writer 
and  true-hearted  man,  as  well  as  the  first  speci- 
men from  his  writings,  is  from  Mrs.  Austin's 
German  Prose  Writers.  The  other  transla- 
tions are  furnished  by  a  friend. 

The  writings  of  Moser  are  little  known  in 
this  country,  yet  they  are  distinguished  by  a 
vigorous,  homely  good  6ense,  a  freedom  from 
all  affectation,  a  knowledge  of  the  condition  of 
the  laboring  classes,  and  a  zeal  for  their  im- 
provement and  happiness,  which  obtained  for 
him,  not  unjustly,  the  name  of  the  Franklin  of 
Germany.  He  was  born  in  1720,  at  Osnabruck, 
where  his  father  filled  high  offices  under  the 
government  He  early  gave  proofs  of  great 
talents,  which  were  judiciously  cultivated  by 
his  mother.  He  studied  law  at  Jena  and  Got- 
tingen;  but  the  open  book  of  human  life  was 
his  favorite  and  most  important  study.  As  a 
man  of  business,  he  was  the  able  and  zealous 
defender  of  oppressed  innocence,  and  resisted 
alone  the  arbitrary  will  of  the  then  ruler  of 
Osnabruck.  The  confidence  of  his  country- 
men raised  him,  in  1747,  to  the  honorable  post 
of  "  Advocatus  Patriae,"  and  the  Landstande 
appointed  him  Secretary  and  Syndic  of  the 
Order  of  Knights.  His  noble  character  was 
put  to  the  test  during  the  troubles  of  the  Seven 
years'  War,  and  secured  him  the  respect  of 
Duke  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick.  He  was  em- 
ployed for  eight  months  in  London  in  trans- 
acting the  affairs  of  the  troops  subsidized  by 
England,  and  his  residence  in  that  country 
added  much  to  his  practical  experience.  He 
was  for  twenty  years  (during  the  minority  of 
the  English  prince,  who,  in  1761,  was  acknow- 
ledged protestant  bishop  and  sovereign  of  Osna- 
briick),  virtually,  though  not  nominally,  chief- 
counsellor  of  the  regent.  Nothing  but  Moser's 
great  talents,  knowledge  of  business,  and  in- 
dustry, united  to  his  unswerving  integrity,  fair- 
ness and  disinterestedness,  would  have  enabled 
him  to  steer  his  course,  free  from  all  suspicion 
or  reproach,  between  the  conflicting  interests 
of  the  sovereign  and  the  states,  both  of  whom 


Died  1794. 

he  served.  For  six  years  he  was  justiciary  of 
the  criminal  court  of  Osnabruck ;  and  on  his 
resignation,  was  appointed  privy  referendary 
of  the  government,  which  post  he  held  till  his 
death,  January  8th,  1794. 

Moser's  objects  in  writing  were  far  higher 
than  the  gratification  of  the  vanity,  or  the  ac- 
quisition of  the  fame,  of  an  author ;  yet  there 
is  no  writer  whose  works  have  a  more  enduring 
reputation.  They  may  serve  as  a  model  for  all 
who  are  inspired  with  the  noble  desire  of  ren- 
dering intelligible  to  the  people  their  own  true 
interests ; — the  highest  office  in  which  genius, 
wit,  learning,  or  eloquence,  can  ever  be  em- 
ployed. 

Gifted  in  an  eminent  degree  with  a  sound 
mind  in  a  sound  body,  he  devoted  both  to  the 
service  of  his  country  and  of  mankind,  and  he 
closed  a  happy,  useful,  and  honorable  life  at 
the  age  of  74,  "  having  had  much  to  rejoice, 
little  to  sadden,  and  nothing  to  offend  him,"  as 
he  himself  thankfully  acknowledged.  There 
is  a  beautiful  passage  in  Goethe's  life,*  of 
which  I  subjoin  an  abridged  translation. 

"  The  little  essays  or  papers  of  this  admirable 
man,  relating  to  matters  of  social  and  political 
interest,  had  been  printed  some  years  before  in 
the  Osnabruck  newspaper,  and  had  been  point- 
ed out  to  me  by  Herder,  who  suffered  nothing 
of  merit  to  pass  unobserved.  Moser's  daughter 
was  now  occupied  in  collecting  them. 

"  They  were  all  conceived  in  one  spirit,  and 
are  all  distinguished  for  their  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  condition  of  the  middle  and  lower 
classes,  and  indeed  of  the  whole  fabric  of 
society.  The  author,  with  a  perfect  freedom 
from  prejudice,  analyzes  the  relations  of  the 
several  classes  to  each  other,  and  also  those 
existing  between  the  several  towns  and  villages 
of  the  country.  The  public  revenues  and  ex- 
penditure, the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
of  the  various  branches  of  industry,  are  brought 
distinctly  before  us,  and  old  times  compared 
and  contrasted  with  new. 

*  Diclitung  und  Wahrheit,  book  XIII. 

 (51)  


MOSER. 


52 


"  The  internal  condition  of  Osnabriick,  and 
its  relation  to  other  countries,  particularly  Eng- 
land, are  clearly  stated,  and  practical  conse- 
quences deduced.  Though  he  calls  them  '  Pat- 
riotic Fantasies,'  their  contents  are  in  fact  true 
and  practicable. 

"  And  as  the  whole  structure  of  society  rests 
on  the  basis  of  family,  he  devotes  his  especial 
attention  to  that.  He  treats,  seriously  or  spor- 
tively, of  the  changes  in  manners  and  habits, 
dress,  diet,  domestic  life,  and  education.  It 
would  be  necessary  to  make  an  inventory  of 
every  incident  of  social  life,  if  we  would  ex- 
haust the  subjects  which  he  handles.  And  how 
inimitable  is  the  handling !  It  is  a  thorough 
man  of  business  speaking  to  the  people  in  a 
weekly  paper,  in  order  to  render  intelligible  to 
all  the  intentions  and  projects  of  a  wise  and 
benevolent  government;  by  no  means  in  a 
merely  didactic  style,  but  in  a  variety  of  forms, 
which  we  might  almost  call  poetical,  and  which 
certainly  deserve  to  be  called  rhetorical,  in  the 


best  sense  of  the  word.  He  is  always  master 
of  his  subject,  and  has  the  art  of  giving  a  lively 
color  to  the  most  serious;  sometimes  assuming 
one  mask,  sometimes  another,  sometimes  speak- 
ing in  his  own  person,  with  a  gay  and  tempered 
irony ;  vigorous  and  true,  sometimes  even  rough 
and  almost  coarse,  but  in  every  case  so  appro- 
priate, that  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the 
talents,  the  good  sense,  the  facility,  lightness, 
taste  and  originality  of  the  writer.  In  the 
choice  of  his  subjects,  his  profound  knowledge 
of  them,  enlarged  views,  skilful  and  appro- 
priate handling,  deep  and  yet  gay  humor,  I  can 
compare  him  to  none  but  Franklin." 

Nothing  can  be  added  to  this  just  and  beauti- 
ful description  of  Moser's  "  Patriotische  Fan- 
tasien."  It  remains  only  to  say,  that  his  "  His- 
tory of  Osnabriick,"  is  equally  remarkable  for 
the  accurate  antiquarian  knowledge  it  exhibits. 
He  left  some  other  works,  among  which  is  a 
defence  of  the  German  language  and  litera- 
ture, in  answer  to  Frederic  the  Great. 


LETTER 

FROM  AN  OLD  MARRIED  WOMAN  TO  A  SENSITIVE  YOUNG  LADY. 

You  do  your  husband  injustice,  dear  child,  if 
you  think  he  loves  you  less  than  formerly.  He 
is  a  man  of  an  ardent,  active  temper,  who  loves 
labour  and  exertion,  and  finds  his  pleasure  in 
them  ;  and  as  long  as  his  love  for  you  furnished 
him  with  labour  and  exertion  he  was  com- 
pletely absorbed  in  it.  But  this  has,  of  course, 
ceased;  your  reciprocal  position,  —  but  by  no 
means  his  love,  as  you  imagine, — has  changed. 

A  love  which  seeks  to  conquer,  and  a  love 
which  has  conquered,  are  two  totally  differen* 
passions.  The  one  puts  on  the  stretch  all  the 
virtues  of  the  hero  ;  it  excites  in  him  fear,  hope, 
desire;  it  leads  him  from  triumph  to  triumph, 
and  makes  him  think  every  foot  of  ground  that 
he  gains,  a  kingdom.  Hence  it  keeps  alive  and 
fosters  all  the  active  powers  of  the  man  who 
abandons  himself  to  it.  The  happy  husband 
cannot  appear  like  the  lover;  he  has  not  like 
him  to  fear,  to  hope,  and  to  desire;  he  has  no 
longer  that  charming  toil,  with  all  its  triumphs, 
which  he  had  before,  nor  can  that  which  he  has 
already  w  on  be  a  conquest. 

You  have  only,  my  dear  child,  to  attend  to 
this  most  natural  and  inevitable  difference,  and 
you  will  see  in  the  whole  conduct  of  your  hus- 
band, who  now  finds  more  pleasure  in  business 
than  in  your  smiles,  nothing  to  offend  you.  You 
wish — do  you  not? — that  be  would  still  sit  with 
you  alone  on  the  mossy  bank  in  front  of  the 
grotto,  as  he  used  to  do,  look  in  your  blue  eyes, 
and  kneel  to  kiss  your  pretty  hand.    You  wish 


that  he  would  paint  to  you,  in  livelier  colours 
than  ever,  those  delights  of  love  which  lovers 
know  how  to  describe  with  so  much  art  and 
passion ;  that  he  would  lead  your  imagination 
from  one  rapture  to  another.  My  wishes,  at 
least  for  the  first  year  after  I  married  my  hus- 
band, went  to  nothing  short  of  this.  But  it  will 
not  do ; — the  best  husband  is  also  the  most  use- 
ful and  active  member  of  society ;  and  when 
love  no  longer  demands  toil  and  trouble, — when 
every  triumph  is  a  mere  repetition  of  the  last, — 
when  success  has  lost  something  of  its  value 
along  with  its  novelty, — the  taste  for  activity  no 
longer  finds  its  appropriate  food,  and  turns  to 
fresh  objects  of  pursuit.  The  necessity  for  oc- 
cupation and  for  progress  is  of  the  very  essence 
of  our  souls ;  and  if  our  husbands  are  guided 
by  reason  in  the  choice  of  occupation,  we  ought 
not  to  pout  because  they  do  not  sit  with  us  so 
often  as  formerly  by  the  silver  brook  or  under 
the  beech  tree.  At  first  I  too  found  it  hard  to 
endure  the  change.  But  my  husband  talked  to 
me  about  it  with  perfect  frankness  and  sincerity. 
"  The  joy  with  which  you  receive  me,"  said  he, 
"  does  not  conceal  your  vexation,  and  your  sad- 
dened eye  tries  in  vain  to  assume  a  cheerful 
look  ;  I  see  what  you  want, — that  I  would  sit 
as  I  used  to  do  on  the  mossy  bank,  hang  on  all 
your  steps,  and  live  on  your  breath ;  but  this  is 
impossible.  I  would  bring  you  down  from  the 
top  of  the  church  steeple  on  a  rope  ladder,  at 
the  peril  of  my  life,  if  I  could  obtain  you  in  no 
other  way  ;  but  now,  as  I  have  you  fast  in  my 
arms,  as  all  dangers  are  passed  and  all  obstacles 
overcome,  my  passion  can  no  longer  find  satis- 


MOSER. 


53 


faction  in  that  way.  What  has  once  been  sa- 
crificed to  my  self-love,  ceases  to  be  a  sacrifice. 
The  spirit  of  invention,  discovery,  and  conquest, 
inherent  in  man,  demands  a  new  career.  Be- 
fore I  obtained  you  I  used  all  the  virtues  I  pos- 
sessed as  steps  by  which  to  reach  you;  but  now, 
as  I  have  you,  I  place  you  at  the  top  of  them, 
and  you  are  the  highest  step  from  which  I  now 
hope  to  ascend  higher." 

Little  as  I  relished  the  notion  of  the  church 
tower,  or  the  honour  of  serving  as  the  highest 
step  under  my  husband's  feet,  time  and  reflec- 
tion on  the  course  of  human  affairs  convinced 
me  that  the  thing  could  not  be  otherwise.  I 
therefore  turned  my  active  mind,  which  would 
perhaps  in  time  have  been  tired  of  the  mossy 
bank,  to  the  domestic  business  which  came 
within  my  department;  and  when  we  had  both 
been  busy  and  bustling  in  our  several  ways,  and 
could  tell  each  other  in  the  evening  what  we 
had  been  doing,  he  in  the  fields,  and  I  in  the 
house  or  the  garden,  we  were  often  more  happy 
and  contented  than  the  most  loving  couple  in 
the  world. 

And,  what  is  best  of  all,  this  pleasure  has  not 
left  us  after  thirty  years  of  marriage.  We  talk 
with  as  much  animation  as  ever  of  our  domestic 
affairs ;  I  have  learned  to  know  all  my  hus- 
band's tastes,  and  I  relate  to  him  whatever  I 
think  likely  to  please  him  out  of  journals,  whe- 
ther political  or  literary ;  I  recommend  books  to 
him,  and  lay  them  before  him  ;  I  carry  on  the 
correspondence  with  our  married  children,  and 
often  delight  him  with  good  news  of  them  and 
our  little  grandchildren.  As  to  his  accounts,  I 
understand  them  as  well  as  he,  and  make  them 
easier  to  him  by  having  mine  of  all  the  yearly 
outlay  which  passes  through  my  hands,  ready 
and  in  order  ;  if  necessary,  I  can  send  in  a  state- 
ment to  the  treasury  chamber,  and  my  hand 
makes  as  good  a  figure  in  our  cash-book  as  his ; 
we  are  accustomed  to  the  same  order,  we  know 
the  spirit  of  all  our  affairs  and  duties,  and  we 
have  one  aim  and  one  rule  in  all  our  undertakings. 

This  would  never  have  been  the  case  if  we 
had  played  the  part  of  tender  lovers  after  mar- 
riage as  well  as  before,  and  had  exhausted  our 
energies  in  asseverations  of  mutual  love.  We 
should  perhaps  have  regarded  each  other  with 
ennui,  and  have  soon  found  the  grotto  too  damp, 
the  evening  air  too  cool,  the  noontide  too  hot, 
the  morning  fatiguing.  We  should  have  longed 
for  visitors,  who  when  they  came  would  not 
have  been  amused,  and  would  have  impatiently 
awaited  the  hour  of  departure,  or,  if  we  went 
to  them,  would  have  wished  us  away.  Spoiled 
by  effeminate  trifling,  we  should  have  wanted 
to  continue  to  trifle,  and  to  share  in  pleasures 
we  could  not  enjoy ;  or  have  been  compelled  to 
find  refuge  at  the  card-table, — the  last  place  at 
which  the  old  can  figure  with  the  young. 

Do  you  wish  not.  to  fall  into  this  state,  my 
dear  child  ?  Follow  my  example,  and  do  not 
torment  yourself  and  your  excellent  husband 
with  unreasonable  exactions.  Don't  think,  how- 


ever, that  I  have  entirely  renounced  the  plea- 
sure of  seeing  mine  at  my  feet.  Opportunities 
for  this  present  themselves  far  more  frequently 
to  those  who  do  not  seek,  but  seem  to  avoid 
them,  than  to  those  who  allow  themselves  to  be 
found  on  the  mossy  bank  at  all  times,  and  as 
often  as  it  pleases  their  lord  and  master. 

I  still  sometimes  sing  to  my  little  grandchil- 
dren, when  they  come  to  see  me,  a  song  which, 
in  the  days  when  his  love  had  still  to  contend 
with  all  sorts  of  obstacles,  used  to  throw  him 
into  raptures;  and  when  the  little  ones  cry, 
"Ancora!  ancora!  grandmamma,"  his  eyes  fill 
with  tears  of  joy.  I  asked  him  once  whether 
he  would  not  now  think  it  too  dangerous  to 
bring  me  down  a  rope-ladder  from  the  top  of 
the  church  steeple,  upon  which  he  called  out 
as  vehemently  as  the  children,  "0,  ancora! 
grandmamma,  ancora!" 

P.  S. — One  thing,  my  dear  child,  I  forgot.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  trust  too  entirely  to  your 
good  cause  and  your  good  heart,  (perhaps,  too, 
a  little  to  your  blue  eyes,)  and  do  not  deign  to 
try  to  attract  your  husband  anew.  I  fancy  you 
are,  at  home,  just  as  you  were  a  week  ago,  in 

society,  at  our  excellent  G  "s,  where  I  found 

you  as  stiff  and  silent  as  if  you  had  met  only  to 
tire  each  other  to  death.  Did  you  not  observe 
how  soon  I  set  the  whole  company  in  motion  1 
This  was  merely  by  a  few  words  addressed  to 
each,  on  the  subject  I  thought  most  agreeable  or 
most  flattering  to  him.  After  a  time  the  others 
began  to  feel  more  happy  and  at  their  ease,  and 
we  parted  in  high  spirits  and  good  humour. 

What  I  did  there,  I  do  daily  at  home.  I  try 
to  make  myself  and  all  around  me  agreeable. 
It  will  not  do  to  leave  a  man  to  himself  till  he 
comes  to  you,  to  take  no  pains  to  attract  him,  or 
to  appear  before  him  with  a  long  face.  But  it 
is  not  so  difficult  as  you  think,  dear  child,  to 
behave  to  a  husband  so  that  he  shall  remain 
forever  in  some  measure  a  lover.  I  am  an  old 
woman,  but  you  can  still  do  what  you  like;  a 
word  from  you  at  the  right  time  will  not  fail  of 
its  effect.  What  need  have  you  to  play  the  suf- 
fering virtue  1  The  tear  of  a  loving  girl,  says 
an  old  book,  is  like  a  dew-drop  on  the  rose ;  but 
that  on  the  cheek  of  a  wife  is  a  drop  of  poison 
to  her  husband.  Try  to  appear  cheerful  and 
contented,  and  your  husband  will  be  so;  and 
when  you  have  made  him  happy,  you  will  be- 
come so,  not  in  appearance,  but  in  reality. 

The  skill  required  is  not  so  great.  Nothing 
flatters  a  man  so  much  as  the  happiness  of  his 
wife;  he  is  always  proud  of  himself  as  the 
source  of  it.  As  soon  as  you  are  cheerful,  you 
will  be  lively  and  alert,  and  every  moment  will 
afford  you  an  opportunity  of  letting  fall  an  agree- 
able word.  Your  education,  which  gives  you 
an  immense  advantage,  will  greatly  assist  you ; 
and  your  sensibility  will  become  the  noblest 
gift  that  nature  has  bestowed  on  you,  when  it 
shows  itself  in  affectionate  assiduity,  and  stamps 
on  every  action  a  soft,  kind,  and  tender  charac- 
ter, instead  of  wasting  itself  in  secret  repinings. 
5* 


54 


MOSER. 


HOW  TO  ATTAIN  TO  AN  ADEQUATE 
EXPRESSION  OF  OUR  IDEAS. 

Youn  complaint,  dearest  friend,  that  you  can 
seldom  satisfy  yourself  perfectly,  in  expression 
and  execution,  when  you  attempt  to  impart 
weighty  and  interesting  truth,  may,  likely 
enough,  be  well  founded;  but  I  am  not  yet  con- 
vinced, that  this  arises  from  any  deficiency  of 
language.  All  words,  especially  dead  words  on 
paper,  to  which  indeed  the  physiognomy  is 
wanting,  to  assist  expression,  are  but  very  im- 
perfect signs  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings,  and 
we  are  often  more  affected  by  another's  silence, 
than  by  the  finest  written  discourse.  But  these 
signs,  too,  have  their  accompaniments,  to  the 
feeling  and  thinking  reader;  and  as  he  who 
understands  music,  does  not  employ  the  notes 
slavishly,*  so  the  reader,  who  has  the  necessary 
capacity,  can,  by  the  help  of  written  words,  ac- 
company the  writer  in  his  elevation,  and  draw 
out  of  his  soul,  all  that  remained  behind. 

I  should  rather  say,  that  your  thoughts  and 
feelings  were  not  sufficiently  developed,  when 
you  made  an  attempt  to  express  them.  Most 
writers  content  themselves  with  thinking  over 
their  subject  calmly,  then  forming  what  they 
call  a  plan,  and  handling  their  theme  accord- 
ingly ;  or  they  avail  themselves  of  the  heat  of 
the  first  impulse ;  and  their  glowing  imagina- 
tion presents  us  a  fresh  painting,  often  glaring 
and  powerful  enough,  and  yet  the  result  disap- 
points their  expectations.  But  indispensable  as 
it  is,  that  he,  who  would  express  forcibly  a 
great  truth,  should  revolve  it  beforehand,  order 
his  expressions,  and  handle  his  theme,  accord- 
ing to  its  nature,  with  all  energy ;  this  is  not  yet 
the  precise  method  by  which  we  can  attain  to 
a  powerful  expression  of  our  sentiments. 

However  evident  to  me  a  truth  may  be,  after 
I  have  gained  instruction  on  the  subject  from 
books  and  my  own  reflections,  and  however 
well  acquainted  with  it  I  may  seem  to  myself, 
I  do  not  venture  to  form  my  plan  immediately 
and  to  treat  it  accordingly.  I  rather  reflect,  that 
it  has  innumerable  windings  and  aspects  not 
directly  obvious,  and  I  must  first  strive  to  master 
as  many  of  these  as  possible,  before  I  commu- 
nicate myself,  or  consider  the  plan  and  expres- 
sion. Accordingly,  as  soon  as  I  feel  inspired  by 
my  subject  and  prepared  for  utterance,  I  first 
throw  all  that  comes  into  my  mind  upon  paper. 
Another  day,  if  the  subject  attracts  me  anew,  I 
proceed  in  the  same  way,  and  this  I  repeat  so 
long  as  the  fire  and  the  impulse  last,  penetrating 
ever  deeper  into  the  subject.  So  soon  as  I  have 
put  something  on  paper  and  relieved  the  mind 
of  its  first  burden,  it  gradually  extends  its  grasp 
and  gains  new  views,  which  nearer  images  at 
first  concealed.  The  farther  it  penetrates,  and 
the  more  it  discovers,  the  more  fiery  and  pas- 
sionate it  becomes  in  behalf  of  its  beloved  ob- 
ject.   It  is  continually  discovering  more  beauti- 

*  i.e.  with  a  slavish  confinement  to  the  written  signs. 
Tr. 


ful  relations,  feels  itself  lighter  and  freer  in 
comparison,  gets  acquainted  and  familiar  with 
all  parts,  dwells  upon  and  delights  in  their  con- 
templation, and  does  not  desist,  till  the  last  grace 
is  bestowed. 

And  now  when  I  have  got  so  far,  and  have 
commonly  spent  many  days  and  nights, — morn- 
ing and  evening  hours. — while  I  lay  down  the 
pen  at  the  least  appearance  of  languor,  I  begin, 
in  the  hours  of  business,  to  read  over  what  I 
have  written  and  to  reflect  how  I  shall  arrange 
my  plan.  Generally,  during  this  employment, 
the  best  method  of  arrangement  discloses  itself, 
or  if  I  cannot  decide  upon  it,  I  lay  my  paper 
aside  and  wait  for  a  happier  hour,  which  must 
come  wholly  of  itself,  and  does  come  readily, 
after  one  has  once  become  familiar  with  a  truth. 
But  the  best  way  of  presenting  the  subject,  is 
always  that,  and  that  only,  which  grows  out  of 
the  subject  itself  during  the  process.  Thus  I 
begin  to  arrange  gradually  all  I  have  gained  in 
this  way  out  of  my  own  mind,  to  strike  out 
what  is  not  appropriate,  and  bring  every  thing 
into  its  place. 

Commonly,  all  that  I  first  set  down,  comes  to 
nothing;  but  there  are  scattered  particulars 
which  I  now  find  necessary  to  note,  with  the 
general  result.  I  retain  more  of  the  subsequent 
efforts  in  which  there  is  a  tendency  to  greater 
precision  ;  and  the  final  improvements  conduce, 
for  the  most  part,  only  to  the  perspicuity  and 
ease  of  my  essay.  The  order  or  arrangement 
of  the  argument  follows  of  itself,  the  main 
design,  and  the  colouring  I  leave  to  the  hand 
which,  without  the  necessity  of  special  guidance, 
paints  with  power  and  warmth  what  the  heated 
imagination  feels  with  increasing  force. 

Yet  I  will  not  say,  that,  in  this  respect,  you 
can  immediately  trust  yourself.  Every  principle 
has  its  own  place,  and  it  does  not  operate  with 
one  as  with  another.  Suppose  I  would  prove 
to  you  the  doubtful  value  of  previous  prepara- 
tion, and  should  begin  by  saying,  "  Garrick  ad- 
mired Clairon,  as  the  greatest  actress  of  France, 
but  thought  it  rather  small  in  her,  that  she  could 
decide  in  her  own  room,  in  cold  blood,  upon  the 
degree  of  rage  to  which  she  would  rise,  as 
Medea."  You  might  easily  discern  the  justness 
of  the  comparison,  but  not  feel  all  I  wish  you 
to  feel  in  reading  it.  Garrick  never  disposed 
his  parts  beforehand  ;  he  merely  wrought  him- 
self up  into  the  situation  of  the  person  he  had 
to  represent,  and  then  left  it  to  his  mighty  soul, 
to  exercise  all  its  art,  according  to  the  feeling 
of  the  moment.  And  so  must  every  one  do, 
who  would  conceive  forcibly  great  sentiments. 

The  colouring  is  easier  when  separated  from 
the  general  tone,  but,  in  connexion  with  it,  more 
difficult.  On  this  subject,  it  is  not  easy  to  furnish 
rules.  It  is  mastered  only  by  attentive  observa- 
tion of  nature,  and  much  experience  of  what 
should  be  adopted  or  rejected,  expressed  strong- 
ly or  slightly.  Subordination  in  the  grouping  is 
the  principal  thing,  and  if  you  are  happy  and 
accurate  in  this,  the  various  stand-points,  from 


MOSER. 


55 


which  your  readers  will  survey  your  delinea- 
tion, deserve  only  a  general  consideration. 

Among  a  million  of  men,  there  is  perhaps  not 
move  than  one,  who  knows  how  to  put  his  soul 
on  the  stretch  so  far,  that  it  produces  all  it  is 
capable  of  producing.  Great  numbers  possess 
a  multitude  of  impressions,  whether  from  art  or 
nature,  concealed  within,  without  being  them- 
selves conscious  of  it.  The  soul  must  be  placed 
in  circumstances  of  emotion,  it  must  be  warmed 
in  order  to  unfold  itself  fully,  and  excited  to 
enthusiasm  in  order  that  it  may  yield  up  all 
that  is  in  it.  Horace  recommends  wine  as  a 
gentle  torture  of  the  soul.  Others  regard  fond- 
ness for  the  subject  in  hand,  as  mightier,  than 
the  thirst  for  discoveries.  Every  one  must 
make  the  experiment  for  himself.  Rousseau 
never  gave  the  first  movements  of  his  soul.  He 
who  offers  these  only  and  nothing  more,  presents 
such  truths  alone  as  are  common,  and  known  to 
all  men.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  practised  often 
ten  times  over  the  system,  which  I  have  pro- 
posed to  you,  and  did  not  desist,  so  long  as  there 
was  any  thing  to  be  drawn  forth.  When  a 
great  man  pursues  this  course,  we  may  be  pretty 
certain,  he  will  press  farther,  than  any  have 
done  before  him.  Whenever  you  are  con- 
scious of  being  stronger  in  feeling,  than  in  ex- 
pression, be  assured  that  your  soul  is  sluggish, 
and  refuses  to  bring  forth  all  that  is  in  her. 
Assail  her,  when  you  feel  the  time  has  come, 
and  compel  her  to  exert  herself.  All  the  ideas, 
with  which  she  has  been  at  any  time  impressed, 
and  those,  which  she  herself  has  produced  un- 
consciously from  these  impressions,  must  be  put 
into  motion  and  glow.  She  must  compare,  re- 
solve, and  feel  what  she  could  never  do  without 
this  stimulus;  she  must  be  enamoured  and 
warmed  with  her  great  subject.  But  where 
there  is  this  love  for  the  subject,  there  needs  no 
arrangement.  Scarcely  can  one  tell  when  it  is 
done,  how  he  passed  from  one  point  to  another. 


THE  MORAL  ADVANTAGES  OF  PUBLIC 
CALAMITIES. 

"  0,  if  it  were  only  Easter,  if  only  the  long 
winter-evenings  were  over!"  said  to  me  last 
autumn  a  tenant,  who  had  not  reaped  for  him- 
self, his  wife  and  seven  children,  so  much  as 
would  keep  them  till  Martinmas.  The  flax  he 
had  sown  had  not  come  up,  and  the  last  year's 
scarcity  had  already  disabled  him  from  paying 
his  rent. 

"  Now,'"  said  I  to  him  yesterday,  «  Easter  is 
come  and  the  long  winter  is  over,  and  I  see  you 
are  still  alive,  with  your  wife  and  all  your 
children.  I  suppose  you  have  earned  your  bread 
with  difficulty,  but  it  could  never  have  tasted 
so  good,  as  it  has  this  winter,  when  it  was  the 
rarest  thing  you  had." 

"  It  was  indeed  very  difficult,"  he  replied, 
44  you  see  my  house  is  altogether  miserable,  my 


wife  and  children  naked,  and  myself  enfeebled. 
It  has  been  so  hard  for  us.  The  flax  we  still 
had,  was  soon  spent.  A  pound  of  bread  cost  a 
skein,  and  there  were  only  three  who  could 
spin,  and  nine  who  must  eat.  There  was  no 
work  to  be  had  out  of  the  house,  and  when 
Christmas  came,  our  flax  was  spun  and  gone. 
Ah,  thou  melancholy  Christmas  ! — My  wife  had 
already  pawned  her  petticoats  and  caps ;  we 
could  not  go  to  God"s  church.  There  was 
nothing  besides  in  the  house,  on  which  we 
could  raise  any  money,  but  the  cow.  I  wished 
to  drive  her  away  to  sell,  but  my  wife  and 
children  held  her  fast  embraced,  and  we  all 
cried  out,  and  stood  so  a  long  sad  time.  I 
walked  out  at  last,  for  I  could  no  longer  endure 
my  misery.  I  staid  away  two  hours,  that  I 
might  not  see  my  own  dying  with  hunger. 
But  it  was  always  as  if  six  horses  drew  me 
back ;  I  must  return  home.  I  passed  by  an 
oven  filled  with  bread ;  and  want,  the  sweet 
savour  and  opportunity  made  me  a  thief ;  so 
miserable  had  I  become.  With  this  stolen 
bread  we  solemnized  our  Christmas.  But  I  rose 
the  next  morning  before  day,  took  my  cow,  and 
carried  her  to  the  man  from  whom  I  had  stolen 
the  bread.  With  a  thousand  tears  I  acknow- 
ledged to  him  the  deed  ;  and  the  man,  whom  I 
had  known  as  hard  and  avaricious,  gave  her  to 
me  again  and  a  bushel  of  rye  also.  Since  then, 
my  landlord,  to  whom  I  am  yet  in  debt  for  the 
past  year,  and  whom  I  could  not  have  spoken 
to  before,  because  he  had  nothing  left  himself, 
has  given  me  aid.  Ah,  Sir!  there  is  still  pity 
in  the  world,  there  are  still  secret  virtues,  which 
we  do  not  find  out  till  the  time  of  need!" 

The  last  remark  of  the  good  man  pleased  me. 
"But  what  will  you  do  now?"  I  asked.  t;I 
must  now  to  Holland,"  said  he,  "to  earn  some- 
thing to  pay  my  debts.  But  I  have  no  money 
for  the  journey,  and  since  I  have  received  so 
much  from  all  I  know,  I  can  apply  to  nobody, 

and  so  my  cow  must  still  "    Here  he  could 

say  no  more  for  sobbing,  and  tears  rolled  down 
his  sorrowful  face. — "And  who  knows  whether 
I  shall  ever  return  from  Holland,  since  I  find 
myself  so  weak  after  such  a  wretched  winter, 
and  must  make  great  exertions  now,  to  earn 
only  so  much  as  I  owe  for  corn  and  rent." 

I  provided  him  for  his  journey,  his  main- 
tenance, his  children;  and  now  I  made  haste 
to  think  over  the  secret  virtues,  which  want 
discloses  in  so  many  hearts.  How  great,  how 
noble,  thought  I,  has  many  a  heart  shown  it- 
self in  the  present  scarcity!  What  concealed 
fountains  of  virtue  have  been  opened  by  want, 
and  how  many  thanks  do  we  owe  to  Providence 
for  these  trials. 

Prosperous  and  easy  times,  long  continued, 
finally  lull  men  to  sleep.  The  poor  man  is  un- 
grateful, because  help  comes  promptly,  and 
prompt  help  renders  him  negligent  in  his  busi- 
ness. The  philosopher  amuses  himself  with 
an  ideal  world,  and  the  statesman  with  idle 
projects.    Mere  voluptuous  passions  arise  from 


06 


MOSER. 


repose,  and  find  an  easy  gratification.  The 
virtues  hold  their  even  way  with  the  civilities. 
Nothing  compels  feeling  and  decision.  Interest 
in  the  public  good  slackens,  and  all  goes  on  so 
indifferently  well,  that  even  the  greatest  genius 
is  only  half  developed.  But  if  want  breaks  in. 
if  peril  demands  heroes,  and  a  universal  call 
summons  the  soul ;  if  the  State  is  striving  against 
its  downfall ;  if  its  dangers  are  increasing  with 
every  neglected  moment;  if  the  most  frightful 
crisis  can  only  be  diverted  by  the  greatest  sacri- 
fice; then  all  is  action  and  greatness;  the  orator 
waxes  mighty,  the  genius  surpasses  his  own 
hopes,  courage  and  constancy  inspire  the  friend; 
heart  and  hand  open  with  equal  promptitude ; 
performance  follows  resolve,  and  the  soul  is 
astonished  at  its  own  powers.  It  finds  in  itself 
unknown  virtues,  mounts  ever  higher,  and  dis- 
cerns from  new  elevations  an  ever  widening 
field  of  duty.  Great  things,  and  things  adored 
in  a  state  of  tranquillity,  vanish  with  its  flight; 
and  man  shows  himself  once  more  a  creature 
worthy  of  the  Godhead. 

How  many  seeds  of  virtue  would  never 
germinate,  and  how  few  would  ripen,  if  there 
were  no  want,  no  adversity!  To  how  many 
have  not  their  own  hearts  been  revealed  by  the 


sight  of  a  poor  man  wasting  away !  And  how 
many  a  poor  man  has  not  been  inspired  by 
hunger,  with  feeling,  gratitude  and  inclination 
for  labour,  which  before  he  had  neglected! 
Will  not  also  many  of  our  country-people  dis- 
cern, better  than  before,  the  worth  of  modera- 
tion and  frugality?  and  many  have  learnt  to 
do  without  a  multitude  of  things,  which  they 
formerly  thought  absolutely  necessary?  I  do 
not  now  refer  to  the  political  uses  of  public 
calamities  ;  that  would  lead  to  other  considera- 
tions. How  salutary,  how  instructive,  as  well 
for  the  heart  as  for  the  understanding,  is  thus 
the  present  scarcity !  The  good  Providence 
seems  to  have  ordained  that  this  should  occur, 
at  least  once,  in  every  generation.  Without  this 
awakening,  many  would  lead  a  very  stupid 
life.  The  more  refined  part  of  mankind  cer- 
tainly take  sufficient  pains  to  deserve  abundant 
chastisement,  and  —  when  they  do  not  receive 
enough  in  this  way  —  to  torment  themselves. 
But  their  sensibility  needs  but  a  slight  occasion 
to  call  it  into  action  ;  and  Heaven  needs  not 
punish  any  land  in  order  to  chastise  some  few 
fools.  Too  great,  or  too  unfeeling,  to  suffer  by 
a  public  calamity,  they  are  left  to  the  martyr- 
dom of  their  own  imagination. 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


Born  1724.  Died  1804. 


A  slight  acquaintance  with  the  German 
literature  of  the  last  half-century,  discovers  the 
vast  influence,  on  all  its  productions,  of  the 
critical  and  transcendental  philosophies.  These 
terms,  which  are  sometimes  confounded,  desig- 
nate two  distinct  branches  of  speculation.  The 
critical  philosophy  begins  and  ends  with  Kant. 
The  transcendental,  to  which  it  gave  birth, 
developed  itself  with  various  phases  in  the  sys- 
tems of  those  philosophers,  who,  after  him, 
attained  successively  the  highest  eminence,  as 
metaphysicians;  particularly,  Fichte,  Schel- 
ling,  Hegel.  The  transcendental  philosophy, 
although,  in  one  sense,  the  offspring  of  the 
critical,  differs  from  it  in  its  positive,  system- 
atic and  constructive  character;  whereas,  in 
the  critical,  the  negative  and  destructive  ten- 
dency predominates.  Kant  has,  properly  speak- 
ing, no  system ;  he  is  analytic,  not  synthetic. 
Both  these  philosophies,  however,  are  parts  of 
one  movement,  and  may  properly  enough  be 
comprised  under  one  denomination.  The  term 
transcendental,  according  to  the  current  use, 
has  this  comprehension  at  present,  and  is  likely 
to  retain  it. 

The  history  of  European  philosophy  exhibits 
perhaps  no  other  instance  of  a  movement  so 
succinct,  so  defined  and  complete ; — so  epic  as 
that  represented  by  the  four  names  which  have 
been  mentioned.  Kant,  the  critic,  prepares 
the  way  by  analyzing  our  cognitions,  and  dis- 
encumbering the  ground  of  traditionary  errors. 
Fichte,  the  idealist,  pursues  to  its  last  results 
the  subjective  path  of  philosophical  inquiry. 
Schelling,  the  pantheistic  realist,  takes  the 
objective  direction.  Finally,  Hegel,  the  en- 
cyclopedist, describes  the  outermost  circle  and 
lays  the  ground-plan  which  embraces  and  clas- 
sifies all  branches  and  topics  of  philosophy  in 
one  comprehensive  system. 

To  the  influence  of  this  philosophy  on  the 
national  mind,  German  literature  owes  some 
of  its  most  distinctive  features ;  in  particu- 
lar, that  thoughtful  tone  and  that  profound 
spirit  which  so  strongly  characterize  it.  If 
it  be  inferior  to  others  in  some  particu- 
lars; if  it  has  less  of  creative  genius  and 


affluence  than  the  English,  less  of  grace  and 
plausibility  than  the  French,  of  artistic  perfec- 
tion than  the  Italian,  of  romantic  and  popular 
interest  than  the  Spanish ;  it  is  superior  to  all 
these  in  intensity  and  depth.  It  presents  a 
greater  amount  of  ideas  in  proportion  to  its 
extent,  acts  more  powerfully  on  the  mind  in 
proportion  to  the  genius  embarked  in  it;  has 
more  of  that  quality  which  is  called  suggestive 
than  any  literature  of  modern  Europe.  And 
for  these  properties  it  is  principally  indebted  to 
the  efforts  and  speculations  of  those  great  men 
who  have  labored  so  assiduously  to  found  a 
science  of  absolute  truth.* 

Immanuel  Kant  was  born  at  Konigsberg,  in 
old  Prussia,  April  22d,  1724.  His  father  pur- 
sued the  business  of  a  saddler  in  one  of  the 
suburbs  of  that  city.  In  his  ninth  year,  he  was 
put  to  school  at  the  Collegium  Fredericianum, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  applica- 
tion, and  laid  the  foundation  of  that  vast  eru- 
dition by  which  he  was  afterwards  distinguish- 
ed. In  1740,  he  entered  the  university  of  his 
native  city,  where  he  first  studied  theology, 
and  afterwards  applied  himself  to  philosophy 
and  the  exact  sciences.  After  leaving  the 
university,  he  held  the  office  of  private  tutor 
in  several  families,  and  resided  for  nine  years 
with  Count  Hiillesen  of  Arnsdorf.  In  1755, 
he  returned  to  Konigsberg,  and  took  the  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts.  For  fifteen  years  he  lec- 
tured, in  connection  with  the  university,  on 
logic,  metaphysics,  physics,  and  mathematics. 
In  1770,  he  was  made  Professor  ordinarius  of 
logic  and  metaphysics;  which  office  he  re- 
tained till  1794 ;  refusing  several  more  lucra- 
tive offers  from  other  universities.  He  died, 
February  12th,  1804,  in  his  eightieth  year; 
having  never  travelled  above  seven  miles  from 

*  "German  literature  is  inextricably  interwoven  with 
German  philosophy.  There  is  not  a  fairy-tale  of  Tieck, 
not  a  song  of  Goethe,  not  a  play  of  Schiller,  not  a  criti- 
cism of  Schlegel,  not  a  description  of  Humboldt,  in  which 
this  undercurrent  is  not  perceptible.  Nay,  however  para- 
doxical it  may  appear,  I  will  venture  to  affirm  that  Ger- 
man music  has  received  much  of  its  peculiar  character 
from  the  same  source,  that  the  compositions  of  Beethoven, 
Weber,  Spohr.  Mendelssohn,  are  deeply  tinctured  with 
the  same  spirit."— Mrs.  Austin. 

(57) 


58 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


his  native  city,  but  leaving  a  name  which  had 
traversed  the  civilized  world.  Kant  remained 
unmarried,  but  was  social  in  his  habits,  and  a 
welcome  visiter  in  the  first  families  of  Konigs- 
berg, who  knew  how  to  prize  the  greatest  in- 
tellect of  the  age.  He  was  an  agreeable  com- 
panion, and  entertained  his  company  with 
amusing  anecdotes,  of  which  he  possessed  an 
inexhaustible  store,  and  which  he  related  in  a 
very  dry  manner,  with  unmoved  countenance, 
exciting  great  merriment  in  others.  He  dressed 
with  elegance,  and  was  fond  of  cards ;  seldom 
passing  an  evening  without  a  game  of  l'hombre, 
which  he  considered  as  the  only  certain  means 
of  withdrawing  his  mind  from  strenuous  thought, 
and  composing  himself  to  rest. 

Reichardt,  in  the  "Urania"  for  1812,  has 
given  a  spirited  sketch  of  his  person  and  habits. 
"  He  was  utterly  dry  in  body  and  mind.  More 
meagre,  nay  withered,  than  his  little  body,  per- 
haps none  ever  existed;  colder  and  more  purely 
secluded  within  himself,  no  sage  ever  lived. 
A  high,  cheerful  brow,  a  fine  nose  and  bright 
clear  eyes,  distinguished  advantageously  the 
upper  part  of  his  countenance.  But  the  lower 
part,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  most  perfect 
expression  of  coarse  sensuality,  which  showed 
itself  to  excess,  especially  in  eating  and  drink- 
ing. He  loved  a  good  table  in  cheerful  com- 
pany.1' "  So  boundless  a  memory  as  Kant  pos- 
sessed one  shall  seldom  find.  His  lectures 
were  rendered  exceedingly  interesting  thereby. 
His  lectures  on  physics  and  physical  geography, 
in  particular,  were  very  instructive  and  pleas- 
ing to  young  people,  by  reason  of  his  measure- 
less acquaintance  with  history,  travels,  biogra- 
phy, novels,  and  all  departments  which  could 
furnish  materials  for  enriching  and  illustrating 
those  sciences.  Although  he  had  his  notes  be- 
fore him,  he  seldom  looked  at  them,  and  often 
repeated  whole  columns  of  names  and  dates 
from  memory." 

"  The  life-history  of  Immanuel  Kant,"  says 
Heine,  "  is  difficult  to  describe.  For  he  had 
neither  life  nor  history.  He  lived  a  mechanic- 
ally regular,  almost  abstract  bachelor-existence, 
in  a  still,  retired  street  of  Konigsberg,  an  an- 
cient city  on  the  north-eastern  boundary  of 
Germany.  I  do  not  think  that  the  great  clock 
of  the  cathedral  in  that  place  accomplished  its 
daily  task  in  a  more  passionless  and  regular 
manner  than  its  countryman,  Immanuel  Kant. 
Rising,  coffee-drinking,  writing,  reading  lec- 
tures, dining,  walking,  —  everything  had  its 


set  time ;  and  the  neighbours  knew  with  per- 
fect accuracy  that  it  was  half-past  three  o'clock, 
when  Immanuel  Kant,  in  his  grey  body-coat, 
with  his  rattan  in  his  hand,  came  out  of  his 
house-door,  and  bent  his  steps  toward  the  little 
linden-alley  which,  for  his  sake,  is  still  called 
the  philosopher's  walk.  Eight  times  he  walked 
up  and  down  that  alley,  at  all  seasons  of  the 
year ;  and  when  the  weather  was  dull,  and  the 
grey  clouds  portended  rain,  his  servant,  old 
Lampe,  was  seen  walking  behind  him  with 
anxious  concern,  carrying  a  long  umbrella  un- 
der his  arm,  like  a  picture  of  providence. 

Strange  contrast  between  the  outward  life 
of  the  man  and  his  destructive,  world-to-pieces- 
crushing  thought!  Truly,  if  the  citizens  of 
Konigsberg  had  suspected  the  entire  import  of 
that  thought,  they  would  have  felt  a  far  more 
shuddering  horror  for  that  man  than  for  the 
executioner, — an  executioner  who  beheads  only 
men.  But  the  good  people  saw  in  him  nothing 
more  than  a  professor  of  philosophy,  and  when, 
at  the  set  time,  he  passed  along,  they  gave  him 
friendly  greeting,  and  perhaps  set  their  watches 
by  him." 

His  fame,  at  present,  rests  chiefly  on  his  la- 
bors as  a  metaphysician.  But,  in  his  own  day, 
he  was  scarcely  less  distinguished  by  his  con- 
tributions to  the  exact  sciences  than  by  his  in- 
vestigation of  the  intellectual  powers  and  the 
ideal  world.  He  published  important  treatises 
on  various  subjects  connected  with  physical 
science,  of  which  the  most  celebrated  is  the 
"  Universal  Natural  History  and  Theory  of  the 
Heavens."  In  this  work  he  seems  to  have  an- 
ticipated some  of  the  subsequent  discoveries  in 
astronomy.  In  particular,  he  conjectured  the 
existence  of  another  planet  beyond  Saturn, 
more  than  twenty  years  before  Sir  W.  Herschel 
had  discovered  the  Georgium  Sidus.  The  fol- 
lowing is  an  extract  from  the  passage  in  which 
this  conjecture  is  propounded.  "  Should  there 
not  be  between  Saturn,  the  outermost  of  the 
planets  which  we  know,  and  the  least  eccentric 
comet,  which  descends  to  us  from  a  distance, 
perhaps  ten  times  greater,  another  planet  whose 
motion  approaches  more  nearly  to  the  cometary 
than  that  of  Saturn?"  *  *  *  "The  law 
which  determines  the  relation  between  the 
eccentricity  of  the  planetary  orbits  and  their 
distance  from  the  sun  supports  this  conjec- 
ture."* 

*  Mlgemeine  JVaturgeschichte  und  Theorie  des  Himmels. 
Erster  Theil. 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


59 


Kant's  moral  character,  distinguished  for 
probity  and  a  high  sense  of  honor,  was  held  in 
the  highest  estimation  by  his  fellow-citizens. 

There  is  an  entertaining  biography  of  him 
by  Borrowsky,  a  personal  friend. 


For  the  following  "  Remarks"  on  Kant's  phi- 
losophy, the  editor  is  indebted  to  the  translator 
of  the  extracts  which  are  given  from  the  "  Cri- 
tique on  the  Faculty  of  judging,"  and  the 
"  Plan  for  an  everlasting  peace."* 


INTRODUCTORY  REMARKS. 


[Iir  reading  Kant's  writings,  the  observation 
often  forces  itself  upon  us,  that  the  words  will 
very  well  bear  a  construction  quite  opposite  to 
that  he  himself  seems  to  put  upon  them;  and 
we  discover  that  they  are  equally  intelligible 
and  harmonious  from  two  entirely  distinct  points 
of  view.  It  is  true,  indeed,  of  all  honest  and 
thorough  discussion  of  principles,  that  its  appli- 
cation is  infinitely  wider  than  the  particular 
intent  of  the  writer.  Thus  a  profound  remark 
in  Morals  is  equally  applicable  to  Physics,  Art, 
and  Politics.  But  in  Kant,  born  to  represent  an 
important  step  in  the  progress  of  Modern  Philo- 
sophy, this  double  meaning,  passing  easily  into 
open  contradiction,  accompanied  too  by  the  most 
entire  earnestness  and  strictness  of  inquiry,  is 
particularly  remarkable,  and  has  given  occasion 
to  much  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  whole 
scope  and  fundamental  character  of  his  philo- 
sophy. 

Thus  he  is  commonly  cited  as  the  founder 
of  modern  Transcendentalism,  which  in  the 
popular  estimate  is  equivalent  to  Mysticism  ; 
yet  where  the  aim  is  rather  to  find  fault  than  to 
understand,  it  is  easy  too  to  make  him  out  a 
materialist  and  a  skeptic.  This  peculiarity, 
allied  to  and  resulting  from  the  very  nature  of 
his  system,  as  we  shall  hereafter  see,  must  be 
understood  and  kept  in  view  in  the  study  of  his 
writings,  and  particularly  in  the  Critique  of  the 
Judgment,  (from  which  the  longest  of  our  ex- 
tracts is  taken)  ;  which  it  renders  one  of  the 
most  interesting,  but  most  difficult  of  his  writ- 
ings. 

Kant's  starting-point  is  altogether  with  the 
Materialists,  or  as  they  call  themselves  of  late, 
the  Common-sense,  or  Inductive  Philosophers. 
In  common  with  all  the  world  of  his  time,  and 
with  most  persons  of  the  present  day,  he  as- 
sumes that  our  knowledge  is  limited,  both  in 
extent  and  in  degree ;  that  we  know  in  part, 
and  parts  only. 

Nevertheless,  the  fact  that  we  have  Expe- 
rience, of  some  kind,  whatever  be  its  value, 
remains  unshaken ;  and  with  this  he  commences 
his  examination  of  our  Cognitive  Faculty;  hav- 
ing for  his  aim  to  discover,  and  after  the  rigidest 
scrutiny,  set  down,  as  Knowledge,  only  what 
we  certainly  know ;  leaving  all  that  belongs  to 
Opinion,  Faith  or  Feeling,  to  stand  on  its  own 
basis. 

As  his  Test  of  Certainty,  he  appeals  directly  to 
the  private  intuition,  or  consciousness,  not  rely- 
ing on  Experience,  however  often  repeated  ;  for, 


as  he  says,  this,  though  it  may  be  amply  suffi- 
cient for  the  uses  of  everyday  life,  is  yet  easily 
distinguishable  from  absolute  and  original  cer- 
tainty. This  latter  he  calls  Knowledge  d  priori, 
by  which  is  to  be  understood,  not  a  knowledge 
preceding  Experience,  but  deriving  its  support 
from  something  prior  to  and  independent  of 
Experience.  For  example,  our  conception  of  a 
triangle,  though  suggested  by  the  actual  figure, 
cannot  be  derived  from  it;  for  there  is  no  perfect 
triangle;  none  perfectly  adequate  to  the  con- 
ception. 

It  is  obvious  that  on  the  strict  application  of 
this  test,  most  of  our  so-called  Knowledge  must 
take  another  name ;  and  the  inquiry  occurs : 
whether  there  be  anything  in  Experience  de- 
serving to  be  called  Knowledge. 

Kant  answers  that  there  is  :  viz.  That  in  all 
our  perceptions  of  outward  things,  they  must 
appear  as  existing  in  Space  and  Time.  This  is 
not  the  result  of  Experience  ;  for  all  Experience 
must  presuppose  it ;  and  whatever  validity  we 
may  allow  our  knowledge  of  phenomena,  of 
this  at  least  we  are  certain,  that  they  can  appear 
to  us  only  in  Space  and  Time. 

These,  then,  are  the  forms  of  our  perceptions ; 
not  indicating  anything  in  the  nature  of  the 
objects  perceived,  but  mere  subjective  forms. 

Accordingly,  he  divides  Knowledge  into  two 
kinds  ;  Knowledge  of  Forms,  (subjective  Know- 
ledge); and  Knowledge  of  subject-matter,  (ob- 
jective Knowledge)  ;  and  he  says  that  of  the 
latter  we  not  only  have  nothing,  but  cannot 
even  conceive  of  the  possibility  of  our  ever 
having  any  knowledge  of  things  as  they  are  in 
themselves. 

It  would  not  be  possible  for  us  in  the  brief 
space  devoted  to  this  sketch  of  Kant's  philoso- 
phy, to  give  even  a  general  account  of  his  de- 
velopment of  his  theory  of  Perception,  nor  of  his 
critique  of  the  Understanding.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  on  this  principle  of  the  subjectiveness  of 
all  Knowledge,  he  proceeds  to  construct  a  sys- 
tem of  subjective  Knowledge,  (Understanding); 
embracing,  according  to  him,  all  our  proper 
cognitive  faculty. 

It  is  evident,  however,  from  what  has  already 
been  said,  that  as  Knowledge  relates  only  to 
the  forms  and  conditions  of  Experience,  it  must 
depend  entirely  upon  the  possibility  of  Expe- 
rience ;  and  where  this  is  impossible,  Know- 
ledge must  also  be  impossible.    Now,  Kant 


*  J.  Elliot  Cabot,  Esq. 


CO 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


finds  certain  conceptions  in  the  mind,  not  only 
unconnected  with,  but,  by  their  very  nature, 
transcending  all  possibility  of  Experience.  For 
example,  our  conceptions  of  God,  Freedom,  and 
Immortality,  to  which  no  possible  sensuous  ex- 
perience can  be  adequate.  Such  conceptions 
Kant  calls  Transcendental  Ideas;  and  the  faculty 
conceiving  them,  Reason.  The  Transcendental 
Ideas  lay  claim  to  absolute  certainty  and  objec- 
tivity, without  reference  to  Experience.  This 
is  evidently  in  contradiction  to  the  theory  of 
Knowledge  according  to  the  Understanding. 
Finite  perception  is  deceptive,  and  must  appeal 
to  Experience  as  the  test  of  its  correctness.  The 
claims  of  the  Transcendental  Ideas  to  theoretic 
Knowledge,  therefore,  must  be  considered  as  an 
overweening  pretence,  and  they  should  rather 
be  called  transcendent,  than  transcendental. 
They  cannot  give  us  any  information  as  to  the 
nature  of  any  object;  but,  at  most,  like  empiri- 
cal conceptions,  declare  some  law  of  the  subject. 
And  in  support  of  this  he  shows  that  every 
Transcendental  Idea  contains  a  contradiction; 
that  is,  when  we  endeavour  to  give  it  a  theo- 
retic application,  to  declare  what  it  asserts  con- 
cerning its  object,  two  opposite  propositions  of 
equal  apparent  truth  are  the  result.  Thus  our 
idea  as  to  the  extent  of  the  Universe,  —  it  is 
equally  easy  to  maintain  that  it  is  infinite,  or 
that  it  is  finite ;  eternal,  or  having  originated  in 
Time,  and  so  on.  And  these  Antinomies  of  Pure 
Reason,  as  he  calls  them,  he  shows  are  inherent 
in  all  Ideas. 

To  the  Transcendental  Ideas  he  accordingly 
assigns  a  merely  subjective  application. 

Wherever  the  Subject  and  the  Object  coincide, 
there,  according  to  him,  is  the  true  province  of 
the  Transcendental  Ideas,  for  then  they  have 
objective  validity.  Thus  in  the  practical  Ideas, 
as  Kant  styles  them ;  for  instance  the  Idea  of 
Duty;  here  the  conception  (Subject)  and  the 
Object,  (the  course  of  life  to  be  pursued,)  coincide. 

So  of  the  idea  of  God.  Considered  theoreti- 
cally, that  is,  if  we  attempt  to  discover  his  na- 
ture, we  are  baffled  and  fall  into  contradictions, 
from  the  weakness  of  human  powers;  —  such 
conceptions  are  transcendent,  not  transcendental. 
But  considering  God  as  the  foundation  of  the 
moral  order  of  the  Universe,  of  the  idea  of  Duty, 
we  are  in  no  danger  of  error,  for  here  both  ends 
of  the  problem  are  within  our  reach. 

Kant's  skepticism  is  therefore  wholly  theoreti- 
cal j  and  he  consoles  himself  for  the  unwelcome 
results  of  his  inquiries  by  the  reflection  that  all 
the  practical  and  solid  interests  of  humanity  re- 
main untouched ;  and  that  only  our  vain  as- 
sumption of  knowledge,  unsuited  to  our  nature 
and  position,  is  affected.  It  is  of  no  importance 
whether  our  notions  of  God  are  correct,  theoreti- 
cally, or  not;  it  is  sufficient  that  we  have  a  sub- 
jective (practical)  knowledge  of  him,  in  the 
Idea  of  Duty. 

Kant's  method,  as  already  explained,  is  em- 
pirical, or  so  to  say,  narrative.  He  begins  with 
certain  universally-admitted  facts,  and  proceeds 


to  examine  their  consequences  and  relations,  as 
they  fall  under  his  hand,  but  without  searching 
out  their  foundation  or  ultimate  significance. 

Thus  he  gives  us  the  forms,  Space  and  Time, 
as  if  for  aught  he  knows  there  may  be  others 
that  he  has  not  yet  discovered.  And  he  does 
not  inquire  why  it  is  that  these  and  no  others 
should  exist.  They  stand  there  without  our 
knowing  whence  or  how.  But  if  we  examine 
into  their  nature  we  discover  them  to  be  essen- 
tially connected  v/ith  the  nature  of  sensuous 
Perception ;  and  they  conduct  us  to  new  points 
of  view  in  relation  to  Kant's  system. 

All  Knowledge  must  presuppose  some  con- 
nection between  the  Subject  and  the  Object ; 
the  mind  and  the  thing;  and  whichever  it  may 
be  that  acts  on  the  other,  there  is  at  all  events 
a  communication  between  them.  And  more- 
over this  empirical  communication  must  depend 
upon  an  original  and  essential  connection.  If 
we  could  imagine  two  essentially  and  primarily 
distinct  kinds  of  Matter,  they  could  not  act  upon 
each  other,  nor  could  there  be  any  communica- 
tion between  them.  For  Matter  can  act  or  be 
acted  upon  only  according  to  its  laws.  But  the 
laws  of  Matter  are  its  essence,  and  if  they  act 
according  to  the  same  laws  they  must  be  iden- 
tical. It  is  necessary,  therefore,  and  an  an- 
tecedent condition  of  the  perception  of  things, 
that  both  they  and  we  should  be  parts  of  one 
identical  nature.  So  too  in  proceeding  beyond 
mere  sensuous  perception,  —  the  abstract  rules 
formed  by  the  Understanding,  e.  g.  the  common 
hypotheses  in  Physics,  presuppose  a  like  iden- 
tity, for  they  are  formed  by  generalization,  and 
this  is  impossible  without  at  least  a  dim  idea 
of  a  common  centre  of  all  things.  The  reason 
why  animals,  or  men  reduced  to  a  mere  animal 
existence,  do  not  generalize  nor  form  rules,  ex- 
cept to  a  very  limited  extent,  is  that  this  Idea 
is  not  present  in  their  consciousness,  (or  only 
very  dimly,)  but  exists  outside  of  them,  as  In- 
stinct. 

So  that  the  simplest  Experience  presupposes 
an  entire  continuity  throughout  the  Universe  as 
its  fundamental  condition.  This  series  or  con- 
tinuity, considered  abstractly,  is  Space.  Space 
is  not  the  idea,  but  the  abstraction  of  the  material 
Universe  ;  for  it  belongs  to  subjective  perception 
and  Understanding,  which  have  nothing  to  do 
with  Ideas;  but  it  is  a  sufficient  recognition, 
by  the  sensuous  faculty,  of  what  the  Reason  af- 
terwards comes  to  know  as  concrete  Truth. 
Thus  we  cannot  imagine  a  limitation  of  Space, 
nor  of  a  place  where  it  is  not.  The  edge,  or 
boundary  of  Space,  or  a  vacuum  where  there  is 
Extension  without  Space,  is  an  absurdity.  And 
it  is  equally  impossible  to  imagine  an  object  not 
in  Space. 

Space  is  in  fact  the  abstraction  of  the  Infinite 
displayed  in  the  Finite.  For  Matter,  though 
necessarily  connected  with  and  supported  by 
Spirit,  is  yet  its  direct  opposite.  Every  one  of 
the  qualities  of  Matter  is  antagonistic  to  the  cor- 
responding spiritual  quality.    Thus  Spirit  is  in- 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


61 


finite  and  eternal ;  Matter  finite  and  transitory. 
Or  rather,  Matter,  if  it  could  be  considered  by 
itself,  would  be  a  mere  negation,  and  is  inca- 
pable of  being  expressed  without  its  opposite. 
For  transience,  for  example,  implies  a  certain 
duration.  The  material  Universe,  therefore,  is 
an  embodied  contradiction,  and  Space  of  course 
a  mere  suspension  or  abstraction  of  this.  Thus 
Space  is  both  the  affirmative  condition  and  the 
negation  of  Extension ;  for  there  is  no  unlimited 
Extension,  and  limitation  is  equivalent  to  ne- 
gation. 

So  of  Time.  It  differs  from  Space  only  as 
quality  from  quantity ;  Intension  from  Exten- 
sion ;  the  inward  from  the  outward  sense,  so 
called.  As  Matter  is  limited  in  extent,  so  also 
it  is  transient  in  substance ;  and  as  Space  con- 
tains both  extension  and  limitation,  so  Time  is 
embodied  Change,  i.  e.  persistence  and  tran- 
sience: we  cannot  arrest  any  particle  of  it,  as 
the  Present,  for  as  we  pause,  it  is  already  Past. 
Every-day  experience  shows  us  that  our  notion 
of  Time  depends  upon  the  number  of  events 
that  have  successively  impressed  us  and  then 
given  place  to  others.  Amid  a  rapid  succession 
of  interesting  events,  a  week,  when  past,  seems 
a  month,  and  a  month  a  year,  for  we  date  from 
each  succeeding  event.  On  the  other  hand,  to 
measure  Time  for  economic  purpose,  we  em- 
ploy astronomic  changes,  since  here  the  succes- 
sion is  unvarying. 

It  is  the  profound  remark  of  an  ancient  Hin- 
doo book,  that  Time  is  the  connection  of  Matter 
and  Spirit.    And  the  same  is  true  of  Space. 

The  interesting  point  here,  and  that  to  which 
the  preceding  inquiries  tend,  is  this :  That  not 
the  Transcendental  Ideas  alone,  but  the  com- 
monest and  simplest  experience  must  necessa- 
rily contain  a  contradiction,  to  the  Understand- 
ing. Time  is  the  contradiction  of  Eternity,  yet 
also  of  the  moment,  or  point  in  Time  ;  Space  is 
the  opposition  of  Unity,  yet  also  of  the  point 
in  Space.  And  it  is  also  very  remarkable  that 
Kant  in  the  table  which  he  gives  of  the  differ- 
ent classes  of  possible  judgments,  and  also  in 
his  table  of  Categories,  or  classes  under  which 
all  pure  conceptions  of  the  Understanding  may 
be  reduced,  has  in  each  instance  distributed 
them  under  various  heads,  by  threes,  of  which 
two  are  contraries  and  the  third  their  result; 
without  giving  any  deduction,  or  reason  for  so 
doing.  Thus  under  the  head  of  Quantity,  in 
judgment,  he  gives  :  Universal,  Particular,  and 
Special ;  and  under  the  same  head  in  the  Ca- 
tegories, he  gives:  Unity,  Multiplicity,  and  To- 
tality; and  so  on  through  the  whole.  The 
truth  is  that  each  of  these  classes  contains,  not 
only  three  kinds  of  judgment,  or  of  conceptions, 
but  also  the  three  elements  necessary  to  every 
judgment  and  every  conception  ;  viz.  the  con- 
tradiction and  its  result.  Thus  if  I  say :  This 
paper  is  white,  here  we  have  the  general  at- 
tribute, white,  the  limitation,  to  this  piece  of 
paper,  (negation  of  other  paper) ;  and  the  re- 
sult, this  special  piece  of  paper.    So  of  all  con- 


ceptions, and  so  of  all  knowledge  ;  there  is  no 
possible  act  of  cognition  that  does  not  embrace 
this  element  of  contradiction.  It  is  the  combi- 
nation of  outside  and  inside,  light  and  darkness, 
extent  and  limitation,  requisite  to  every  sen- 
suous impression ;  and  it  is  the  puzzle  in  the 
highest  problems  that  employ  the  mind  of  man. 
Thus  in  Civil  Government,  the  coexistence  of 
personal  freedom,  (which  supposes  each  indi- 
vidual supreme  and  unlimited),  with  Society, 
in  which  he  is  only  a  part.  So  in  Religion,  the 
fierce  disputes  that  have  agitated  the  world 
now  for  eighteen  centuries,  arise  solely  from  the 
impossibility,  and  at  the  same  time  the  ever-re- 
curring necessity,  of  conceiving  Man  to  be  at 
once  human  and  divine,  finite  and  infinite  ; 
and  the  difficulty  of  reconciling  the  doctrine  of 
Immortality  and  possible  perfection,  with  the 
common  views  of  h  umanity,  on  any  other  ground. 
A  finite  immortal  is  the  most  tremendous  of 
contradictions.  This  is  the  cause  of  the  horror 
with  which  the  doctrine  of  the  mere  humanity 
of  Jesus  Christ  is  looked  upon  by  most  persons. 

But  these  contradictions  and  these  impossi- 
bilities are  such  only  to  the  Understanding  ;  that 
is,  the  mind  employed  only  with  particulars. 
The  contradiction  truly  exists  in  the  Universe, 
and  to  him  who  does  not  transcend  it,  does  not 
see  it  and  its  contrary  united  in  an  harmonious 
synthesis,  it  is  final.  But  in  reality  it  is  super- 
ficial, and  Reason,  or  the  mind  contemplating 
things  as  a  Whole,  readily  resolves  it.  Then 
it  is  no  longer  contradiction,  but  the  necessary 
organism  of  the  Idea. 

Kant,  from  his  point  of  view,  was  quite  right 
in  making  knowledge  subjective  only,  for  he 
confines  his  inquiries  as  to  the  Cognitive  faculty 
entirely  to  the  Understanding,  or  subjective 
Reason,  to  the  very  nature  of  which,  this  an- 
tagonism of  the  subjective  and  objective,  and 
their  absolute  separation,  is  altogether  essential. 

There  is  another  branch  of  Kant's  enquiry, 
touched  upon  in  the  beginning  of  these  re- 
marks, but  which  our  limits  forbid  our  discus- 
sing at  much  length  ;  leading,  however,  to  the 
same  point.  This  is  the  distinction  he  makes 
between  the  •phenomenon,  or  appearance  of  a 
thing,  and  the  thing  itself,  and  his  doctrine  that 
we  can  know  nothing  of  the  latter,  but  that 
all  our  perception  and  knowledge  is  confined 
to  the  former.  This  evidently  follows  from  his 
premises. 

For  if  all  our  intercourse  with  things  is  that 
of  one  thing  with  another,  it  must  evidently  be 
merely  outward,  like  all  relations  of  things  to 
each  other. 

If  we  bring  two  bodies  together,  they  touch 
only  their  outer  surfaces ;  an  inward  union  is 
impossible.  Modern  Chemistry  has  shown  ex- 
perimentally that  the  transformations  of  Matter 
are  merely  apparent,  and  consist  solely  of  vari- 
ous combinations  of  the  same  particles.  Bodies 
apparently  the  most  distinct,  for  example, 
starch,  gum,  sugar,  fat,  and  the  woody  fibre  of 
6 


62 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


plants  are  the  same  or  nearly  so,  in  composi- 
tion. For  Matter,  as  has  been  well  said,  has 
no  inside,  but  only  outside,  and  is  capable  only 
of  outward  relations. 

This  Kant  shows,  psychologically,  in  our 
sensuous  perceptions.  For  what  do  we  after 
all  mean,  when  we  say  we  perceive  a  thing, 
for  instance  a  tree?  Plainly  nothing  more  than 
that  we  see  certain  colours  and  outlines  ap- 
parently connected  and  belonging  to  some 
thing. 

But  whether  there  is  anything  really  existing 
in  that  place,  or  whether  it  be  only  something 
within  myself,  or  the  effect  of  another  thing, 
I  cannot  (with  absolute  certainty)  tell.  For 
our  senses  are  our  only  evidence,  and  they  pre- 
tend to  nothing  more  than  a  perception  of  ap- 
pearances. To  another  intelligence,  or  to  dif- 
ferently constructed  senses,  the  object  may  ap- 
pear quite  different.  At  first  sight,  indeed, 
it  might  seem  that  we  do  entirely  rely  upon  the 
report  of  our  senses ;  but  let  any  one  compare 
his  knowledge  of  any  outward  fact  with  his 
perception  of  a  mathematical  truth,  and  he  will 
find  the  former  much  the  weaker.  We  may 
admit  the  possibility  of  our  being  persuaded  to 
change  our  notions  as  to  the  colour,  shape,  and 
other  qualities  of  any  object;  but  we  cannot  for 
an  instant  admit  the  possibility  of  being  con- 
vinced that  two  and  two  do  not  make  four. 
Now  evidently  there  are  no  degrees  of  certainty ; 
we  either  know,  or  we  do  not  know. 

Kant  accordingly  comes  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  cannot,  properly  speaking,  know  any- 
thing of  the  real  nature  or  substance  of  objects : 
and  that  all  we  can  hope  to  know  about  them 
is  their  effect  upon  ourselves ;  or  at  the  most, 
the  forms  and  rules  of  this  subjective  effect. 

Nevertheless  our  claim  of  objective  know- 
ledge continues  :  in  spite  of  the  contradiction 
of  the  Understanding,  there  is  an  instinctive 
feeling  that  it  is  not  absolute,  but  only  the  dif- 
ferent sides  of  one  truth.  And  in  truth  the 
contradiction  here  too  belongs  only  to  the  Un- 
derstanding, transcending  its  province.  It  is 
true,  that  of  anything  absolutely  objective, 
really  foreign  to  our  nature,  we  can  know 
nothing  objectively ;  and  more  than  this,  as  we 
have  seen  above,  we  could  not  have  even  sub- 
jective knowledge  of  an  absolute  object;  it 
would  be  for  us  a  mere  non-entity. 

But  this  antithesis  of  Subject  and  Object  is 
entirely  subordinate  and  belongs  wholly  to  the 
Understanding  Reflection  and  consciousness 
indeed  by  nature  require  it,  and  depend  upon 
it;  but  it  is  the  prerogative  of  Reason  to  see 
through  and  reconcile  all  distinctions  and  oppo- 
sitions, not  indeed  annihilating  them,  but  ap- 
pointing to  them  their  proper  sphere. 

So  that  this  contradiction  to  the  Understand- 
ing is  so  far  from  interfering  with  the  validity 
of  the  Transcendental  Ideas  (conceptions  of  the 
Reason)  that  it  is  essential  to  their  nature. 
Knowledge  is  not  rendered  impossible  by  it, 
but  all  knowledge,  down  to  the  merest  sensu- 


ous perception,  is  shown  by  Kant  himself  (pro- 
perly understood),  to  contain  and  require  it. 

Kant  is  not  the  only  philosopher  who  has  ar- 
rived at  these  contradictions.  They  are  neces- 
sarily present  in  the  Understanding;  and  in  all 
empirical  philosophy,  logically  carried  out,  this 
is  made  evident.  The  only  escape  is  either  in 
the  feebleness  that  cannot  understand  its  own 
results ;  or  in  wilfully  ignoring  them,  which  is 
the  course  pursued  by  Cousin,  and  more  avow- 
edly by  the  "  Scotch  School." 

But  the  interesting  feature  in  Kant's  inquiry, 
and  that  which  gives  it  its  place  in  the  History 
of  Philosophy,  arises  from  the  faithfulness  with 
which  it  is  made.  His  rigid  and  faithful  ex- 
amination of  facts  of  consciousness  brought  him 
to  principles,  which  his  adherence  to  the  com- 
mon point  of  view  made  him  reject  or  overlook, 
but  which  in  fact  involved  a  revolution  in  Phi- 
losophy. His  close  analysis  revealed  the  con- 
tradiction contained  in  those  propositions  which 
seem  most  solid  and  certain  to  the  Understand- 
ing, and  this  showed  the  true  province  and  the 
limitations  of  this  faculty  (or  rather  this  direc- 
tion of  the  mind),  by  pushing  to  their  necessary 
consequences  the  common  principles.  It  is  not 
sufficient  to  contradict  or  refute  Error;  it  is 
requisite  moreover  to  show  that  it  is  an  em- 
bodied self-contradiction  and  self-refutation,  and 
to  see  this  the  repugnant  elements  must  be  dis- 
played. It  is  this  dialectic  that  makes  the  value 
of  Kant's  Critique,  and  it  is  not  the  less  inter- 
esting for  being  unconscious. 

Among  the  extracts  we  have  given  from 
Kant's  writings,  that  from  the  Critique  of  the 
Judgment  is  intended  as  a  specimen  of  his 
method  and  style  in  his  strictly  scientific  works. 
This  book  is  remarkable  as  displaying  in  the 
most  striking  manner  the  contradiction  above 
alluded  to.  Thus  in  his  principle  that  Beauty 
is  a  subjective  fitness; — when  it  is  evident,  and 
indeed  he  himself  has  explained,  that  fitness 
necessarily  implies  an  object,  something  for 
which  the  thing  is  fit;  and  when  he  speaks  of 
a  "normal  regularity  without  law"  etc.,  — here 
and  throughout  we  have  the  material  stand- 
point, and  also  the  idealistic,  to  which  the 
former  necessarily  leads.  This  extract  may 
also  serve  as  a  specimen  of  Kant's  scientific 
style,  which  is  perfectly  uniform  throughout  his 
more  important  works.  Its  crabbed,  harsh 
character,  and  the  frequent  use  of  unusual 
words,  or  at  least  of  words  used  in  unusual 
senses,  will  no  doubt  excuse  us  in  the  eyes  of 
our  readers  from  giving  extracts  of  sufficient 
length,  to  afford  any  adequate  means  of  judg- 
ing of  Kant's  general  merits  as  a  philosopher. 
But  what  is  given  may  be  enough  at  least  to 
correct  or  prevent  some  false  impressions;  be- 
ing as  we  have  said,  as  far  as  it  goes,  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  whole. 

The  other  extracts  exhibit  Kant  rather  as  a 
philanthropist  and  a  well-read  scholar  than  as 
a  philosopher,  and  both  in  matter  and  in  style 
are  much  less  abstruse  and  peculiar. 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


63 


FROM  THE 

CRITIQUE  OF  THE  JUDGMENT. 

The  domain  of  our  general  cognitive  faculty 
comprehends  two  provinces,  one  embracing  our 
conceptions  of  Nature,  and  the  other  the  idea 
of  Freedom  ;  for  in  each  of  these  it  has  a  priori 
authority.  Philosophy  is  divided  accordingly  into 
theoretical  and  practical.  *  *  *  The  system  of 
laws,  relating  to  our  conceptions  of  Nature,  is 
derived  from  the  Understanding,  and  is  theore- 
tical. That  arising  from  the  idea  of  Freedom, 
is  derived  from  the  Reason,  and  is  exclusively 
practical.  *  *  *  The  subject-matter  to  which 
the  laws  of  the  cognitive  faculty  apply,  is  nothing 
else  than  the  aggregate  of  all  objects  of  possible 
experience,  considered  merely  as  phenomena. 
*  *  *  The  provinces  of  Understanding  and 
of  Reason  therefore  are  different,  though  their 
subject-matter  is  the  same,  and  they  do  not  in- 
terfere with  each  other  '  for  this  reason,'*  that 
conceptions  relating  to  Nature  give  us  objects 
as  present  to  Perception  (Jlnschauung),~f  though 
not  as  the  things  themselves,  but  only  as  phe- 
nomena; the  idea  of  Freedom  on  the  other 
hand  has  to  do  with  the  thing  itself,  but  not  as 
an  object  of  sensation.  Thus  neither  can  give 
a  theoretical  knowledge  of  its  Object  (nor  even 
of  the  subject  thinking),  in  its  essential  nature, 
for  this  would  be  the  Supersensuous ;  the  idea 
of  which  must  indeed  be  presupposed  as  the 
foundation  of  the  possibility  of  Experience,  but 
can  never  be  raised  and  enlarged  into  a  cogni- 
tion. *  *  *  Now,  although  an  impassable 
chasm  is  established  between  the  province  of 
the  conception  of  Nature  (as  the  Sensuous),  and 
that  of  the  idea  of  Freedom  (the  Supersensuous), 
so  that  no  passage  is  possible  from  the  former 
to  the  latter,  as  if  they  were  two  different 
worlds,  one  of  which  could  have  no  influence 
upon  the  other ;  yet  there  exists  an  obligation 
that  the  latter  should  exert  an  influence  over 
the  former :  that  is,  that  the  idea  of  Freedom 
should  actualize  in  the  sensible  world,  the  end 
sought  by  its  laws.  It  must  be  conceivable 
therefore,  that  Nature  should  admit  at  least  the 
possibility  of  a  coincidence  with  the  ends  to  be 
accomplished  in  the  sensible  world  in  accord- 
ance with  the  laws  of  Freedom.  There  must 
therefore  be  a  ground  of  unity  between  the 
supersensuous  foundation  of  Nature,  with  the 
principle  of  Freedom  ;  and  this,  though  we  can 
have  no  'complete'  cognition  of  it,  either  theore- 
tical or  practical,  yet  makes  the  transition  pos- 
sible from  the  one  system  of  views  to  the 
other.  ****** 

But  among  the  higher  cognitive  faculties  there 
is  one  that  forms  a  connecting  link  between  the 
Understanding  and  the  Reason.    This  is  the 

♦The  words  between  commas  '  '  here  and  elsewhere 
are  inserted  to  render  the  sense  more  clear.  Tr. 

f  I  am  obliged  (reluctantly)  to  translate  Anschauung  by 
Perception,  instead  of  Intuition,  since  by  the  latter  word 
we  mean  an  intellectual  beholding,  which  is  never  Kant's 
sense.  Tr. 


Judgment,  concerning  which  we  have  reason 
(from  analogy)  to  conjecture  that  it  also  has,  if  not 
a  peculiar  province,  yet  a  principle  peculiar  to 
itself,  and  a  priori,  though  certainly  subjective. 
*  *  *  For  all  the  faculties  or  capabilities  of 
the  mind  may  be  reduced  to  three,  which  are 
not  farther  reducible  to  any  common  principle  ; 
viz :  the  Cognitive  faculty  the  sentiment  of 
Pleasure  or  Pain  and  Desire.  The  laws  of  the 
cognitive  faculty  are  given  by  the  Understand- 
ing alone,  *  *  *  and  those  of  Desire,  (as 
subject  to  the  idea  of  Freedom),  by  the  Reason. 
Between  these  lies  the  sentiment  of  Pleasure; 
as  the  Judgment  between  Understanding  and 
Reason.  It  is  therefore  at  least  to  be  conjectured, 
that  the  Judgment  also  must  contain  an  a  priori 
principle  of  its  own;  and  as  Pleasure  or  Pain 
is  necessarily  connected  with  Desire,  a  transition 
must  thus  be  formed  between  the  pure  cognitive 
faculty,  i.  e.  from  the  province  of  Nature,  to  that 
of  Freedom;  just  as  in  its  logical  employment 
it  renders  possible  a  connection  of  Understand- 
ing with  Reason.  *  *  *  A  reference  to  this 
analogy  is  familiar  even  to  the  common  under- 
standing, and  we  often  call  beautiful  objects  in 
Nature  or  Art  by  names  which  seem  to  pre- 
suppose a  moral  judgment.  We  call  trees  ma- 
jestic and  splendid;  or  fields  smiling  and  happy; 
— even  colours  are  said  to  be  innocent,  modest, 
tender,  &c.  *  *  *  Taste  makes  possible  as 
it  were  the  passage  from  the  pleasures  of  sense 
to  habitual  moral  interest,  without  too  abrupt  a 
transition.  ***** 

Judgment  is  the  faculty  of  conceiving  the 
Particular  as  contained  in  the  Universal.  Where 
the  Universal,  (the  rule,  the  principle,  the  law,) 
is  given,  Judgment,  which  subordinates  the 
Particular  to  it,  is  determinative.  But  where  the 
Particular  is  given,  for  which  the  Universal  is 
to  be  sought,  it  is  merely  reflective. 

The  determinative  Judgment  has  only  to  sub- 
ordinate particulars  to  the  general  transcenden- 
tal laws  furnished  by  the  Understanding;  the 
law  is  given  a  priori.  But  so  manifold  are  the 
forms  in  Nature,  the  modifications  as  it  were 
of  the  general  transcendental  principles  of  Na- 
ture, left  undetermined  by  the  laws  furnished 
a  priori  by  the  pure  Understanding  (since  these 
apply  only  to  the  possibility  of  Nature  in  general, 
as  perceptible  by  the  senses),  that  there  must 
exist  for  them  laws,  which  indeed  as  empirical, 
may  be  accidental  to  the  view  of  our  understand- 
ing, but  which,  if  they  are  to  have  the  name  of 
la  ws,  (as  the  idea  of  nature  demands),  must  be 
considered  as  necessary,  and  as  proceeding  from 
a  principle  of  unity  among  the  manifold  parti- 
culars. 

The  reflective  Judgment,  whose  province  it 
is  to  ascend  from  the  Particular  in  Nature  to 
the  Universal,  is  therefore  in  need  of  a  princi- 
ple, and  this  it  cannot  derive  from  Experience, 
since  its  very  aim  is  to  establish  the  unity  of  all 
empirical  principles  under  principles  higher 
though  likewise  empirical,  and  thus  to  establish 
the  possibility  of  a  systematic  subordination 


64  IMMANUEL  KANT. 


among  them.  Such  a  transcendental  principle, 
the  reflective  Judgment  therefore  must  give  to 
itself,  and  cannot  take  it  from  anything  else, 
(since  it  would  then  he  determinative) ;  nor  yet 
impose  it  upon  Nature,  since  all  study  of  the 
laws  of  Nature  must  conform  to  Nature,  as 
something  independent  of  the  conditions  of  re- 
flection. 

Now  as  the  general  laws  of  Nature*  have 
their  foundation  in  the  Understanding,  the  prin- 
ciple in  question  can  be  no  other  than  this, 
that  the  particular,  empirical  laws  (as  far  as 
they  are  left  indeterminate  by  the  general  laws,) 
are  to  be  considered  as  so  connected  together 
as  if  Nature  had  been  subjected  to  these  also, 
by  an  Understanding  (though  not  by  ours),  so 
as  to  render  possible  a  system  of  Experience 
according  to  particular  natural  laws.  Not  as 
if  such  an  Understanding  must  actually  be  pos- 
tulated, (for  it  is  only  the  reflective  and  not  the 
determinative  Judgment  that  requires  this  idea 
as  its  principle) — but  the  reflective  faculty  pre- 
scribes it  as  a  law  for  itself,  and  not  for  Nature. 

Now  since  the  conception  of  an  object,  as 
containing  at  the  same  time  the  reason  of  the 
actual  existence  of  the  object,  is  called  the  end, 
and  since  the  harmony  of  a  particular  thing 
with  that  in  the  nature  of  things  which  is  pos- 
sible only  from  their  adaptation  to  ends,  is  called 
the  fitness  of  its  form,  it  follows  that  the  princi- 
ple of  Judgment,  as  respects  the  Form  of  things, 
under  the  laws  of  Experience,  is  the  fitness  of 
Nature  in  her  manifold  variety.  That  is,  by  this 
view,  Nature  is  so  conceived  as  if  there  were 
an  Understanding  that  contained  a  principle  of 
union  among  her  various  empirical  laws. 

The  fitness  of  Nature,  therefore,  is  a  special 
conception  a  priori,  having  its  origin  solely  in 
the  reflective  Judgment.  For  we  cannot  ascribe 
to  natural  objects  anything  like  an  aiming  of 
Nature  in  them  at  ends,  but  only  use  this  con- 
ception in  aid  of  our  study  of  Nature  in  relation 
to  the  connection  of  Phenomena  which  is  given 
by  empirical  laws.        *       *       *        *  * 

This  transcendental  conception  of  a  fitness  in 
Nature  belongs  neither  to  our  conceptions  of 
Nature  nor  to  the  idea  of  Freedom,  since  it  at- 
tributes nothing  to  the  object  (Nature),  but  only 
gives  the  way  in  which  we  must  proceed  in  the 
study  of  the  objects  in  Nature,  with  a  viem  to  a 
complete  coherent  system  of  Experience.  It  is 
thus  a  subjective  principle  (maxim)  of  the  Judg- 
ment; and  hence  we  are  rejoiced,  as  if  at  a 
happy  accident,  favourable  to  our  endeavours, 
(and  in  fact  relieved  from  a  necessity),  when 
we  meet  such  a  systematic  unity  among  merely 
empirical  laws;  although  we  must  necessarily 
presuppose  that  such  a  unity  exists,  without  be- 
ing able  to  comprehend  or  prove  it.        *  * 

The  Understanding  is  indeed  in  possession 
of  general  laws  of  Nature  a  priori,  without 
which  Nature  could  not  be  an  object  of  Expe- 


*  Space  and  Time,  the  (subjective)  conditions  of  the 
existence  of  Phenomena.  Tr. 


rience.  It  is  requisite,  however,  that  there 
should  also  exist  a  certain  order  in  the  rules  of 
Nature  that  relate  to  particulars,  which  are 
known  to  the  Understanding  only  by  Expe- 
rience, and  as  far  as  it  is  concerned,  acciden- 
tal* 

These  rules,  without  which  there  could  be 
no  passing  from  the  general  possibility  of  Expe- 
rience to  an  actual  experience,!  the  Understand- 
ing must  conceive  as  laws,  (i.  e.  as  necessary) ; 
since  otherwise  they  would  form  no  order  of 
Nature  : — though  it  does  not  perceive,  and  may 
never  comprehend  them.  So  that  although  the 
Understanding  can  declare  nothing  a  priori  as 
to  the  nature  of  objects,  yet  in  compliance  with 
these  laws  of  '  particular'  Experience,  as  we  call 
them,  it  is  necessary  to  presuppose  an  a  priori 
principle : — viz.  that  a  cognizable  order  of  Na- 
ture under  these  laws,  is  possible ;  and  to  lay 
this  at  the  foundation  of  all  study  of  Nature. 
As  for  instance  is  expressed  in  the  following 
propositions :  That  there  is  in  Nature  a  system 
of  genera  and  species  comprehensible  by  us; — 
that  these  approach  a  common  type,  so  that  a 
transition  from  one  to  the  other,  and  thus  to  a 
higher  order,  is  possible:  That  though  at  first  it 
seems  to  us  unavoidable  to  suppose,  for  the  spe- 
cific variety  of  effects  in  Nature,  an  equal  vari- 
ety of  causes,  yet  they  may  perhaps  be  em- 
braced under  a  few  principles,  with  the  disco- 
very of  which  we  are  to  employ  ourselves,  &c. 

This  harmony  of  Nature  with  our  cognitive 
faculty  is  presupposed  a  priori  by  the  Judgment 
as  the  foundation  of  its  examination  of  Nature 
in  her  'particular  or'  empirical  laws.  For  the 
Understanding  the  objective  existence  of  this  har- 
mony, is  accidental ; — the  Judgment  alone  as- 
cribes it  to  Nature,  as  'an  adaptation  or'  fitness 
to  our  cognitive  faculty,  transcending  Experi- 
ence. For  without  presupposing  this,  we  should 
have  no  order  of  Nature  under  particular  laws, 
and  hence  no  clue  for  experience  and  inquiry 
into  these  laws  in  their  manifold  variety.  For 
it  is  easily  conceivable,  notwithstanding  all 
the  uniformity  of  Nature  in  her  general  laws, 
without  which  '  even'  the  form  of  an  empirical 
cognition  would  not  be  possible,  that  never- 
theless, the  variety  of  particular  laws  and  their 
effects  might  be  so  great  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  our  Understanding  to  discover  in 
Nature  any  comprehensible  system  of  subdivi- 
sion into  genera  and  species,  by  which  one 
should  throw  light  upon  the  other,  and  render 
it  possible  for  us  to  combine  so  confused  (or, 

*  That  is,  the  Understanding  knows  only  their  exist- 
ence, and  not  why  they  exist,  (their  principle) :  —  so  that 
it  cannot  pronounce  them  necessary.  Tr. 

f  The  general  possibility  of  Experience  is  given  a  pri- 
ori, in  Space  and  Time  ;  but  in  order  to  have  any  expe- 
rience of  an  actual  thing,  there  must  pre-exist  a  synthesis 
or  union  of  various  particulars  in  a  more  general  whole. 
We  cannot  perceive  an  isolated  quality;  e.g.  colour 
without  extension,  or  vice-versa.  This  union  Kant  calls 
the  Unity  of  Apperception,  and  declares  it  to  be  a  neces- 
sary antecedent  of  Experience.  Tr. 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


G5 


properly  speaking,  so  infinitely  complex)  a  mass 
into  a  coherent  experience.        *         *  * 

This  harmony  of  Nature,  amid  the  complexity 
of  her  particular  laws,  with  our  need  of  finding 
in  her,  general  principles,  must,  as  far  as  our 
faculties  reach,  be  considered  accidental,  but 
yet  as  a  necessary  postulate  of  our  Understand- 
ing, and  hence  as  a  fitness  in  Nature  to  the 
aim  of  our  Understanding  in  its  striving  after 
Knowledge.  The  general  laws  of  the  Under- 
standing, which  are  at  the  same  time  laws  of 
Nature,  are  as  necessary  to  Nature  (though 
!  subjective,  or'  arising  from  spontaneity)  as  the 
laws  of  motion.  *  *  *  But  that  the  order 
of  Nature  under  particular  laws  in  all  their 
possible  variety  and  dissimilarity,  transcending 
our  powers  of  comprehension,  is  yet  in  reality 
fitted  to  our  cognitive  faculties,  is,  so  far  as  we 
can  see,  accidental ;  and  the  discovery  of  this 
order  is  the  business  of  the  Understanding, 
which  is  thus  directed  to  its  true  function,  the 
introduction  of  unity  of  principle  among  these 
various  particular  laws.  This  design  the  Judg- 
ment is  forced  to  ascribe  to  Nature ;  since  the 
Understanding  can  furnish  no  such  law.     *  * 

The  Judgment  is  thus  in  possession  of  an  a 
priori  principle  of  the  possibility  of  Nature,  but 
it  is  only  a  subjective  one,  whereby  a  law  is 
prescribed,  not  to  Nature,  but  to  itself  in  its 
study  of  Nature.  This  law  we  may  call  the  law 
of  Specification  in  Nature,  as  to  her  empirical 
laws. 

This  is  not  seen  a  priori  in  Nature,  but  postu- 
lated, as  the  principle  according  to  which  we 
must  conceive  the  subdivision  of  her  general 
laws,  and  the  subordination  under  them  of  her 
particular  laws.  So  that  when  it  is  said  that 
Nature  subdivides  her  general  laws  according 
to  a  principle  of  fitness  to  our  cognitive  faculty, 
*  *  *  we  neither  give  a  law  to  Nature,  nor 
learn  one  from  her  by  Experience,  though  this 
may  confirm  it.  For  this  only  is  intended ;  that 
however  Nature  may  be  constituted  as  to  her 
general  principles,  we  must  at  all  events  pursue 
our  study  of  her  empirical  laws  according  to 
this  principle  and  the  maxims  founded  on  it; 
since  it  is  only  so  far  as  this  is  done,  that  we 
can  proceed  in  the  employment  of  our  Under- 
standing in  Experience,  and  the  acquisition  of 
Knowledge. 

The  attaining  of  any  end  is  connected  with  a 
feeling  of  Pleasure,  and  where  the  condition  of 
attaining  the  end  is  an  a  priori  notion ;  (as  in 
the  present  case,  a  principle  of  the  reflective 
Judgment),  the  feeling  of  Pleasure  is  placed  on 
a  foundation  a  priori,  and  of  universal  validity. 

Now  although  we  do  not  and  cannot  trace 
the  slightest  feeling  of  Pleasure  from  the  coin- 
cidence of  our  perceptions  with  the  laws  and 
universal  ideas  of  Nature,  (the  Categories)  ; 
since  the  Understanding  proceeds  without  '  con- 
scious' aim,  by  the  necessity  of  its  nature;  yet 
on  the  other  hand  the  discovery  that  two  or 
more  apparently  heterogeneous  laws  are  era- 
I 


braced  under  one  common  principle,  is  the  oc- 
casion of  very  marked  satisfaction,  often  indeed 
of  an  admiration,  which  does  not  cease  even 
when  we  are  familiar  with  the  object. 

It  is  true  'that  in  many  cases'  we  no  longer 
feel  any  pleasure  to  arise  from  the  compre- 
hensibility  of  Nature,  and  her  unity  amid  the 
divisions  of  genera  and  species  (whereby  alone 
Experience  and  knowledge  of  her  particular 
laws  is  possible)  ;  but  it  must  certainly  have 
been  felt  at  one  time ;  and  it  is  only  because 
the  commonest  experience  would  not  be  pos- 
sible without  this  harmony,  that  it  has  gradually 
lost  itself  in  the  mere  cognition,  and  is  no 
longer  distinguished.  *  *  *  On  the  other 
hand,  a  view  of  Nature  which  should  declare 
at  the  outset,  that  at  the  slightest  advance 
beyond  the  commonest  experience  we  should 
come  upon  a  heterogeneousness  of  her  laws, 
making  the  combination  of  particular  laws 
under  general  principles  of  Experience,  im- 
possible for  our  Understanding,  would  be  al- 
together repulsive  to  us :  for  this  is  opposed 
to  the  principle  of  the  (subjective)  harmony  of 
Nature  in  her  divisions,  with  the  reflective 
Judgment. 

This  postulate  of  the  Judgment  however  is 
so  undefined  as  to  the  extent  to  which  this 
principle  of  the  ideal  fitness  of  Nature  to  our 
cognitive  faculty  is  to  be  allowed,  that  if  we 
should  be  told  that  a  deeper  or  wider  know- 
ledge of  Nature  from  observation  must  at  last 
reveal  to  us  a  complexity  in  her  laws,  not  re- 
ducible to  a  single  principle  by  any  human  un- 
derstanding; we  should  have  nothing  to  ob- 
ject: though  it  is  more  agreeable  to  us  when 
hopes  are  afforded,  that  the  more  we  penetrate 
into  Nature,  or  become  acquainted  with  out- 
ward, as  yet  unknown  laws,  the  more  simple 
and  consonant  we  shall  find  her  principles, 
amid  all  the  apparent  heterogeneousness  of  her 
empirical  laws.  *  *  * 

THE    NOTION    OF  ADAPTATION  IN  NATURE,  AP- 
PLIED  TO  ./ESTHETICS . 

The  merely  subjective  in  the  notion  of  an 
object ;  i.  e.  its  relation  to  the  Subject,  and  not 
to  the  thing,  forms  the  (esthetic*  character  of  the 
notion;  but  that  which  aids,  or  may  be  em- 
ployed in  determining  the  nature  of  the  thing 
as  an  object  of  knowledge,  is  its  logical  validity. 
t  In  the  cognition  of  a  sensible  object,  both 
these  relations  occur.  *  *  *  Sensation  ex- 
presses both  the  merely  subjective  in  our 
notions  of  outward  things,  and  also  their 
material  (real)  principle,  whereby  their  actual 
existence  is  declared.  *  *  *  But  that  sub- 
jective element  in  a  notion,  which  can  in  no 
case  form  part  of  a  cognition,  is  the  pleasure  or 
displeasure  connected  with  it.  For  by  pleasure 
or  the  contrary,  I  know  nothing  of  the  object, 
though  the  sentiment  may  result  from  a  cog- 

*  ^Esthetic  with  Kant  means  sensuous;  dependent  on, 
or  belonging  to  the  senses.  Tr. 

6* 


6G 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


nition.  Now  the  adaptedness  of  a  thing,  as 
given  in  perception,  is  no  quality  of  the  object, 
for  that  could  not  be  perceived,  though  it  may- 
be inferred  from  a  knowledge  of  the  thing.  So 
that  this  adaptedness,  preceding  the  cognition, 
and  not  even  aiming  at  knowledge  of  the  ob- 
ject, yet  still  immediately  connected  with  its 
notion,  is  that  subjective  element  in  the  notion, 
which  cannot  form  any  part  of  cognition. 

The  object  therefore  is  said  to  be  adapted, 
only  because  its  image  'or  notion'  is  imme- 
diately connected  with  the  feeling  of  pleasure ; 
and  the  notion  'itself  is  an  aesthetic  notion'  as  to 
the  fitness  of  the  object.  The  only  question  is 
whether  such  a  notion  of  fitness  exists. 

When  the  mere  apprehension  of  the  form  of 
a  sensible  object,  unconnected  with  any  con- 
ception or  definite  knowledge,  is  attended  with 
pleasure,  the  notion  is  thereby  referred,  not  to 
the  object,  but  merely  to  the  subject ;  *  and  the 
pleasure  can  express  only  the  harmony  of  the 
object  with  the  cognitive  faculties  exercised  in 
the  reflective  Judgment;  thus  a  mere  subjec- 
tive, formal  adaptedness  of  the  object.  For 
such  apprehension  of  forms  by  the  Imagination 
can  never  take  place  without  some  comparison 
(even  though  unconscious)  on  the  part  of  the 
reflective  Judgment,  of  the  apprehensions  with 
its  faculty  of  connecting  sensations  with  ideas. 

When  therefore  in  this  comparison  the  Imagi- 
nation (the  faculty  of  a  priori  perceptions)  is 
unexpectedly  brought  into  harmony  with  the 
Understanding  (the  faculty  of  conceptions),  by 
means  of  the  notion  of  an  object,  and  thereby 
a  feeling  of  pleasure  awakened;  in  such  case 
there  must  appear  to  us  to  exist  a  fitness  of  the 
object  to  the  reflective  Judgment.  This  is  an 
(Esthetic  judgment  as  to  the  fitness  of  the  object; 
neither  founding  itself  upon,  nor  giving  any 
conception  of  the  thing  itself. 

Whenever  the  form  of  an  object  (abstracted 
from  its  material  influence  upon  us,  as  Sensa- 
tion), in  merely  considering  it,  without  reference 
to  any  conception  of  its  nature,  is  found  by  the 
Judgment  to  cause  pleasure  by  its  mere  image, 
this  pleasure  the  Judgment  decides  to  be  neces- 
sarily connected  with  the  notion  ;  not  merely 
for  the  particular  person,  but  for  all.  The 
object  in  such  case  is  said  to  be  beautiful;  and 
the  ability  to  judge  by  means  of  this  pleasure 
(and  thus  to  form  judgments  of  universal 
validity),  is  called  Taste.       *       *  * 

Judgment  by  means  of  Taste,  is  jesthetic. 

In  order  to  determine  whether  a  thing  is 
beautiful  or  not,  we  do  not  refer  the  notion  to 
its  object,  through  the  Understanding  (as  in 
cognition);  but  to  the  Subject,  and  the  feeling 
of  pleasure  or  displeasure,  through  the  Imagi- 
nation. *  *  *  * 

All  notions  may  refer  to  objects,  except  those 
relating  to  the  sentiment  of  pleasure  or  dis- 
pleasure, for  this  denotes  nothing  in  the  Object, 
but  only  an  affection  of  the  Subject.    *    *  * 


An  objective  fitness  can  be  known  only  from  the 
reference  of  particulars  to  a  certain  end,  thus 
only  from  a  conception  'of  the  nature  of  the 
object.'  *  *  *  It  is  either  outward  adapted- 
ness, i.  e.  usefulness:  or  inward  adaptedness, 
i.  e.  the  perfection  of  the  thing. — That  the  satis- 
faction derived  from  an  object,  whence  we  call 
it  beautiful,  cannot  depend  on  any  notion  of  its 
usefulness,  is  sufficiently  evident  from  what  has 
been  said.  For  then  it  would  not  be  a  pleasure 
derived  immediately  from  the  object,  which  is 
the  essential  condition  of  a  judgment  concern- 
ing Beauty.  But  an  objective,  inward  fitness, 
i.  e.  Perfection,  comes  nearer  to  the  predicate 
of  Beauty,  and  it  has  hence  been  held  by  dis- 
tinguished philosophers,  that  Perfection,  indis- 
tinctly conceived,  is  synonymous  with  Beauty. — 
It  is  of  the  greatest  importance  in  a  Critique  of 
Taste,  to  determine  whether  Beauty  can  be 
resolved  into  the  idea  of  Perfection. 

In  order  to  judge  of  objective  fitness,  we  must 
always  have  the  conception  of  an  end,  and 
where  the  fitness  is  not  outward,  (Usefulness), 
but  inward ;  the  conception  of  an  inward  end 
which  shall  contain  the  ground  of  the  inward 
possibility  of  the  object.  Now  as  end  is  some- 
thing the  idea  of  which  may  be  considered  as 
the  ground  of  the  possibility  of  the  object  itself, 
in  order  to  conceive  of  an  objective  fitness  in  a 
thing,  the  conception  of  what  it  ought  to  be  must 
precede  it.  *  *  *  The  merely  formal  ele- 
ment in  the  notion  of  a  thing:  i.  e.  the  com- 
bination of  the  Manifold  into  one,  (leaving  its 
nature  undetermined),  gives  of  itself  no  know- 
ledge of  objective  fitness ;  since  as  we  abstract 
from  the  particular  thing,  as  an  end,  (that 
which  it  ought  to  be),  nothing  is  left  but  the 
subjective  fitness  of  the  notions  in  the  mind  of 
the  beholder  ;  *  *  *  but  nothing  as  to  the 
perfection  of  any  object.  *  *  *  Thus,  for 
example,  if  I  come  upon  a  grassy  spot  in  the 
woods,  around  which  the  trees  stand  in  a  circle, 
and  do  not  image  to  myself  any  purpose  ;  (as 
for  instance,  that  it  might  be  used  for  a  rustic 
dance)  ;  the  mere  form  will  not  give  me  the 
least  idea  of  perfection.  But  to  conceive  of 
formal,  objective  fitness,  without  any  end  pro- 
posed ;  that  is  the  mere  form  of  a  perfection ; 
*    *    *    is  a  complete  contradiction. 

Now  Taste  is  aesthetic  Judgment:  i.  e.  it  rests 
upon  subjective  grounds,  and  cannot  have  any 
conception,  (and  thus  not  that  of  a  particular 
end),  as  its  motive.  Therefore  the  idea  of 
Beauty,  as  a  formal,  subjective  fitness,  by  no 
means  involves  any  perfection  of  the  thing;  and 
the  distinction  between  the  ideas  of  the  Beauti- 
ful and  of  the  Good,  (as  if  they  differed  only  in 
logical  form,  the  former  merely  a  confused,  the 
latter  a  distinct  idea  of  Perfection),  is  without 
foundation.  For  then  there  would  be  no  specific 
difference  between  them,  and  an  aesthetic  judg- 
ment would  be  at  the  same  time  cognitive.  *  * 

But  I  have  already  shown  that  the  aesthetic 
Judgment  is  peculiar  in  this,  that  it  gives  no 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


67 


knowledge  whatever,  (not  even  confused),  of 
its  Object,  *  *  *  but  refers  the  image,  wherein 
an  Object  is  presented  '  to  the  mind,'  merely  to 
the  subject.  ***** 

THE  PLEASURE  THAT  DETERMINES  THE  MS- 
THETIC  JUDGMENT,  IS  ENTIRELY  UNCON- 
NECTED  WITH  INTEREST. 

Interest  is  the  pleasure  that  we  connect  with 
the  notion  that  a  certain  thing  exists.  It  is 
therefore  constantly  connected  with  Desire ; 
which  is  either  its  motive,  or  necessarily  con- 
nected therewith.  Now  when  it  is  asked 
whether  a  thing  is  beautiful  or  not,  we  do  not 
seek  to  know  whether  the  existence  of  the  thing 
can  be  of  any  importance  to  us,  or  to  any  one : 
but  only  what  is  our  judgment  respecting  it, 
apart  from  the  question  of  its  existence?  If  any 
one  ask  me  whether  the  palace  I  see  before  me, 
is  beautiful,  I  may  indeed  say  that  I  am  not 
fond  of  things  made  only  to  be  stared  at ;  or  I 
may  answer  after  the  manner  of  the  Iroquois 
Sachem,  who  liked  nothing  in  Paris  better  than 
the  restaur ans ;  or  I  may  scold  in  Rousseau's 
style,  about  the  vanity  of  the  great,  who  waste 
the  sweat  of  the  people  on  such  superfluities ; 
or  finally,  I  can  easily  persuade  myself  that  if  I 
were  upon  an  uninhabited  island,  without  hope 
of  ever  seeing  men  again,  and  by  my  mere  wish 
could  conjure  up  such  a  palace,  I  should  never 
give  myself  even  this  trouble,  if  I  already  had 
a  hut  that  suited  me.  All  this  may  be  granted; 
but  this  is  not  now  the  question.  The  point  is 
only  whether  the  mere  image  of  the  thing  in 
my  mind  is  accompanied  by  pleasure  ;  however 
indifferent  I  may  be  as  to  its  existence.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  it  is  what  I  make  out  of  the 
notion  within  me,  and  not  that  wherein  I  am 
dependent  on  the  existence  of  the  object,  that 
enables  me  to  say  that  it  is  beautiful,  and  to 
prove  that  I  have  Taste. 

Every  one  must  confess  that  a  judgment  con- 
cerning Beauty,  with  which  the  slightest  interest 
is  mingled,  is  quite  partial,  and  no  pure  aesthetic 
judgment.  We  must  be  altogether  disinterested, 
and  indifferent  as  to  the  existence  of  the  thing, 
in  order  to  judge  in  matters  of  Taste. 

We  cannot  better  illustrate  this  point,  (which 
is  of  special  importance),  than  by  contrasting 
with  the  pure,  disinterested*  pleasure  of  the 
aesthetic  judgment,  pleasure  that  is  connected 
with  interest.  ***** 

THE    PLEASURE     DERIVED     FROM    THE  AGREE- 
ABLE, IS    CONNECTED  WITH  INTEREST. 

The  Agreeable  is  that  which  is  pleasing  to 
the  senses,  in  Sensation.  *  *  *  By  Sensa- 
tion we  understand  an  image  received  through 
the  senses,  referring  to  an  object;  and,  to  prevent 
the  continual  danger  of  misunderstanding,  we 


*  A  judgment  as  to  an  object  giving  Pleasure,  may  be 
entirely  disinterested,  but  yet  very  interesting:  i.  e.  it  does 
not  found  itself  upon  any  interest,  but  produces  it.  Such 
are  all  purely  moral  judgments.      *      *      *  * 


shall  call  that  which  constantly  and  necessarily 
remains  subjective,  and  can  in  no  case  con- 
stitute a  notion  of  an  object,  by  the  customary 
name  of  Feeling. 

The  green  colour  of  the  meadows  belongs  to 
objective  sensation,  as  the  perception  of  a  Sen- 
sible object ;  but  the  agreeableness  of  the  colour 
belongs  to  subjective  Sensation,  whereby  no 
object  is  given  ;  i.  e.  to  Feeling.    *        *  * 

Now,  that  my  judgment  of  a  thing,  declaring 
it  to  be  agreeable,  expresses  an  interest  in  it,  is 
clear  from  this,  that  it  excites  by  means  of  Sen- 
sation, a  desire  for  such  things;  hence  the  plea- 
sure presupposes,  not  a  mere  judgment  con- 
cerning it,  but  a  reference  of  its  existence  to 
my  condition,  go  far  as  affected  by  such  an 
object.  *  *  *  It  is  not  mere  approbation  I 
bestow  on  it,  but  inclination  is  excited  by  it; 
and  those  sensations  which  are  the  most  vividly 
and  intensely  agreeable,  are  so  far  from  being 
connected  with  Judgment  as  to  the  object  of 
the  sensation,  that  those  who  are  constantly 
bent  on  enjoyment  willingly  disclaim  all  Judg- 
ment. 

THE    PLEASINGNESS    OF    GOOD    IS  CONNECTED 
WITH  INTEREST. 

Good  is  that  which  is  pleasing  to  us,  through 
the  Reason,  by  its  bare  idea.  We  say  that  a 
thing  is  good  for  something,  (useful),  when  it 
pleases  us  as  means  only;  but  we  call  that 
good  in  itself  which  pleases  by  itself.  But  in 
each  is  contained  the  idea  of  purpose,  and  thus 
the  relation  of  the  Reason  to  a  volition,  (at  least 
in  possibility) ;  consequently,  a  pleasure  at  the 
existence  of  an  object  or  an  action;  i.  e.  Interest. 

In  order  to  pronounce  a  thing  good,  I  must 
know  what  sort  of  a  thing  it  is ;  that  is,  I  must 
have  a  conception  of  its  nature.  Flowers,  fan- 
ciful pictures,  interwoven  figures,  such  as  are 
called  Arabesques,  convey  no  particular  idea, 
and  yet  are  pleasing.  '  On  the  other  hand,'  the 
pleasure  derived  from  Beauty  is  necessarily 
dependent  on  the  notion  of  an  object,  and  thus 
contains  the  indication  of  some  conception, 
though  it  does  not  determine  its  precise  charac- 
ter. Herein  it  is  distinguished  from  the  Agree- 
able, which  rests  entirely  upon  Sensation.  *  * 

The  Agreeable  and  the  Good  are  distinguish- 
ed from  each  other,  it  is  true,  in  the  commonest 
experience.  We  say  unhesitatingly  of  a  highly- 
seasoned  dish,  prepared  with  every  provocative 
of  appetite,  that  it  is  agreeable,  and  at  the  same 
time  that  it  is  not  good;  since  it  is  pieasing 
immediately  to  the  senses,  but  mediately,  i.  e. 
through  a  consideration  of  its  consequences,  it 
is  disagreeable.  *  *  *  But  notwithstanding 
this  difference,  they  agree  in  this,  that  they  are 
always  connected  with  an  interest  in  the  object; 
not  only  the  agreeable,  and  that  which  is  good 
as  means,  (the  Useful),  but  also  absolute  and 
universal  Good,  viz  :  moral  Good,  which  carries 
with  it  the  highest  interest,  since  it  is  the  object 
of  the  Will,  (that  is,  of  Desire,  determined  by 
Reason).    But  to  will  anything,  and  to  take 


68 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


pleasure  in  its  existence — that  is,  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  it,  are  identical. 

COMPARISON   OF  THE   THREE   KINDS  OF  FLEA- 
SURE. 

The  Agreeable  and  the  Good  have  each  a 
reference  to  Desire,  and  carry  with  them,  the 
one  a  pathological,  the  other  a  pure  practical 
satisfaction,  produced  not  by  the  mere  notion 
of  the  thing,  but  by  its  existence.    *        *  * 

'On  the  contrary,'  the  aesthetic  Judgment  is 
purely  contemplative ;  that  is,  indifferent  to  the 
existence  of  the  object,  and  regards  only  the 
relation  which  the  nature  of  the  thing  bears  to 
the  feeling  of  pleasure  or  displeasure.     *  * 

It  results,  therefore,  that  Taste  is  the  faculty 
of  judging  of  an  object  or  a  sentiment,  by  means 
of  the  pleasure  or  displeasure  arising  from  it, 
unconnected  with  any  interest.  The  object  of 
such  pleasure  is  called  beautiful. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  IS  THAT  WHICH,  APART  FROM 
ANY  CONCEPTION,  IS  CONSIDERED  AS  AFFORD- 
ING PLEASURE   TO  ALL. 

This  definition  of  the  Beautiful  follows  from 
the  foregoing  definition  of  it  as  the  object  of 
disinterested  pleasure.  For,  when  any  one  per- 
ceives that  the  pleasure  afforded  by  a  thing  is 
unconnected  with  interest,  that  thing  he  cannot 
consider  otherwise  than  as  pleasing  to  all.  For 
as  the  pleasure  is  founded  upon  no  private  in- 
clination, or  consideration  of  interest,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  as  the  mind  feels  itself  entirely 
unbiassed  in  the  satisfaction  attributed  to  the 
object,  the  pleasure  cannot  depend  upon  any 
private  circumstances  or  conditions ;  it  must 
therefore  be  considered  as  founded  in  an  attri- 
bute common  to  all,  and  a  like  pleasure  must 
be  presumed  to  be  felt  by  every  one.  *  * 
So  that  Taste  must  necessarily  be  considered 
as  the  power  of  judging  of  that  by  which  even 
Feeling  may  be  communicated,  and  thus  as 
aiding  in  the  accomplishment  of  what  is  sought 
by  every  one's  natural  inclination. 

A  man  left  on  a  desert  island  would  orna- 
ment neither  his  hut  nor  his  person,  for  himself. 
He  would  not  seek  for  flowers,  much  less  plant 
them,  for  ornament.  It  is  only  in  society  that  it 
occurs  to  him  to  be  not  only  a  man,  but  a  man 
of  Taste,  (the  commencement  of  civilization); 
for  as  such  is  one  considered  who  is  desirous 
of  communicating  his  pleasure  to  others,  and 
expert  in  doing  so,  and  who  is  not  satisfied 
with  an  object  unless  he  can  share  with  others 
the  pleasure  it  affords.  Hence  we  expect  and 
require  of  every  one  this  regard  to  universal 
communication,  as  it  were  from  an  original 
contract  dictated  by  Humanity  itself.    *     *  * 

Here  is  a  pleasure  which,  like  all  pleasure 
or  displeasure  not  resulting  from  the  idea  of 
Freedom,  (that  is,  from  the  previous  determina- 
tion of  the  higher  faculty  of  Desire,  by  pure 
Reason),  cannot  be  understood  from  concep- 
tions, as  if  necessarily  connected  with  the  notion 
of  an  object,  but  only  through  reflective  Percep- 


tion ;  and  thus  like  all  empirical  judgments, 
can  claim  no  objective  necessity,  nor  a  priori 
validity.  But  the  aesthetic  judgment,  like  all 
empirical  judgments,  claims  only  acquiescence 
from  every  one,  which  notwithstanding  its 
essentially  accidental  nature,  it  well  may.  The 
only  astonishing  and  remarkable  point  is,  that 
it  is  no  empirical  conception,  but  a  feeling  of 
Pleasure,  (and  thus  no  conception  whatever), 
which  is  to  be  attributed  to  every  one,  and  con- 
nected with  the  notion  of  the  thing,  as  if  it  were 
a  predicate  belonging  to  its  cognition.  A  single 
empirical  judgment,  for  example,  when  we  find 
a  movable  drop  of  water  in  a  rock-crystal, 
rightly  demands  that  every  one  should  find  it 
so,  since  it  is  formed  according  to  the  universal 
conditions  of  the  determinative  Judgment,  and 
the  laws  of  all  possible  Experience.  So  he  who 
feels  pleasure  in  the  mere  contemplation  of  the 
form  of  an  object,  without  reference  to  a  con- 
ception, properly  claims  the  agreement  of  all, 
although  it  is  a  private  and  empirical  judgment, 
since  the  ground  of  this  pleasure  is  to  be  sought 
in  the  universal  though  subjective  condition  of 
reflective  judgments.  *  *  *  So  that  the 
pleasure  in  an  aesthetic  judgment  is  dependent 
indeed  on  an  empirical  notion,  and  cannot  be 
connected  a  priori  with  any  conception  ;  (we 
cannot  determine  a  priori  what  will  be  agreea- 
ble to  Taste,  or  the  contrary;  we  must  make 
the  experiment)  ;  but  it  is  the  foundation  of  the 
judgment,  since  it  depends  merely  upon  reflec- 
tion and  the  universal  though  subjective  condi- 
tions of  the  harmony  on  which  all  cognition  of 
objects  is  founded.  ***** 

We  therefore  speak  of  the  Beautiful  as  if 
Beauty  were  something  in  the  nature  of  the 
thing,  and  as  if  our  Judgment  were  logical,  (giv- 
ing a  knowledge  of  the  object  through  concep- 
tions '  of  its  nature');  whereas  it  is  only  cesthetic, 
and  contains  only  a  relation  of  the  object  to  the 
subject.  And  this  because  the  aesthetic  judg- 
ment herein  resembles  the  logical  judgment,  that 
it  may  claim  universal  validity. 

This  universality,  however,  cannot  be  derived 
from  conceptions,  for  there  is  no  transition  from 
conceptions  to  the  feeling  of  pleasure  or  dis- 
pleasure, except  in  the  purely  practical  ('  moral  ) 
laws;  and  these  are  accompanied  by  interest, 
and  thus  distinguished  from  the  pure  aesthetic 
Judgment. 

Accordingly  the  aesthetic  judgment  must  con- 
tain, together  with  the  consciousness  of  being 
divested  of  all  Interest,  a  claim  to  universal 
validity,  independent  of  objective  universality; 
that  is,  a  subjective  universality. 

COMPARISON  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  WITH  THE 
AGREEABLE  BY  MEANS  OF  THE  ABOVE  CRITE- 
RION. 

As  to  the  Agreeable,  it  is  felt  by  every  one, 
that  a  judgment  founded  upon  his  private  feel- 
ing, and  asserting  only  that  the  object  is  pleasing 
to  him,  is  confined  to  himself.  Then  when  a 
man  says:  This  Canary  wine  is  pleasant:  he 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


69 


will  not  object  if  any  one  correct  his  expression, 
and  tell  him  he  should  rather  say:  It  is  pleasant 
to  me.  *  *  *  To  one  person  the  colour  of 
violet  is  soft  and  pleasing,  to  another  dead  and 
flat.  One  man  is  fond  of  wind-instruments, 
another  of  stringed  instruments.  To  contend 
about  such  things,  and  to  pronounce  the  judg- 
ment of  others,  differing  from  our  own,  incor- 
rect, as  if  there  were  a  logical  opposition  be- 
tween them,  would  be  folly.  As  to  the  Agree- 
able the  maxim  holds,  therefore,  that  every  one 
has  a  taste  of  his  own,  in  matters  of  Sense. 

As  to  the  Beautiful,  however,  the  case  is  quite 
different.  Here  it  would  be  absurd  for  any  one 
pretending  to  Taste  to  think  to  justify  himself 
by  saying  that  the  object,  (the  building  we  see, 
the  garment  that  person  wears,  the  concert  we 
listen  to,  the  poem  that  is  to  be  criticised),  is 
beautiful  to  him.  For  he  should  not  call  it  beau- 
tiful, if  it  pleases  him  alone.  There  may  be 
many  things  pleasing  and  attractive  to  him,  but 
this  is  nothing  to  any  one  else :  if  he  declare 
anything  to  be  beautiful,  he  attributes  the  same 
pleasure  to  others;  he  judges  not  for  himself 
alone,  but  for  all ;  and  speaks  of  Beauty  as  a 
quality  of  the  thing. 

We  say,  therefore,  the  thing  is  beautiful ;  not 
expecting  the  assent  of  others,  from  having  often 
found  them  to  agree  with  us  in  opinion,  but  re- 
quiring it.  We  find  fault  with  men  if  they  judge 
otherwise,  as  wanting  in  that  Taste  which 
should  be  an  universal  attribute. 

As  to  the  Beautiful,  therefore,  we  cannot  say 
that  every  one  has  a  taste  of  his  own.  For  this 
would  be  to  declare  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  Taste;  that  is,  no  aesthetic  judgment  that  can 
properly  claim  the  assent  of  all. 

In  respect  to  the  Agreeable,  there  is  indeed  a 
degree  of  unanimity  in  men's  judgments,  in  re- 
ference to  which  some  are  said  to  have  Taste 
and  others  not;  and  this  not  as  signifying  a  per- 
fection of  the  organs  of  Sense,  but  of  the  faculty 
of  judging  as  to  the  Agreeable.  Thus  one  who 
knows  how  to  regale  his  guests  with  various 
luxuries,  (agreeable  to  the  different  senses,)  so 
as  to  please  all,  is  said  to  have  Taste.  But  the 
universality  is  here  only  comparative,  and  thus 
this  kind  of  Taste  is  capable  only  of  general 
rules,  as  being  derived  from  Experience,  and 
not  of  universal  laws,  such  as  the  aesthetic  judg- 
ment claims  to  establish  for  the  Beautiful.  *  * 

It  is  to  be  remarked,  however,  in  this  place, 
that  the  aesthetic  Judgment  presupposes  nothing 
more  than  a  general  assent,  *  *  *  thus  the 
possibility  of  an  aesthetic  judgment  possessing 
universal  validity.  It  does  not  postulate  the  as- 
sent of  every  person,  (for  this  belongs  only  to  a 
logically  universal  judgment,  which  can  be  sup- 
ported by  demonstration),  but  only  demands  this 
assent,  as  an  example  of  the  rule,  the  confirma- 
tion of  which  is  sought,  not  from  conceptions, 
but  from  the  agreement  'in  feeling'  of  other 
persons.  *  *  *  Whether  any  particular 
person  who  thinks  to  pronounce  an  aesthetic 
judgment  do  really  judge  in  accordance  with 


this  principle,  may  be  uncertain;  but  that  he 
does  refer  to  it,  and  therefore  that  his  judgment 
is  aesthetic,  is  declared  by  the  use  of  the  word 
Beauty.  ****** 

AN  ./ESTHETIC  JUDGMENT,  WHEREIN  AN  OBJECT 
IS  PRONOUNCED  BEAUTIFUL  AS  CONNECTED 
WITH  A  PARTICULAR  IDEA,  IS  NOT  PURE. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  Beauty ;  Beauty  de- 
tached (pulchritudo  vaga),  and  Beauty  adherent 
(pulchritudo  adherens).  The  former  presupposes 
no  idea  of  the  object;  the  latter  presupposes  an 
idea,  and  an  adequate  perfection  of  the  thing. 
Under  the  first. class  are  embraced  the  'inde- 
pendent and'  self- subsisting  beauties  of  any 
object;  the  other  includes  (as  dependent  and 
attached  to  the  idea  of  some  particular  thing) 
objects  conceived  to  exist  for  a  special  end. 
The  beauty  of  flowers  is  free,  detached  Beauty. 
What  the  flower  actually  is,  only  the  botanist 
knows ;  and  even  he,  though  he  sees  in  it  the 
reproductive  organ  of  the  plant,  yet  in  judging 
of  it  as  an  object  of  Taste,  pays  no  regard  to 
this  natural  end.  This  Judgment,  therefore,  is 
founded  upon  no  perfection  of  any  sort ;  no  in- 
ward fitness  regulating  the  management  of  the 
parts.  Many  birds,  such  as  parrots,  humming- 
birds, the  birds  of  Paradise,  and  various  sea- 
shells,  are  beautiful  in  themselves ;  not  as  con- 
nected with  an  object  with  reference  to  its  de- 
sign, but  independently  and  of  themselves.  So 
drawings  a  la  grecque,  arabesque  borders,  &c., 
signify  nothing,  represent  no  particular  object, 
and  express  no  particular  idea,  but  are  free, 
detached  Beauty.  So  what  are  called  fantasies, 
in  Music  (without  theme) ;  indeed  all  Music 
without  text  may  be  considered  as  of  this  kind. 

In  judging  of  detached  Beauty,  in  its  form, 
the  aesthetic  Judgment  is  pure.  It  presupposes 
no  idea  of  a  design  to  be  accomplished,  which 
should  be  represented  by  the  object ;  for  by  this 
the  freedom  of  the  Imagination,  sporting  as  it 
were  in  contemplation  of  the  object,  would 
only  be  restrained.  But  human  Beauty  (whether 
of  a  man,  a  woman,  or  a  child) ;  the  beauty  of 
a  horse  ;  of  a  building  (church,  palace,  arsenal, 
or  summer-house),  presupposes  the  idea  of 
design,  which  determines  what  the  thing  should 
be ;  the  idea  of  perfection.  It  is  therefore 
merely  adherent  Beauty.  Thus  as  the  con- 
nection of  the  Agreeable  (in  Sensation),  with 
Beauty,  which  properly  concerns  only  Form, 
^isturbs  the  purity  of  the  Judgment ;  so  also 
connection  with  the  Good  (that  is,  something  for 
which  the  thing,  from  its  design,  is  good),  is 
likewise  destructive  of  the  purity  of  the  aesthetic 
Judgment. 

'For  example'  we  might  add  much  that  is 
pleasing  when  seen  by  itself,  to  a  building, 
were  it  not  that  it  is  intended  for  a  church  :  it 
might  ornament  a  figure  to  cover  it  with  traoery- 
work,  and  delicate,  yet  regular  lines,  as  in  the 
tatooing  of  the  New  Zealanders ;  were  it  not 
that  it  is  a  human  being:  this  countenance 
might  have  much  more  delicate  features,  and  a 


7  a 


IM  MANUEL  KANT. 


softer  and  more  pleasing  outline,  were  it  not 
intended  to  represent  a  man,  or  indeed  a  war- 
rior. So  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  inward 
design  of  a  thing,  which  determines  its  precise 
character,  is  founded  upon  an  idea;  but  that 
derived  from  Beauty  is  by  nature  such  that  it 
presupposes  no  conception,  but  is  connected  im- 
mediately with  the  image  of  the  thing. 

Now  if  the  aesthetic  judgment  is  made  de- 
pendent on  design,  and  thus  a  judgment  of  the 
Reason,  it  is  no  longer  a  pure  aesthetic  judg- 
ment. 

It  is  true  that  this  advantage  is  gained  by  the 
connection  of  aesthetic  with  intellectual  plea- 
sure, that  'the  principle  of  Taste  becomes 
fixed,  and  though  not  universal,  yet  it  is  capable 
of  being  subjected,  as  to  certain  things,  to  fixed 
rules.  These  rules,  however,  are  then  no  longer 
rules  of  Taste,  but  of  a  union  of  Taste  with 
Reason ;  i.  e.  the  Beautiful  with  the  Good.  *  * 

OF  THE   IDEAL  OF  BEAUTY. 

As  to  Taste,  1  therefore,'  there  are  no  objec- 
tive rules  *  *  to  determine  what  is  beau- 
tiful. For  all  Judgment  from  this  source  is 
aesthetic,  that  is,  subjective  Feeling  and  not  a 
conception  of  any  object,  that  determines  it. 
To  seek  a  principle  of  Taste  which  should 
give  indefinite  conceptions  a  universal  criterion 
of  the  Beautiful,  is  a  fruitless  endeavour,  since 
what  is  sought  is  impossible  and  self-contra- 
dictory. 

That  this  feeling  (of  pleasure  or  displeasure) 
shall  be  capable  of  being  generally  communi- 
cated, and  this  without  any  conception  'of  the 
nature  of  the  object;'  and  the  general  approxi- 
mate agreement  of  all  ages  and  all  nations,  in 
relation  to  this  feeling,  as  to  certain  objects  is 
the  empirical  though  obscure  criterion  of  Taste, 
scarcely  reaching  to  conjecture,  which,  as  so 
many  examples  show  us,  has  a  deep-hidden 
foundation  in  the  common  nature  of  Man;  in 
the  common  principles  of  Judgment  as  to  the 
Forms  under  which  objects  are  presented  to  us. 

Hence  some  products  of  Taste  are  considered 
as  models ;  not  as  if  Taste  could  be  acquired, 
by  imitation ;  for  Taste  must  be  a  faculty  of  the 
individual;  but  he  who  copies  a  model,  shows 
himself  expert,  as  far  as  he  copies  correctly; 
but  Taste  involves  the  power  of  judging  of  the 
model  itself. 

From  this  it  follows  that  the  highest  model, 
the  prototype  of  Taste  can  be  only  an  Idea, 
which  every  one  must  awaken  in  himself.  *  * 

An  Idea  is  properly  a  conception  of  Reason; 
an  Ideal  is  the  image  of  some  thing  adequate 
to  the  Idea.  Each  such  prototype  of  Taste 
rests  indeed  upon  the  vague  idea  of  a  maximum 
'of  Beauty,'  but  can  be  reached  only  by  repre- 
sentation, and  not  by  conceptions.  It  is  there- 
fore more  properly  called  an  Ideal  'than  an 
Idea'  of  Beauty ;  and  this,  though  we  may  not 
possess  it,  yet  we  strive  to  produce  within  our- 
selves.    But  since  it  depends  upon  represen- 


tation, and  not  upon  conception,  it  is  an  Ideal 
of  the  Imagination  only;  the  Imagination  being 
the  faculty  of  Representation.  Now  how  do 
we  arrive  at  this  Ideal  of  Beauty?  A  priori,  or 
by  Experience  ?  And  also,  what  kind  of  Beauty 
is  capable  of  an  Ideal? 

It  is  to  be  observed  in  the  first  place,  that  the 
Beauty  for  which  we  are  to  expect  an  Ideal,  is 
not  vague,  but  fixed  Beauty,  'controlled  by'  a 
conception  of  objective  fitness.  An  Ideal  there- 
fore is  not  the  object  of  a  perfectly  pure  aesthetic 
judgment,  but  of  one  partaking  in  a  measure  of 
the  nature  of  an  idea.  That  is,  the  principles 
by  which  we  judge  concerning  an  Ideal,  have 
for  their  foundation  some  idea  of  Reason,  ac- 
cording to  definite  conceptions,  and  this  idea 
determines  a  priori,  the  design  upon  which  rests 
the  possibility  of  the  object.  An  Ideal  of  beau- 
tiful flowers ;  of  fine  furniture ;  of  a  beautiful 
view,  is  inconceivable.  Even  indeed  as  to 
Beauty  dependent  on  adaptation  to  particular 
ends,  an  Ideal  is  often  inconceivable ;  for  ex- 
ample, an  Ideal  of  a  beautiful  dwelling-house, 
of  -a  beautiful  tree,  garden,  &c. ;  probably  be- 
cause the  purpose  is  not  sufficiently  definite  and 
fixed  by  the  notion  of  the  thing,  and  thus  the 
fitness  is  almost  as  '  floating  and'  unattached  to 
a  '  particular'  object,  as  in  the  case  of  vague  or 
detached  Eeauty. 

Man,  as  '  a  being,'  having  the  end  of  his  ex- 
istence within  himself,  and  able  to  determine 
its  aims  by  means  of  Reason,  or,  where  he  is 
obliged  to  take  them  from  the  outward  world, 
yet  able  to  compare  them  with  fundamental 
and  universal  aims,  and  to  form  an  aesthetic 
judgment  from  the  comparison,  Man  alone  can 
present  an  Ideal  of  Beauty,  in  like  manner  as 
Humanity  alone,  among  all  earthly  things,  can 
afford  an  Ideal  of  perfection  in  him,  as  In- 
telligence. ***** 

The  Ideal  of  the  human  form  consists  in  the 
expression  of  the  moral  nature,  without  which 
it  cannot  afford  a  universal  and  positive  pleasure, 
(as  distinguished  from  the  merely  negative  satis- 
faction of  an  academically  correct  representa- 
tion). ****** 

The  correctness  of  such  an  Ideal  of  Beauty  is 
tested  in  this;  that  it  permits  no  intermixture 
of  sensuous  satisfaction  with  the  pleasure  de- 
rived from  the  object,  and  yet  excites  a  strong 
interest  in  it. 

*****  * 

Taking  the  result  of  the  above  investigations, 
we  find  that  all  depends  on  the  conception  of 
Taste;  and  that  this  is  the  faculty  of  judging 
of  an  object  according  to  the  free,  yet  normal 
action  of  the  Imagination.  *  *  *  But  that 
the  Imagination  should  be  free,  and  yet  essen- 
tially subject  to  law,  that  is,  that  it  should  con- 
tain an  autonomy,  is  a  contradiction. 

The  Understanding  alone  gives  the  law.  But 
if  the  Imagination  is  compelled  to  proceed  ac- 
cording to  a  definite  law,  the  product  will  be 
determined  as  to  its  Form,  according  to  certain 


IMMANUEL  KANT.  71 


conceptions  of  the  perfection  of  the  thing,  and 
in  this  case  the  pleasure  will  not  be  owing  to 
Beauty,  but  to  Goodness,  (to  Perfection,  though 
mere  formal  Perfection),  and  the  judgment  will 
be  no  a\sthetic  judgment. 

It  is  thus  a  normal  regularity,  without  law; 
a  subjective  harmony  of  the  Imagination  and 
the  Understanding,  without  any  objective  har- 
mony, (wherein  the  notion  is  referred  to  a  pre- 
cise conception  of  the  object) ;  and  it  is  thus 
alone  that  the  freedom  and  regularity  of  the 
Understanding  can  co-exist  with  the  peculiar 
nature  of  an  aesthetic  judgment. 

We  find  regular,  geometrical  figures,  a  circle, 
a  square,  a  cube,  &c,  commonly  given  by  critics 
of  Taste  as  the  simplest  and  most  undoubted 
examples  of  Beauty;  and  yet  they  are  called 
regular,  because  they  can  only  be  conceived  of 
as  mere  representatives  of  a  particular  idea, 
which  prescribes  to  the  figure  the  law  by  which 
alone  it  exists.  Thus  one  of  the  two  must  be 
wrong ;  either  this  judgment  of  the  critics,  in 
ascribing  Beauty  to  these  figures,  or  ours,  which 
declares  fitness,  without  conception,  essential  to 
Beauty. 

Now  it  is  not  necessary  to  select  a  man  of 
taste,  in  order  to  discover  that  greater  pleasure 
is  afforded  by  the  figure  of  a  circle  than  by  a 
scrawl,  and  more  in  an  equilateral  and  equi- 
angular triangle  than  in  one  of  uneven  shape 
and  as  it  were  deformed.  For  this  requires 
only  common  sense,  and  not  Taste.  Where  we 
find  a  purpose,  for  example,  to  determine  the 
size  of  a  place,  or  to  make  accessible  the  rela- 
tions of  the  parts  to  each  other  and  to  the  whole ; 
— here  regular  figures,  and  those  of  the  simplest 
kind  are  required ;  and  the  pleasure  depends 
not  immediately  upon  the  image  of  the  figure, 
but  on  its  applicability  to  various  purposes.  A 
room  whose  walls  form  unequal  angles,  a 
garden  of  such  a  shape,  in  short  all  disturbance 
of  symmetry,  as  well  in  the  forms  of  animals, 
(e.  g.  to  be  one-eyed),  as  of  buildings  or  flower- 
beds, is  unpleasant,  because  inappropriate ;  not 
only  practically,  as  relates  to  a  particular  use 
of  these  things,  but  also  in  judging  of  them  ge- 
nerally, as  adapted  to  various  purposes.  This 
is  not  the  case  with  the  aesthetic  judgment, 
which  if  pure,  unites  pleasure  or  displeasure 
with  the  mere  view  of  the  object,  immediately, 
without  reference  to  any  employment  or  end. 
*  *  *  All  stiff  regularity,  approaching  the 
mathematical,  is  unpleasant,  from  its  affording 
no  continued  exercise  of  the  perceptive  powers; 
and  where  neither  knowledge  nor  a  special  end 
is  sought,  it  is  tedious.  On  the  other  hand  what- 
ever affords  a  ready  and  agreeable  exercise  to 
the  Imagination,  is  always  new,  and  we  do  not 
tire  of  beholding  it. 

Marsden,  in  his  description  of  Sumatra,  makes 
the  remark  that  in  this  island  the  wild  beauties 
of  Nature  everywhere  surround  the  beholder, 
and  thus  have  little  attraction  for  him ;  whereas 
a  pepper-garden,  where  the  poles  upon  which 


this  plant  climbs,  form  parallel  lines  of  alleys, 
had  a  great  charm  for  him  when  he  came  upon 
it  in  the  midst  of  the  forest;  and  he  concludes 
from  this  that  the  apparently  lawless  beauty  of 
the  wilderness  is  pleasing  only  as  variety,  to 
one  who  has  become  tired  of  regularity. 

But  he  would  have  only  to  make  the  experi- 
ment of  spending  a  day  in  his  pepper-garden, 
to  see  that  when  the  Understanding  has  satis- 
fied the  craving  for  order  which  everywhere 
accompanies  it,  the  object  is  no  longer  interest 
ing,  but  on  the  contrary  imposes  an  irksome 
restraint  upon  the  Imagination  ;  whereas  the 
profusion  of  Nature,  lavish  even  to  extravagance 
in  that  country,  where  it  is  subjected  to  no  rules 
of  art,  would  afford  constant  nourishment  to  his 
taste. 

Thus  the  song  of  birds,  irreducible  to  any 
musical  rules,  seems  to  have  more  freedom,  and 
thus  to  offer  more  to  the  Taste,  than  even  the 
human  voice,  though  exercised  according  to  all 
the  rules  of  Music.  For  we  sooner  tire  of  the 
latter,  if  often  and  long  repeated.       *      *  * 

A  distinction  is  also  to  be  made  between 
beautiful  objects,  and  beautiful  views  of  objects, 
(which  may  be  indistinct,  from  distance).  In 
the  latter  case  pleasure  seems  to  arise  not  so 
much  from  what  is  seen,  as  from  what  we  are  led 
to  imagine  in  the  field  of  view  ;  that  is,  from  the 
fancies  with  which  the  mind  pleases  itself,  be- 
ing constantly  excited  by  the  variety  upon  which 
the  eys  falls;  thus  for  example  in  the  varying 
shapes  in  a  wood-fire,  or  a  murmuring  brook ; 
neither  of  which  are  beautiful,  but  which  have 
a  charm  for  the  imagination,  by  the  excitement 
they  afford.  *  *  *  For  the  Imagination  (as 
a  productive  faculty  of  Cognition),  has  great 
power  in  creating  as  it  were  another  Nature, 
from  the  material  furnished  by  actual  Nature. 
With  this  we  occupy  ourselves  when  'the  world 
of:  experience  seems  too  common-place ;  we 
re-model  it,  still  indeed  according  to  the  laws 
of  analogy,  but  also  on  principles  that  lie  higher 
up  in  the  Reason,  and  which  are  as  truly  na- 
tural to  us  as  those  in  accordance  with  which 
the  Understanding  apprehends  empirical  Na- 
ture. 

Herein  we  feel  our  freedom  from  the  law  of 
association  that  attaches  to  the  empirical  use  of 
this  faculty,  and  according  to  which  indeed  Na- 
ture furnishes  us  with  material ;  but  this  is 
wrought  by  us  into  something  quite  different 
and  superior  to  nature.         *        *  * 


FROM  THE 

"PLAN  FOR  AN  EVERLASTING  PEACE."* 

Nations,  'considered  collectively'  as  States, 
maybe  judged  by  the  same  rules  as  individuals, 
who,  in  the  state  of  nature  (i.  e.  of  independence 
of  outward  laws),  are  obnoxious  to  each  other 
by  their  mere  contiguity,  and  each  of  whom 

*  Zum  ewigen  Friedcn.    Konigsberg.  1795. 


72  IMMANUEL  KANT. 


may  and  ought,  for  the  sake  of  his  own"? safety, 
to  demand  of  the  other  to  enter  into  a  compact 
with  him,  of  the  nature  of  a  civil  government, 
whereby  each  may  be  secured  in  his  right. 
*  *  *  The  attachment  of  savages  to  their 
lawless  freedom,  'and  their  preference  of  un- 
ceasing conflict  to  submission  to  the  restraint  of 
laws  to  be  established  by  themselves — and  thus 
of  insane  freedom  to  that  in  accordance  with 
Reason — is  looked  upon  by  us  with  profound 
contempt,  and  considered  as  rudeness,  want  of 
civilization,  and  bestial  degradation  of  huma- 
nity. It  would  seem,  therefore,  as  if  cultivated 
nations,  united  into  separate  States,  must  hasten 
to  escape  as  soon  as  possible  from  so  degraded 
a  condition.  Instead  of  this,  however,  the  ma- 
jesty of  every  State  (for  the  majesty  of  a  people 
is  an  absurd  expression)  is  thought  to  consist 
precisely  in  this,  that  it  is  subject  to  no  restraint 
from  outward  laws,  and  the  glory  of  its  chief 
magistrate  to  be,  that  without  exposing  himself 
to  danger,  he  has  many  thousands  at  his  com- 
mand, ready  to  be  sacrificed  for  a  matter  that 
does  not  concern  them  at  all  :*  and  the  differ- 
ence between  the  savages  of  Europe  and  those 
of  America  consists  principally  in  this,  that 
whereas  many  tribes  of  the  latter  have  been 
entirely  eaten  up  by  their  enemies,  the  former 
know  how  to  make  a  better  use  of  the  conquered 
than  to  feed  upon  them,  and  prefer  increasing 
by  them  the  number  of  their  subjects,  and  thus 
of  the  implements  for  yet  more  extensive  wars. 

When  we  consider  the  depravity  of  human 
nature,  which  shows  itself  openly  in  the  uncon- 
trolled relations  of  nations  (whilst  in  the  condi- 
tion of  civil  government  it  is  in  a  great  measure 
veiled), — it  is  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
word  Eight  has  not  as  yet  been  dispensed  with, 
as  pedantic,  in  military  politics,  and  that  no 
State  has  yet  dared  openly  to  declare  itself  for 
this  opinion.  For  Hugo  Grotius,  Puffendorf, 
Vattel,  &c.  (no  very  comforting  counsellors),  are 
still  faithfully  cited  in  justification  of  warlike 
attacks,  though  their  code,  whether  philosophi- 
cal or  diplomatic,  has  not  and  cannot  have  the 
least  legal  force,  since  States  as  such  are  subject 
to  no  common  outward  authority;  and  though 
there  is  no  instance  where  a  State  has  ever 
been  induced  by  any  arguments  armed  with  the 
voices  of  such  mighty  men,  to  desist  from  its 
intention. 

This  reverence  which  every  State  pays  (at 
least  in  words)  to  the  idea  of  Right,  proves  that 
there  exists  in  Man  (though  as  yet  undeveloped) 
the  germ  of  a  more  complete  mastery  over  the 
evil  principle  within,  and  a  hope  of  similar  vic- 
tory in  others.  For  otherwise  States  intending 
to  make  war  upon  each  other  would  never  make 
use  of  the  word  Right,  unless  it  were  in  mock- 
ery, as  the  Gallic  prince,  who  declared :  "  That 


♦Thus  a  Bulgarian  prince  answered  the  Grecian  empe- 
ror, who  good-naturedly  wished  to  decide  their  dispute  by 
a  duel :— "  A  smith  who  has  tongs  will  not  pull  red-hot 
iron  out  of  the  fire  with  his  fingers." 


it  was  the  preference  that  Nature  has  given  to 
the  stronger  over  the  weaker,  that  the  latter 
should  obey." 

The  mode  by  which  States  maintain  their 
rights  is  never  legal  process,  as  where  an  out- 
ward tribunal  exists,  but  only  War,  and  this  and 
its  favourable  event,  Victory,  do  not  decide  the 
right ;  a  treaty  of  peace  terminates  only  the  ex- 
isting war,  and  not  the  state  of  War,  a  new  pre- 
text being  easily  found*  *  *  *  Reason, 
1  therefore,'  from  the  throne  of  the  supreme  moral 
authority,  entirely  condemns  War,  as  a  means  of 
obtaining  justice,  and  on  the  other  hand  makes 
Peace  an  immediate  duty.  But  Peace  cannot 
be  made  or  secured  without  a  compact  among 
nations.  So  that  a  league  of  a  peculiar  nature 
is  demanded,  which  we  may  call  a  league  of 
Peace  (fcedus  pacificum),  and  which  would  be 
distinguished  from  a  compact  of  peace  (pactum 
pads),  in  this,  that  the  object  of  the  latter  is  to 
put  an  end  only  to  one  war,  but  that  of  the  for- 
mer to  abolish  War  forever.        *         *  * 

The  practicability  (objective  reality)  of  this 
idea  of  a  Federation,  to  extend  by  degrees  over 
all  States,  and  thus  lead  to  an  everlasting  Peace, 
may  be  easily  shown.  For  if  by  good  fortune 
a  mighty  and  enlightened  nation  should  be  able 
to  form  itself  into  a  republic  (which  from  its 
nature  must  be  inclined  to  lasting  peace),  this 
would  give  a  centre  for  the  federative  union  of 
other  states,  to  collect  around  it,  and  thus  secure 
the  freedom  of  each,  according  to  the  idea  of 
international  Law,  and  to  spread  itself  out  by 
degrees  farther  and  farther  by  repeated  unions 
of  this  kind. 

*         *  ****** 

The  idea  of  international  Law,  as  a  right  to 
make  War,  that  is,  a  right  to  determine  what  is 
just,  not  by  universal  laws  limiting  the  freedom 
of  each,  but  by  one-sided  maxims,  through  force, 
— it  is  utterly  without  meaning,  unless  we  un- 
derstand by  it,  that  it  is  quite  right  that  men 
with  such  views  should  perish  by  mutual  anni- 
hilation, and  thus  find  everlasting  Peace  in  the 
wide  grave,  that  covers  all  the  horror  of  vio- 
lence, together  with  its  authors. 

There  is  no  other  way  in  accordance  with 
Reason,  for  States  to  escape  from  the  condition 
of  lawlessness  in  their  relations  to  each  other, 
than  by  giving  up,  like  private  individuals,  their 
wild  (lawless)  freedom,  and  submitting  to  pub- 
lic laws. 

******** 

Since  the  communion  (more  or  less  close) 
between  the  nations  of  the  earth,  has  extended 
so  far  that  an  act  of  injustice  done  in  one  part 
of  the  earth  is  felt  in  all,  the  idea  of  cosmopoli- 
tan Law  is  no  fantastic  nor  exaggerated  notion, 
but  the  necessary  complement  of  the  unwritten 
code,  as  well  of  civil  as  international  Law  ;  ne- 
cessary to  the  public  Law  of  the  human  race  in 
general,  and  thus  to  eternal  Peace,  with  the  ap- 
proach of  which  we  can  flatter  ourselves  only 
on  this  condition.  ***** 

If  it  is  our  duty  'to  strive  for'  this  state  of 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


73 


public  Law,  and  if  at  the  same  time  there  is  a 
well-grounded  hope  that  it  may  be  actualized, 
though  only  in  an  infinitely  extended  approxi- 
mation, then  an  everlasting  Peace,  to  succeed 
the  hitherto  falsely  so  called  treaties  of  Peace, 
(properly  truces),  is  no  empty  idea,  but  a  pro- 
blem to  be  solved  progressively,  and  continu- 
ally approaching  the  goal,  since  the  periods  of 
equal  progress  are,  we  hope,  constantly  be- 
coming shorter.  ***** 

ON  THE  GUARANTY  OF  AN  EVERLASTING  PEACE. 

This  guaranty  is  given  by  nothing  less  than 
the  great  Artist,  Nature,  (natura  dcedala  reruni), 
from  whose  mechanical  course  the  design  shines 
visibly  forth,  to  produce  through  the  very  dis- 
sensions of  men  an  involuntary  concord.  We 
give  therefore  to  Nature,  considered  as  the 
overpowering  influence  of  a  Cause  unknown  to 
us  in  the  laws  of  its  action,  the  name  of  Fate ; 
but  viewing  it  as  adaptation  to  a  design  run- 
ning through  the  Universe ;  as  the  recondite 
wisdom  of  a  higher  Cause  whose  energy  is 
directed  towards  the  objective  destination*  of 
the  human  race,  we  name  it  Providence;  not, 
indeed,  that  we,  properly  speaking,  know,  or 
can  even  infer  it,  from  these  contrivances  of 
Nature ;  but  we  are  obliged  to  suppose  it,  to 
form  any  conception  of  their  possibility,  accord- 
ing to  the  analogy  of  human  contrivances.  The 
relation,  however,  and  the  harmony  'of  this 
Cause'  with  the  end  immediately  prescribed  to 
us  by  Reason  (in  Morals)  is  an  idea  in  theory 
transcending  our  powers,  but  practically,  (for 
instance,  as  to  the  idea  of  the  duty  of  Peace, 
and  the  employment  of  the  mechanism  of  Na- 
ture to  this  end),  established,  and  its  reality 
well-founded.  ****** 

Before  examining  farther  into  the  nature  of 
this  guaranty,  it  will  be  necessary  first  to  con- 
sider the  situation  in  which  Nature  has  placed 
the  actors  in  her  great  theatre,  and  which 
makes  the  secure  establishment  of  Peace  finally 
necessary ;  and  afterwards  the  manner  in  which 
she  brings  this  about. 

The  arrangement  provided  by  Nature  for 
this  end  consists  in  this  :  1.  That  she  has  taken 
care  that  in  all  parts  of  the  earth,  men  shall  be 
able  to  live  ;  2.  That  she  has  scattered  them, 
by  means  of  War,  in  all  directions,  even  to  the 
most  inhospitable  regions,  in  order  that  these 
may  be  peopled ;  3.  That,  by  the  same  means, 
she  has  compelled  them  to  enter  into  relations 
more  or  less  founded  upon  Law. 

It  is  admirable  that  even  the  cold  deserts  on 
the  Arctic  Sea  produce  moss,  which  the  rein- 
deer digs  from  under  the  snow,  to  be  itself  the 
food  or  the  steed  of  the  Ostiacs  or  Samoides ;  or 
that  the  salt  sand  wastes  provide  the  camel, 
created  as  it  were  for  crossing  them  ;  in  order 
not  to  leave  these  regions  unoccupied.  *    *  * 


*  That  is,  the  destiny  of  the  race,  in  History,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  Virtue,  the  destination  of  the  indivi- 
dual. Tr. 

E 


But  'the  inhabitants  of  these  countries'  were 
driven  thither  probably  by  War  alone.  *  *  * 
Nature,  in  providing  that  it  should  be  possible 
for  man  to  inhabit  every  part  of  the  earth,  at 
the  same  time  despotically  willed  that  they 
should  inhabit  every  part,  even  against  their 
inclination,  and  without  connecting  with  this 
necessity  the  moral  constraint  of  an  idea  of 
Duty,  but  choosing  War  as  the  means  of  ac- 
complishing this  purpose.  Thus  we  see  nations, 
the  identity  of  whose  language  testifies  to  their 
common  origin,  as  the  Samoides  on  the  Frozen 
Ocean  and  a  nation  of  similar  language  a  thou- 
sand miles  distant,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Altai  mountains;  between  whom  a  different 
(Mongolian)  nation,  an  equestrian  and  warlike 
people,  has  thrust  itself,  and  thus  driven  one 
portion  of  the  tribe  to  such  a  distance,  into  the 
most  inhospitable  regions,  whither  they  would 
certainly  never  have  spread  from  their  own 
inclination.  So  the  Fins  in  the  northernmost 
parts  of  Europe,  called  Laplanders,  and  the 
Hungarians,  with  whom  they  are  related  in 
language,  are  now  widely  separated  by  the 
Gothic  and  Sarmatian  races  that  have  pene- 
trated between  them.  And  what  can  have 
driven  the  Esquimaux,  (a  race  quite  different 
from  any  of  the  American,  and  perhaps  consist- 
ing of  ancient  European  adventurers),  into  the 
North ;  and  the  Pescheras  in  South  America 
into  Terra  del  Fuego,  except  War;  of  which 
Nature  avails  herself  as  means  of  peopling  all 
parts  of  the  earth  %      *        *        *        *  * 

Thus  much  concerning  what  Nature  does  for 
her  own  purposes,  with  the  human  race,  consi- 
dered as  a  race  of  animals. 

Now  comes  the  question,  which  touches  the 
most  important  point  in  the  design  of  an  ever- 
lasting Peace.  '  What  does  Nature  to  this'  in- 
tent, as  to  the  aim  which  Man's  reason  makes 
his  duty ;  that  is,  what  does  she  in  furtherance 
of  his  moral  endeavour  ;  and  how  does  she  gua- 
ranty that  what  Man  ought  to  do,  but  does  not, 
according  to  his  nature  as  a  free  being,  he  shall 
nevertheless  do,  without  prejudice  to  his  free- 
dom, by  a  natural  necessity.         *        *  * 

When  I  say  of  Nature  that  she  ivills  this  or 
that  to  take  place,  I  mean  by  this,  not  that  she 
makes  it  our  duty,  (for  this  belongs  solely  to  the 
free  practical  Reason),  but  that  she  does  it  her- 
self, whether  we  wish  it  or  not:  (fata  volentem 
ducunt,  nolentem  trahunt). 

1.  Even  if  a  nation  were  not  driven  by  inter- 
nal discord  to  submit  to  the  restraint  of  public 
laws,  yet  War  would  accomplish  this  from  with- 
out ;  for,  according  to  the  beforementioned  pro- 
vision of  Nature,  every  nation  finds  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood another  nation  pressing  upon  it,  against 
which  it  must  inwardly  organize  itself  into  a 
State,  in  order  to  be  prepared  for  resistance. 
Now  the  republican  form  of  government  is  the 
only  one  perfectly  adapted  to  the  rights  of  Man, 
but  also  the  hardest  to  establish,  and  yet  more 
difficult  to  preserve.  So  that  many  maintain 
that  it  would  have  to  be  a  commonwealth  of 
7 


74 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


angels,  since  men,  with  their  selfish  inclinations, 
are  not  capable  of  so  sublime  a  form  of  govern- 
ment. But  here  Nature  comes  to  the  assistance 
of  this  universal  Will,  so  honoured,  but  practi- 
cally so  powerless;  and  this  by  means  of  these 
same  selfish  inclinations.  So  that  it  requires 
only  a  good  organization  of  the  State,  (which 
surely  is  within  the  power  of  men),  so  to  array 
these  forces  against  each  other,  that  the  one 
shall  prevent  or  neutralize  the  evil  effect  of  the 
other  ;  so  that  the  result  for  the  Reason  will  be 
the  same  as  if  neither  existed.  Thus  a  man, 
though  not  morally  good,  may  be  compelled  to 
be  a  good  citizen.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  sound, 
the  problem  of  civil  organization  maybe  solved 
by  a  nation  of  devils,  provided  they  have  un- 
derstanding. It  runs  thus:  —  "So  to  order  and 
organize  a  multitude  of  rational  beings,  all  re- 
quiring universal  laws  for  their  protection,  but 
each  secretly  inclined  to  make  himself  an  ex- 
ception to  their  operation,  that  though  they  con- 
flict in  their  private  feeling,  yet  these  feelings 
shall  so  counteract  each  other  that  in  civil  rela- 
tions the  result  will  be  the  same  as  if  they  had 
no  such  evil  feelings." 

Such  a  problem  must  be  capable  of  a  solution. 
For  it  is  not  the  moral  improvement  of  mankind, 
but  only  the  mechanism  of  Nature,  as  to  which 
we  inquire  how  it  is  to  be  employed  in  the  af- 
fairs of  men,  so  to  direct  the  conflict  of  hostile 
sentiments  among  a  people,  that  they  shall 
oblige  each  other  to  submit  to  compulsory  laws, 
and  thus  bring  about  a  condition  of  tranquillity 
in  which  laws  are  effective.  This  may  be  seen 
even  in  actually  existing  States,  though  very 
imperfectly  organized;  they  approach  in  out- 
ward condition  very  near  to  what  the  idea  of 
Right  commands,  though  inward  morality  is 
certainly  not  the  cause ;  for  good  government  is 
not  the  product  of  Morality,  but,  vice-versa,  a 
good  moral  development  of  a  nation  is  to  be 
expected  only  from  good  government. 

So  that  the  mechanism  of  Nature,  through 
selfish  inclinations,  which  are  naturally  opposed 
to  each  other  in  their  outward  effects  also,  serves 
as  an  instrument  to  prepare  the  way  for  what 
Reason  aims  at,  the  law  of  Right;  and  thus,  as 
far  as  depends  on  the  State,  to  further  and  se- 
cure inward  as  well  as  outward  Peace. 

We  may  say,  therefore,  that  Nature  impera- 
tively demands  that  the  right  shall  finally  pre- 
vail. What  is  neglected  at  first  brings  itself 
about  at  last,  though  with  much  discomfort.  *  * 

2.  The  idea  of  international  Law  presupposes 
a  separation  of  many  independent,  neighbouring 
States,  and  though  this  in  itself  is  a  state  of  War 
(unless  a  federative  union  repress  the  outbreak 
of  hostilities),  yet  even  this  is  more  in  accord- 
ance with  Reason  than  an  amalgamation,  by  a 
power  overgrowing  the  others  and  passing  into 
a  universal  monarchy.  For  laws  are  always 
weakened  in  proportion  to  the  increase  of  the 
area  of  government;  and  a  soulless  despotism, 
after  having  rooted  out  the  germs  of  good,  falls 
at  last  into  anarchy.    Nevertheless  it  is  the  de- 


sire of  every  State  (or  of  its  rulers)  thus  to  bring 
about  a  state  of  enduring  Peace,  by  monopolis- 
ing, if  possible,  the  government  of  the  whole 
world.    But  Nature  will  have  it  otherwise. 

She  makes  use  of  two  means  to  prevent  na- 
tions from  intermingling,  and  to  separate  them : 
the  difference  of  Language,  and  the  difference 
of  Creed,  which  indeed  carries  with  it  an  incli- 
nation to  mutual  hatred,  and  an  excuse  for  War; 
but  yet,  in  the  advance  of  culture,  and  the  gra- 
dually increasing  friendly  intercourse  of  man- 
kind, leads  to  greater  harmony  of  principles, 
and  to  a  peaceful  understanding,  brought  about 
and  secured,  not  like  the  despotism  above  spoken 
of  (on  the  grave  of  Freedom),  by  the  exhaustion 
of  all  forces,  but  by  their  equilibrium  amid  the 
liveliest  contention. 

3.  As  Nature  wisely  separates  nations,  though 
the  will  of  each  State,  supported  too  by  princi- 
ples of  international  law,  would  seek  for  union, 
by  cunning  or  violence  ; — so  on  the  other  hand 
she  unites  nations  whom  the  idea  of  cosmopo- 
litan Right  would  not  have  protected  against 
violence  and  war,  by  mutual  interest. 

This  is  the  spirit  of  Commerce,  which  cannot 
coexist  with  War,  and  which,  sooner  or  later, 
takes  possession  of  every  nation.  For  as  among 
all  means  of  influence  under  the  command  of 
the  governing  authority  of  the  State,  the  power 
of  money  is  most  to  be  relied  on,  States  are 
compelled  (not  precisely  by  moral  motives)  to 
encourage  Peace ;  and  in  whatever  quarter  of 
the  world  War  threatens  to  break  out,  to  prevent 
it  by  negotiations,  as  if  in  constant  league  to 
this  end.  ******* 

Thus  does  Nature  guaranty  everlasting  Peace, 
by  the  very  mechanism  of  human  passions  ;  not 
indeed  so  securely  that  future  Peace  can  be 
(theoretically)  prophesied ;  but  practically  she  is 
successful,  and  renders  it  our  duty  to  labour  to 
bring  about  this  end,  as  no  mere  chimera. 


SUPPOSED  BEGINNING  OF  THE  HISTORY 
OF  MAN. 

To  strew  conjectures  in  the  course  of  a  his- 
tory, in  order  to  fill  up  a  gap  in  the  narrative, 
may  be  regarded  as  allowable  ;  since  that  which 
went  before,  as  remote  cause,  and  that  which 
came  after,  as  effect,  may  furnish  a  tolerably 
safe  guide  to  the  discovery  of  the  intermediate 
causes,  and  thus  make  the  transition  intelligible. 
But  to  create  a  history  entirely  out  of  conjecture, 
seems  to  be  little  better  than  laying  the  plan  of 
a  novel.  Such  a  history  ought  not  to  be  called 
a  conjectural  history,  but  a  mere  fiction.  Never- 
theless, that  which  ought  not  to  be  hazarded  in 
relation  to  the  progressive  history  of  human  af- 
fairs, may  yet  be  attempted  in  relation  to  the 
first  beginning  of  the  same,  so  far  as  that  begin- 
ning ?s  the  work  of  Nature.  For  here,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  invent.  Experience  will  suffice, 
if  we  assume,  that  experience,  in  the  first  be- 


IMMANU 


ginning  of  things,  was  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  now, — an  assumption  which  agrees  with 
the  analogy  of  nature,  and  has  nothing  presump- 
tuous in  it.  A  history  of  the  first  unfolding  of 
freedom  from  an  original  capacity  in  the  nature 
of  man,  is  something  very  different  from  the 
history  of  freedom  in  its  progress,  which  can 
have  no  other  basis  than  received  accounts. 

Conjecture,  however,  must  urge  no  extrava- 
gant claims  to  assent.  It  must  announce  itself 
not  as  serious  occupation,  but  only  as  an  exer- 
cise permitted  to  the  imagination,  under  the 
guidance  of  reason,  by  way  of.  recreation  and 
mental  hygiene.  Accordingly,  it  must  not  mea- 
sure itself  with  a  narrative  on  the  same  subject, 
which  has  been  proposed  and  believed  as  actual 
history,  and  whose  evidence  depends  on  far 
other  grounds  than  those  of  natural  philosophy. 
For  this  reason,  and  because  I  am  attempting 
here  a  mere  pleasure-excursion,  I  may  count  on 
the  privilege  of  being  allowed  to  avail  myself 
of  a  certain  ancient,  sacred  document,  and  of 
fancying  that  my  excursion  made  on  the  wings 
of  imagination,  though  not  without  a  guiding 
thread  deduced  by  reason  from  experience,  has 
hit  the  exact  line  which  that  document  histori- 
cally describes.  The  reader  will  turn  over  the 
leaves  of  the  document  (first  book  of  Moses, 
from  the  second  to  the  fourth  chapter),  and,  fol- 
lowing step  by  step,  see  whether  the  course 
pursued  by  philosophy  according  to  ideas,  coin- 
cides with  the  one  which  is  there  indicated. 

Not  to  lose  ourselves  in  merely  fantastic  con- 
jectures, we  must  begin  with  that  which  cannot 
be  deduced  by  human  reason  from  antecedent 
natural  causes,  viz.  the  existence  of  man.  We 
must  suppose  him  existing  in  fully  developed 
stature,  in  order  that  he  may  be  independent 
of  maternal  aid.  We  must  suppose  a  pair,  in 
order  that  he  may  propagate  his  species ;  and 
yet  but  a  single  pair,  in  order  that  war  may  not 
spring  up  at  once,  between  those  who  are  near 
together  and  yet  estranged  from  each  other; 
and  that  Nature  may  not  be  charged,  on  the 
score  of  various  parentage,  with  having  made 
no  sufficient  provision  for  union,  as  the  chief 
end  of  human  destination.  For  the  unity  of  the 
family  from  which  all  men  were  to  derive  their 
origin,  was  undoubtedly  the  best  means  to  bring 
about  this  end.  I  place  this  pair  in  a  region 
secured  against  the  attack  of  beasts  of  prey,  and 
richly  furnished  by  nature  with  the  means  of 
support ;  that  is,  in  a  kind  of  garden,  and  in  a 
climate  forever  genial.  Farther  still,  I  contem- 
plate them  at  that  period  only,  at  which  they 
have  already  made  important  progress  in  the 
ability  to  use  their  powers.  I  begin  therefore 
nut  with  the  utter  rudeness  of  nature,  lest  there 
should  be  too  many  conjectures  for  the  reader, 
and  too  few  probabilities,  if  I  were  to  attempt 
to  fill  up  this  gap,  which  probably  comprises  a 
long  period  of  time. 

The  first  man,  then,  could  stand  and  walk  ; 
he  could  speak  (Gen.  ii.  20.)  and  even  talk,  that 
is,  speak  according  to  connected  ideas  (v.  23.), 


EL  KANT.  75 


consequently,  think.  All  these  faculties  he  was 
forced  to  acquire  for  himself,  for  if  they  had 
been  inborn,  they  would  be  hereditary,  which 
is  contrary  to  experience.  But  I  here  assume 
that  he  is  already  possessed  of  these  faculties, 
and  direct  my  attention  exclusively  to  the  deve- 
lopment of  the  moral  in  his  doing  and  abstain- 
ing, which  necessarily  presupposes  the  faculties 
in  question. 

At  first,  the  novice  is  guided  solely  by  in- 
stinct, that  voice  of  God  which  all  animals  obey. 
This  allowed  him  certain  articles  of  food  and 
forbade  others.  (Gen.  iii.  2.  3.)  It  is  not  ne- 
cessary however,  to  suppose,  for  this  purpose,  a 
special. instinct  which  has  since  been  lost.  It 
might  have  been  simply  the  sense  of  smell,  its 
relation  to  the  organ  of  taste,  and  the  known 
sympathy  of  the  latter  with  the  instruments  of 
digestion.  Hence  a  capacity,  the  like  of  which 
may  still  be  observed,  to  predict  the  suitableness 
or  unsuitableness  of  any  particular  species  of 
food.  It  is  not  even  necessary  to  suppose  this 
sense  stronger  in  the  first  pair  than  it  is  now; 
for  it  is  well  known  what  difference  exists  in 
the  powers  of  perception,  between  those  who 
are  occupied  with  their  senses  alone  and  those 
who  are  occupied,  at  the  same  time,  with  their 
thoughts,  and  thereby  diverted  from  their  sensa- 
tions. 

So  long  as  inexperienced  man  obeyed  this 
call  of  Nature,  he  found  his  account  in  so  doing. 
Soon,  however,  Reason  began  to  stir  and  be 
sought  to  extend  his  knowledge  of  the  means 
of  subsistence  beyond  the  bounds  of  instinct,  by 
a  comparison  of  that  which  he  had  eaten  with 
that  which  resembled  it,  in  the  judgment  of 
another  sense  than  the  one  to  which  the  instinct 
attached,  —  the  sense  of  sight.  (Gen.  iii.  6.) 
This  experiment  might  have  had  a  happy  issue, 
although  instinct  did  not  advise,  provided  it  did 
not  forbid.  But  it  is  a  property  of  reason  to  be 
able,  with  the  help  of  imagination,  to  elaborate 
artificial  desires  not  only  without  a  natural  im- 
pulse, but  even  against  the  impulses  of  nature. 
These  desires  which,  in  their  first  manifesta- 
tion, we  call  wantonness,  gradually  produce  a 
whole  swarm  of  unnecessary  and  even  of  un- 
natural propensities,  to  which  we  give  the  name 
of  luxury.  The  occasion  of  the  first  defection 
from  natural  instinct,  may  have  been  a  trifle, 
but  the  consequence  of  this  first  experiment 
was,  that  man  became  conscious  of  his  reason, 
as  a  faculty  capable  of  extension  beyond  the 
limits  within  which  other  animals  are  held ; 
and  this  consequence  was  of  great  importance 
and  had  a  decisive  influence  on  his  way  of  life. 
Although,  therefore,  it  may  have  been  merely  a 
fruit,  the  sight  of  which  tempted  him  to  partake 
of  it  by  its  resemblance  to  other  pleasant  fruits, 
of  which  he  had  already  partaken ;  yet  if  we 
add  the  example  of  an  animal  to  whose  nature 
such  fruit  was  adapted,  whereas  it  was  not 
adapted  to  the  nature  of  man,  and,  consequently, 
forbidden  to  him  by  an  opposing  natural  in- 
stinct ; — this  circumstance  would  give  to  reason 


70 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


the  first  occasion  to  practise  chicanery  with  Na- 
ture (Gen.  iii.  1.)  and,  in  spite  of  her  prohibition, 
to  make  the  first  experiment  of  a  free  choice  ; 
which  experiment,  being  the  first,  probably  did 
not  result  according  to  expectation.  No  matter 
how  insignificant  the  injury  which  ensued, 
man's  eyes  were  opened  by  it.  (Gen.  iii.  7.) 
He  discovered  in  himself  the  capacity  to  select 
his  own  life-path,  instead  of  being  confined  to  a 
given  one,  like  other  animals.  The  momentary 
pleasure  which  the  perception  of  this  advantage 
might  awake  in  him,  must  have  been  followed 
immediately  by  fear  and  anxiety.  How  was 
he,  who,  as  yet,  knew  nothing  according  to  its 
hidden  qualities  and  remote  effects, — how  was 
he  to  proceed  with  his  newly  discovered  power1? 
He  stood,  as  it  were,  on  the  brink  of  an  abyss. 
From  the  single  objects  of  his  desire,  as  they 
had  hitherto  been  indicated  to  him  by  instinct, 
he  learned  their  infinity,  an  infinity  in  which 
he  was  as  yet  unprepared  to  choose.  It  was 
not  possible  for  him  however  to  return  from 
this  state  of  freedom  once  tasted,  to  that  of 
servitude,  or  subjection  to  the  law  of  instinct. 

Next  to  the  instinct  of  nourishment,  by  which 
Nature  preserves  the  individual,  the  instinct  of 
sex,  by  which  she  provides  for  the  preservation 
of  the  species,  is  the  most  important.  Reason, 
once  called  into  action,  began  without  much 
delay  to  manifest  its  influence  here  likewise. 
Man  soon  found  that  what,  with  other  animals, 
is  transient  and  for  the  most  part  dependent  on 
periodical  impulse,  was  capable  of  being  pro- 
longed and  even  increased,  in  his  case,  by  means 
of  the  imagination,  which  acts  with  greater 
moderation  indeed,  but  also  with  greater  per- 
manence and  uniformity,  the  more  the  object  is 
withdrawn  from  the  senses;  and  that,  by  this 
means,  the  satiety  which  the  satisfaction  of  a 
merely  animal  desire  brings  with  it,  might  be 
prevented.  Accordingly,  the  fig-leaf  (v.  7.) 
was  the  product  of  a  far  greater  exercise  of 
reason,  than  that  which  appeared  in  the  first 
stage  of  its  development.  For  to  render  a  pro- 
pensity more  intense  and  more  permanent  by 
withdrawing  the  object  of  it  from  the  senses, 
shows  a  consciousness  of  some  degree  of  power 
of  reason  over  impulses,  and  not  merely,  like 
that  first  step,  a  capacity  to  serve  them  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent.  Denial  was  the  artifice 
which  led  from  the  joys  of  mere  sensation  to 
ideal  ones,  from  mere  animal  desire  to  love, 
and,  with  love,  from  the  feeling  of  the  merely 
agreeable,  to  the  taste  for  the  beautiful,  first  in 
man,  and  then  in  nature.  Propriety, —  the  dis- 
position to  inspire  respect  in  others  by  the  decent 
concealment  of  whatsoever  might  produce  con- 
tempt,—  as  the  true  foundation  of  all  genuine 
social  union,  gave  moreover  the  first  hint  to  the 
cultivation  of  man,  as  a  moral  being. — A  small 
beginning,  but  one  which  makes  an  epoch,  by 
giving  a  new  direction  to  thought,  is  more  im- 
portant than  the  whole  immeasurable  series  of 
extensions  given  to  culture,  in  consequence  of  it. 

The  third  step  in  the  progress  of  reason,  after 


it  had  connected  itself  with  the  first  felt  and 
immediate  necessities,  was  the  deliberate  ex- 
pectation of  the  future.  This  faculty,  by  means 
of  which  not  only  the  present  life-moment  is 
enjoyed,  but  the  coming  and  often  far  distant 
time  made  present,  is  the  most  decisive  mark 
of  the  advantage  possessed  by  man  in  being 
able  to  prepare  himself,  according  to  his  destina- 
tion, for  distant  ends;  but  it  is  also,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  inexhaustible  fountain  of  cares 
and  troubles,  occasioned  by  the  uncertain  future, 
from  which  all  other  animals  are  freed,  (vs. 
13 — 19.)  The  man,  who  had  himself  and  a 
wife,  together  with  future  children,  to  support, 
anticipated  the  ever-growing  difficulty  of  his 
labour.  The  woman  anticipated  the  evils  to 
which  Nature  had  subjected  her  sex,  and  the 
added  ones  which  the  stronger  man  would  lay 
upon  her.  Both  saw  with  fear,  in  the  back 
ground  of  the  picture,  after  a  toilsome  life,  that 
which  indeed  befalls  inevitably  all  creatures,  but 
without  occasioning  them  any  anxiety,  namely, 
death.  And  they  seemed  to  reproach  them- 
selves for  the  use  of  reason  which  had  brought 
all  these  evils  upon  them,  and  to  count  it  a 
crime.  To  live  in  their  posterity,  who  might 
experience  a  happier  lot,  and,  as  members  of  a 
family,  lighten  the  common  burden,  was,  per- 
haps, the  only  consoling  prospect  which  still 
sustained  them.    (Gen.  iii.  16 — 20.) 

The  fourth  and  last  step  in  the  progress  of 
reason,  and  that  which  raised  man  entirely 
above  the  fellowship  of  the  beasts,  was  this, 
that  he  comprehended,  however,  obscurely,  that 
he  is  truly  the  aim  of  Nature,  and  that  nothing 
which  lives  upon  the  earth  can  rival  him  in 
this.  The  first  time  that  he  said  to  the  sheep : 
"  that  skin  which  thou  wearest,  Nature  gave 
thee  not  for  thine  own  sake  but  for  mine,"  and 
so  saying,  took  it  from  the  animal  and  put  it 
upon  himself;  (v.  21.)  he  became  conscious  of 
a  prerogative  which,  by  virtue  of  his  nature,  he 
possessed  above  all  other  animals.  He  no  longer 
regarded  these  as  his  associates  in  creation,  but 
as  means  and  instruments  committed  to  his  will, 
for  the  accomplishment  of  whatsoever  ends  he 
pleased.  This  conception  includes,  though  dim- 
ly, the  converse  ;  viz.  that  he  could  not  say  the 
same  of  his  fellowman,  but  must  regard  him  as 
an  equal  partaker  with  himself  of  the  gifts  of 
Nature.  We  have  here  a  remote  preparative 
for  those  limitations  which  reason  was  here- 
after to  impose  upon  the  will  of  man  in  regard 
to  his  fellow,  and  which  are  even  more  neces- 
sary than  inclination  and  love,  to  the  constitu- 
tion of  society. 

And  thus  had  man,  —  in  consideration  of  his 
title  to  be  an  end  unto  himself,  to  be  regarded 
as  such  by  every  other  and  by  none  to  be  used 
merely  as  a  means  to  other  ends, — entered  into 
an  equality  with  all  rational  beings  of  whatsoever 
rank.  (Gen.  iii.  22.)  It  is  here,  and  not  in  the 
possession  of  reason,  considered  merely  as  an 
instrument  for  the  satisfaction  of  various  pro- 
pensities, that  we  are  to  look  for  the  ground  of 


IMMANUEL   KANT.  77 


that  unlimited  equality  of  man  even  with  higher 
beings,  who  may  be  incomparably  superior  to 
him  in  natural  endowments,  but  no  one  of  whom 
has  therefore  a  right  to  manage  and  dispose  of 
him  at  pleasure.  This  step  in  the  progress  of 
reason  is  therefore  simultaneous  with  the  dis- 
missal of  man  from  the  mother-lap  of  Nature ; 
— a  change  which  was  honourable  indeed,  but 
at  the  same  time  dangerous,  inasmuch  as  it 
drove  him  forth  from  the  unmolested  and  safe 
condition  in  which  his  childhood  was  nursed, 
as  it  were  from  a  garden  which  had  maintained 
him  without  any  care  on  his  part,  (v.  23.)  and 
thrust  him  into  the  wide  world,  where  so  many 
cares  and  troubles  and  unknown  evils  awaited 
him.  Hereafter,  the  burdens  of  life  will  often 
elicit  the  wish  for  a  paradise  —  the  creature  of 
his  imagination — where  he  may  dream  or  trifle 
away  his  existence  in  quiet  inactivity  and  un- 
interrupted peace.  But  reason,  restless  and  irre- 
sistibly impelling  him  to  unfold  the  capacities 
implanted  in  him,  stations  itself  between  him 
and  that  region  of  imaginary  joys,  and  will  not 
permit  him  to  return  into  that  condition  of  rude 
simplicity  out  of  which  it  has  drawn  him  forth, 
(v.  24.)  It  impels  him  to  undergo  with  patience 
the  labour  which  he  hates,  to  chase  the  gauds 
which  he  despises,  and  to  forget  even  death  so 
terrible  to  him,  in  the  pursuit  of  those  trifles 
whose  loss  is  more  terrible  still. 

REMARK. 

From  this  sketch  of  the  first  history  of  man  it 
appears,  that  his  departure  from  the  Paradise 
which  reason  represents  as  the  first  residence 
of  his  species,  was  nothing  else  than  the  transi- 
tion from  the  rudeness  of  a  merely  animal  na- 
ture, to  humanity,  from  the  leading  strings  of 
instinct  to  the  guidance  of  reason,  —  in  a  word, 
from  the  guardianship  of  Nature,  to  a  state  of 
freedom.  Whether  man  has  gained  or  lost  by 
this  change,  can  no  longer  be  a  question,  if  we 
regard  the  destination  of  the  species,  which  con- 
sists solely  in  progress  toward  perfection ;  how- 
ever defective  may  have  been  the  first  attempts, 
and  even  a  long  series  of  successive  attempts  to 
penetrate  to  this  end.  Nevertheless,  this  course 
which,  for  the  species,  is  a  progress  from  worse 
to  better,  is  not  exactly  such  for  the  individual. 
Before  reason  was  awakened,  there  was  neither 
command  nor  prohibition,  and  consequently  no 
transgression.  But  when  reason  began  its  work, 
and,  weak  as  it  was,  came  into  collision  with 
animalism  in  all  its  strength,  it  was  unavoida- 
ble that  evils,  and  what  was  worse,  with  the 
growing  cultivation  of  reason,  vices  should 
arise,  which  were  entirely  foreign  from  the 
state  of  ignorance,  and  consequently  of  inno- 
cence. The  first  step  out  of  this  state,  therefore, 
on  the  moral  side,  was  a  Fall;  on  the  physical, 
a  number  of  life-ills,  hitherto  unknown,  were 
the  effect;  consequently,  the  punishment  of  that 
Fall.  So  the  history  of  Nature  begins  with  good, 
for  it  is  the  work  of  God;  but  the  history  of  Free- 
dom begins  with  evil,  for  it  is  the  work  of  man. 


For  the  individual  who,  in  the  use  of  his  free- 
dom, has  reference  only  to  himself,  the  change 
was  a  loss.  For  Nature,  whose  aim  in  relation 
to  man,  is  directed  to  the  species,  it  was  a  gain. 
The  former,  therefore,  has  reason  to  ascribe  all 
the  evils  that  he  suffers,  and  all  the  evils  that 
he  does,  to  his  own  fault;  at  the  same  time, 
however,  as  a  member  of  the  whole,  (the  spe- 
cies) he  must  admire  and  commend  the  wisdom 
and  propriety  of  the  arrangement. 

In  this  way,  we  may  reconcile,  with  each 
other,  and  with  reason,  the  oft  misinterpreted, 
and,  in  appearance,  successively  conflicting  as- 
sertions of  the  celebrated  J.  J.  Rousseau.  In 
his  work  on  The  Influence  of  the  Sciences,  and 
in  that  on  The  Inequality  of  Men,  he  very  cor- 
rectly exhibits  the  unavoidable  contradiction 
which  exists  between  culture  and  the  nature 
of  man,  as  a  physical  race  of  beings,  in  which 
each  individual  is  to  fulfil  entirely  his  destina- 
tion. But  in  his  'Emil'  and  his  1  Social  Contract' 
and  other  writings,  he  endeavours  to  solve  the 
difficult  problem,  and  to  show  how  culture  must 
proceed  in  order  to  unfold,  according  to  their 
destination,  the  faculties  of  Humanity  as  a  moral 
species,  so  that  there  may  no  longer  be  any  con- 
flict between  the  natural  and  the  moral  destina- 
tion.   From  this  conflict,*  since  culture  has  not 


*  To  mention  but  a  few  instances  of  this  conflict  be- 
tween the  effort  of  Humanity  to  fulfil  its  moral  destina- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  and  the  unchangeable  observance 
of  the  laws  implanted  in  man's  nature,  adapted  to  a  rude 
and  animal  condition  on  the  other  hand,  I  adduce  the 
following.  The  epoch  of  man's  majority,  i.  e.  the  im- 
pulse as  well  as  the  capacity  to  propagate  his  species,  is 
set  by  Nature  at  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  years; 
an  age  at  which  the  youth,  in  a  rude  state  of  Nature,  be- 
comes literally  a  man;  for  he  possesses  then  the  power 
to  maintain  himself,  to  beget  children,  and  to  maintain 
them,  together  with  his  wife.  The  simplicity  of  his  wants 
makes  this  easy.  In  a  state  of  cultivation,  on  the  other 
hand,  many  means,  acquired  skill,  as  well  as  favourable 
external  circumstances,  are  necessary  for  this  purpose  ; 
so  that,  civilly,  this  epoch  is  deferred,  on  an  average,  by 
at  least  ten  years.  Nature,  meanwhile,  has  not  changed 
her  period  of  maturity  to  suit  the  progress  of  social  re- 
finement, but  obstinately  insists  on  her  own  law,  which 
she  has  calculated  for  the  preservation  of  the  human 
race,  as  an  animal  species.  Hence  arises  an  unavoidable 
conflict  between  the  purposes  of  Nature  and  the  customs 
of  Society.  The  natural  man  has  already  attained  to 
manhood  at  an  age  when  the  civil  man  is  still  a  youth, 
or  even  a  child.  For  we  may  call  him  a  child  who,  on 
account  of  his  years,  (in  a  state  of  civilization)  cannot 
even  maintain  himself,  much  less  his  kind  ;  although  he 
has  the  impulse  and  the  capacity,  and,  consequently,  the 
call  of  Nature  to  beget  his  kind.  Assuredly,  Nature  has 
not  implanted  instincts  and  capacities  in  living  beings, 
merely  that  they  may  war  against  and  suppress  them. 
The  tendencies  of  Nature,  therefore,  are  not  designed  for 
a  state  of  civilization,  but  solely  for  the  preservation  of 
the  human  species  as  a  race  of  animals.  There  is  an 
unavoidable  collision  between  nature  and  civilization, 
in  this  particular,  which  only  a  perfect  civil  polity  — the 
highest  aim  of  culture  —  can  do  away.  At  present,  the 
interval  in  question  (between  natural  and  civil  majority) 
is  usually  beset  with  vices  and  their  consequences,  the 
manifold  evils  of  humanity. 

Another  example  which  proves  the  truth  of  the  propo- 
7* 


7y 


IM  MANUEL  KANT. 


yet  rightly  commenced,  much  less  completed  its 
course,  according  to  true  principles,  educating 
alike  the  man  and  the  citizen,  arise  all  the  real 
evils  which  oppress  human  life,  and  all  the 
vices  which  dishonour  it.  The  propensities 
which  lead  to  those  vices,  and  on  which  the 
blame  is  laid  in  such  cases,  are  good  in  them- 
selves, and  have  their  end  as  natural  endow- 
ments. But  these  natural  endowments,  being 
calculated  for  a  state  of  Nature  alone,  are  trench- 
ed upon  by  progressive  culture,  and,  in  turn, 
re-act  upon  culture,  until  perfected  Art  returns 
to  Nature  again ;  which  is  the  final  goal  in  the 
moral  destination  of  the  human  species. 

CONCLUSION"  OF  THE  HISTORY. 

The  beginning  of  the  next  period  was  the 
transition  of  man  from  an  era  of  peace  and  ease 
to  one  of  labour  and  discord,  as  a  prelude  to 
social  union.  And  here  again  we  must  make  a 
great  leap,  and  suppose  him  at  once  in  posses- 
sion of  tame  animals,  and  of  fruits  which  he 
could  multiply  by  sowing  and  planting  :  (Gen. 
Tv.  2.)  although  it  must  have  been  a  long  pro- 
cess, by  which  he  arrived  from  the  rude  life  of 

sition,  that  Nature  has  implanted  in  us  two  tendencies 
to  two  different  ends,  viz.,  of  man  as  an  animal  and  of 
man  as  a  moral  species,  is  the  Ars  longa  vita  brevis  of 
Hippocrates.  Science  and  art  might  he  carried  much  far- 
ther by  a  single  mind  which  is  made  for  them,  after  it 
has  once  attained  the  requisite  maturity  of  judgment  by 
long  discipline  and  acquired  knowledge,  than  by  succes- 
sive generations  of  learned  men  ;  provided  that  single 
head  could  live  through  the  whole  period,  occupied  by 
those  successive  generations,  with  the  same  youthful 
power  of  intellect.  Now  Nature  has  evidently  taken  her 
determination  respecting  the  duration  of  human  life, 
from  a  very  different  point  of  view  than  the  promotion 
of  science.  For  when  a  man  of  the  happiest  intellect 
stands  on  the  brink  of  the  greatest  discoveries,  which  he 
is  authorized  to  expect  from  his  skill  and  experience,  old 
age  comes  in  ;  he  grows  dull,  and  must  leave  it  to  another 
generation,  beginning  with  the  A.  B.  C,  and  going  over 
the  whole  ground  again  which  he  has  been  over,  to  add 
another  span  to  the  progress  of  culture.  Accordingly,  the 
progress  of  the  human  race  toward  the  fulfilment  of  its 
entire  destination  appears  to  be  continually  interrupted, 
and  in  continual  danger  of  falling  back  again  into  primi- 
tive rudeness.  And  the  Grecian  philosopher  did  not  com- 
plain entirely  without  cause,  when  he  said  "it  is  a  pity 
that  man  must  die  then  when  he  has  just  begun  to  un- 
derstand how  he  ought  to  live." 

We  may  take,  for  a  third  example,  the  inequality  of 
the  human  condition.  Not  the  inequality  of  natural 
endowments  nor  of  the  gifts  of  Fortune,  but  that  inequa- 
lity in  universal  human  rights,  concerning  which  Rous- 
seau complains  with  much  truth,  but  which  is  inseparable 
from  culture  as  long  as  it  proceeds  without  a  plan,  as  it 
must  for  a  long  time,  and  to  which  Nature  certainly  did 
not  destine  man,  seeing  she  gave  him  freedom,  and  rea- 
son to  restrain  that  freedom  solely  by  its  own  universal 
and  external  legality,  which  we  call  civil  right.  Man 
was  intended  to  work  his  way  gradually  out  of  the  rude- 
ness of  his  natural  tendencies,  and  while  he  lifts  himself 
above  them,  nevertheless  to  take  heed  that  he  does  not 
sin  against  them ;  a  faculty  which  he  does  not  acquire  till 
late,  and  after  many  unsuccessful  attempts.  In  the  mean- 
while, Humanity  sighs  under  various  evils  which,  from 
inexperience,  it  inflicts  upon  itself. 


a  hunter  to  the  first  of  these  possessions,  or  from 
the  irregular  digging  of  roots  and  gathering  of 
fruits  to  the  second.    At  this  point,  the  division 
between  men  who  had  hitherto  lived  peaceably 
side  by  side,  behoved  to  begin  ;  the  consequence 
of  which  was  the  separation  of  those  addicted 
to  different  modes  of  life,  and  their  dispersion 
over  the  earth.    The  life  of  the  shepherd  is  not 
only  easy,  but  affords  also  the  most  certain  sup- 
port, since  there  can  be  no  want  of  feed  in  a 
soil  which  is  uninhabited  far  and  wide.  On 
the  other  hand,  agriculture  or  planting  is  very 
toilsome,  dependent  on  the  uncertainty  of  the 
weather  ;  consequently  insecure,  and  requiring, 
moreover,  permanent  buildings,  ownership  of 
the  soil,  and  sufficient  power  to  defend  it.  But 
the  herdsman  hates  this  property  in  the  soil, 
which  limits  the  freedom  of  his  pasturage. 
With  regard  to  the  first  point,  the  agriculturalist 
might  seem  to  envy  the  herdsman  as  more 
favoured  by  Heaven  than  himself  (v.  4.)  ;  in 
fact,  however,  he  was  much  troubled  by  him  as 
long  as  he  remained  in  his  neighbourhood  ;  for 
the  browsing  cattle  did  not  spare  his  planta- 
tions.   Since  now  it  was  easy  for  the  herdsman, 
after  the  damage  which  he  had  caused,  to  with- 
draw himself  to  a  distance  and  thus  escape 
reprisals,  seeing  he  left  nothing  which  he  could 
not  as  well  find  everywhere  else,  it  was  proba- 
bly the  husbandman  who  first  used  violence 
against  these  trespasses  which  the  herdsman 
thought  lawful,  and  who,  since  the  occasion  for 
these  trespasses  could  never  entirely  cease,  was 
compelled,  unless  he  would  lose  the  fruits  of 
his  long  diligence,  to  remove  as  far  as  possible 
from  those  who  led  a  nomadic  life.  (v.  16.) 
This  separation  makes  the  third  epoch. 

A  soil,  on  the  working  and  planting  of  which 
(especially  with  trees),  the  support  of  life  de- 
pends, requires  fixed  habitations ;  and,  for  the 
defence  of  these  against  all  assaults,  a  multitude 
of  men  who  shall  assist  each  other.  Conse- 
quently, men  addicted  to  this  mode  of  life,  could 
no  longer  disperse  by  families,  but  must  keep 
together  and  establish  villages,  (improperly 
called  cities),  in  order  to  protect  their  property 
against  hunters  or  hordes  of  vagrant  herdsmen. 
The  first  necessities  of  life,  the  production  of 
which  involved  various  pursuits  (v.  20.),  might 
now  be  exchanged,  the  one  for  the  other.  The 
necessary  consequence  of  this  was  culture,  and 
the  beginning  of  the  arts,  as  well  of  amusement 
as  of  industry,  (vs.  21,  22.)  But  what,  is  most 
important,  there  was  also  some  arrangement 
toward  a  civil  constitution  and  public  justice  j 
at  first,  indeed,  with  respect  only  to  gross  acts 
of  violence,  the  avenging  of  which  was  now 
no  longer  left  to  individuals,  as  in  the  savage 
state,  but  committed  to  a  legalized  power  which 
kept  the  whole  together;  that  is  a  kind  of 
Government,  beyond  which  there  was  no  exe- 
cutive force  (vs.  23,  24.)  From  this  first  rude 
institution,  all  human  arts,  among  which  that 
of  society  and  civil  security  is  the  most  pro- 
fitable, could  gradually  unfold  themselves,  the 


IMMANUEL  KANT. 


79 


human  race  multiply,  and  like  swarms  of  bees 
diffuse  itself  from  a  common  centre,  by  sending 
forth  cultivated  colonists.  With  this  period, 
also,  the  inequality  among  men, — that  rich  foun- 
tain of  so  much  evil,  but  also  of  all  good — began 
and  continued  to  increase. 

So  long,  indeed,  as  the  nomadic,  herd-tending 
nations  which  acknowledge  God  alone  for  their 
ruler,  hovered  around  the  inhabitants  of  cities, 
and  the  husbandmen,  who  had  a  man  (magis- 
trate) for  their  master*  (vi.  4.),  and,  being  sworn 
foes  of  property  in  land,  assumed  a  hostile  atti- 
tude toward  them,  and  were  hated  by  them  in 
turn,  there  was  continual  war  between  the  two, 
or,  at  least,  continual  danger  of  war ;  and  there- 
fore both  nations  could  enjoy,  internally  at  least, 
the  inestimable  blessing  of  freedom.  For  the 
danger  of  war  is  even  now  the  only  thing  that 
qualifies  Despotism.  Wealth  is  required  in 
order  that  a  State  may  become  a  Power ;  but 
without  liberty  there  can  be  no  wealth-pro- 
ducing industry.  To  supply  the  place  of  this, 
in  a  poor  nation,  there  must  be  a  general  par- 
ticipation in  the  maintenance  of  the  common 
weal.  And  this  again  cannot  exist  without  a 
feeling  of  liberty. 

In  time,  however,  the  growing  luxury  of  the 
city-dwellers,  particularly  the  art  of  pleasing, 
by  which  the  city  women  eclipsed  the  dirty 
nymphs  of  the  wilderness,  could  not  but  prove 
a  powerful  temptation  to  those  herdsmen  to 
form  connexions  with  them,  and  thus  to  suffer 
themselves  to  be  drawn  into  the  splendid  misery 
of  the  cities.  Then,  with  the  amalgamation  of 
two  once  hostile  nations, — putting  an  end  to  all 
danger  of  war,  but,  at  the  same  time  also,  to  all 
liberty, — it  came  to  pass  that  the  despotism  of 
powerful  tyrants  on  the  one  hand,  together  with 
a  culture  scarcely  yet  commenced,  —  soulless 
luxury  in  abject  slavery,  combined  with  all  the 
vices  of  the  savage  state  —  on  the  other  hand 
irresistibly  diverted  the  human  race  from  that 
progressive  cultivation  of  their  capacity  for 
good,  prescribed  to  them  by  Nature,  and  thereby 
rendered  them  unworthy  of  their  very  exis- 
tence, as  a  species  intended  to  rule  over  the 
earth,  and  not  merely  to  enjoy  as  brutes  or  to 
serve  as  slaves,  (v.  17.) 

CONCLUDING  REMARK. 

The  thinking  man  feels  a  sorrow  that  may 
even  lead  to  moral  corruption,  of  which  the 
thoughtless  knows  nothing.  He  feels,  namely, 
a  discontent  with  that  Providence  which  guides 
the  course  of  the  world  at  large,  when  he  re- 
flects on  the  evils  which  oppress  the  human 
race  to  so  great  an  extent,  and  seemingly  with- 

*  The  Arabian  Bedouins  still  call  themselves  children 
of  a  former  Sheik,  the  founder  of  their  tribe  (as  Beni 
Aled,  Sec).  This  personage,  however,  is  by  no  means 
a  ruler,  and  can  exercise,  of  his  own  will,  no  authority 
over  them.  For  in  a  nation  of  herdsmen,  as  no  one 
possesses  real  estate  which  he  would  have  to  leave  behind, 
any  family  that  is  discontented  may  easily  separate  itself 
from  the  tribe,  and  go  to  strengthen  another. 


out  the  hope  of  anything  better.  It  is  of  the 
greatest  importance,  however,  to  be  satisfied  with 
Providence,  notwithstanding  it  has  prescribed  to 
us  a  path  so  full  of  toil  in  our  earthly  world ; 
partly  that  we  may  still  take  courage  amid  our 
difficulties;  partly,  lest,  in  ascribing  these  evils 
to  Fate,  we  forget  our  own  guilt,  which  perhaps 
is  the  sole  cause  of  them,  and  so  neglect  to  seek 
a  remedy  for  them  in  self-reformation. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  greatest  evils 
which  afflict  civilized  nations  arise  from  war : 
not  so  much  indeed  from  that  which  actually 
is,  or  has  been,  as  from  the  never-ending,  ever- 
increasing  preparation  for  that  which  is  to  be. 
To  this  end  are  applied  all  the  forces  of  the 
State  and  all  the  fruits  of  its  culture,  which 
might  be  used  for  still  further  culture.  Free- 
dom is,  in  many  points,  materially  invaded,  and 
the  motherly  care  of  the  State  for  individual 
members,  changed  to  requisitions  of  inexorable 
severity;  which,  nevertheless,  are  justified  by 
the  fear  of  external  danger.  But,  would  this 
culture,  would  the  intimate  union  of  the  various 
classes  of  the  Commonwealth  for  the  mutual 
furthering  of  their  prosperity,  would  the  same 
population,  nay,  would  that  degree  of  freedom, 
which,  under  very  restrictive  laws,  still  exists, — 
would  they  be  found,  were  it  not  for  that  respect 
for  Humanity  which  the  constant  dread  of  war 
enforces  in  the  Heads  of  States'?  Look  at 
China,  which,  though  she  may  suffer  a  sudden 
invasion,  yet,  in  consequence  of  her  situation, 
has  no  powerful  enemy  to  fear ;  and  where, 
consequently,  every  trace  of  freedom  is  ob- 
literated !  In  that  stage  of  culture,  therefore,  at 
which  the  human  race  at  present  stands,  war 
is  an  indispensable  means  for  the  promotion  of 
further  culture  ;  and  not  till  the  progress  of  cul- 
ture is  completed  (God  knows  when),  would  a 
perpetual  peace  be  salutary  for  us ;  and  not  till 
then  would  it  be  possible.  Accordingly,  so  far 
as  this  point  is  concerned,  we  ourselves  are  to 
blame  for  the  evils  of  which  we  so  bitterly 
complain;  and  the  sacred  record  is  quite  right 
in  representing  the  amalgamation  of  nations 
into  one  Community,  and  their  perfect  deliver- 
ance from  external  danger,  while  their  culture 
has  scarcely  yet  commenced,  as  a  hindrance  to 
all  further  culture,  and  a  lapse  into  irremediable 
corruption. 

The  second  cause  of  discontent  among  men 
is  the  order  of  Nature  with  respect  to  the  short- 
ness of  life.  It  is  true,  one  must  have  esti- 
mated very  erroneously  the  value  of  life,  to 
wish  it  longer  than  it  actually  is  ;  for  that  would 
be  only  prolonging  a  struggle  with  perpetual 
difficulties.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  one 
can  hardly  blame  a  childish  judgment  for  fear- 
ing death  without  loving  life,  or  for  thinking. — 
difficult  as  it  may  be  to  spend  a  single  day  in 
tolerable  contentment,  —  that  there  are  never 
days  enough  in  which  to  repeat  the  torment. 
But  when  we  consider,  with  how  many  cares 
the  means  of  maintaining  so  short  a  life  af- 
flict us,  and  how  much  injustice  is  perpetrated 


80  IMMANUEL  KANT. 


in  the  hope  of  some  future,  though  equally- 
transient  good,  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude,  that, 
if  men  could  look  forward  to  a  life  of  eight 
hundred  years  or  more,  the  father  would  no 
longer  be  secure  of  his  life  from  the  son,  the 
brother  from  the  brother,  friend  from  friend  ; 
and  that  the  vices  of  so  long-lived  a  race  would 
reach  such  a  height  as  to  render  man  worthy 
of  no  better  fate,  than  to  be  swept  from  the 
earth  in  a  general  flood,  (vs.  12,  13.) 

The  third  wish,  or  rather  empty  longing,  (for 
one  is  conscious  that  the  object  can  never  be 
attained)  is  the  shadow-image  of  that  golden  age 
so  much  praised  by  the  poets  : — a  state  in  which 
men  are  to  be  freed  from  all  imaginary  neces- 
sities imposed  by  luxury,  and  contented  with 
the  simple  wants  of  Nature ;  where  there  is  to 
be  a  perfect  equality  of  condition,  everduring 
peace;  in  a  word,  the  pure  enjoyment  of  a 
careless  life  spent  in  idle  dreaming  or  in  childish 
sports.  This  longing,  which  makes  the  Robinson 
Crusoes  and  the  voyages  to  the  South  Sea  Islands 
so  attractive,  illustrates  the  satiety  which  the 
thinking  man  experiences  in  a  state  of  civiliza- 
tion, if  he  seeks  its  value  in  enjoyment  alone, 
and  balances  the  counterweight  of  indolence, 
when  admonished  by  reason  to  give  value  to 
life,  by  means  of  action.  The  vanity  of  this 
desire  of  a  return  to  the  period  of  simplicity  and 
innocence,  is  abundantly  evident,  when,  from 
the  above  representation  of  his  original  condi- 
tion, we  learn  that  man  could  not  maintain 
himself  in  it,  precisely,  because  it  does  not  satisfy 
him ;  and  that  he  is  still  less  disposed  to  return 


to  it  again.  So  that,  after  all,  the  present  la- 
borious condition  is  to  be  regarded  as  his  own 

choice. 

Such  a  representation  of  his  history  is  there- 
fore profitable  to  man,  and  conducive  to  his  in- 
struction and  improvement,  as  showing  him  that 
he  must  not  charge  Providence  with  the  evils 
which  afflict  him;  also,  that  he  is  not  justified 
in  imputing  his  own  crimes  to  the  transgression 
of  his  first  Parents,  creating  an  hereditary  ten- 
dency to  similar  transgressions  in  their  des- 
cendants, (for  voluntary  actions  have  nothing 
hereditary  in  them),  but  that,  on  the  contrary, 
he  may,  with  perfect  justice,  regard  their  actions 
as  his  own,  and,  accordingly,  take  to  himself 
the  whole  blame  of  the  evils  arising  from  the 
misuse  of  his  reason;  since  he  cannot  but  be 
conscious  that  he  would  have  done  precisely  as 
they  did,  in  similar  circumstances,  and  that  the 
first  use  which  he  made  of  his  reason  would 
have  been, — in  spite  of  the  admonitions  of  Na- 
ture,—  to  abuse  it.  This  point  of  moral  evil 
being  adjusted,  those  which  are  strictly  physical 
will  hardly  be  found  to  yield  a  balance  in  our 
favour,  if  tried  by  a  debt  and  credit  account  of 
guilt  and  desert. 

And  so  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  construct 
a  history  of  primitive  man  by  the  aid  of  philo- 
sophy, is  contentment  with  Providence  and  the 
course  of  human  things  on  the  whole,  as  pro- 
ceeding not  from  good  to  bad  but  from  worse 
to  better.  To  this  process  every  one,  for  his 
part,  is  called  upon  by  Nature  herself,  to  con- 
tribute according  to  his  power. 


JOHANN  GOTTHOLD  EPHRAIM  LESSING. 

Born  1729.   Died  1781. 


Lessing  was  the  son  of  a  Lutheran  Clergy- 
man ;  his  birthplace,  Kamentz  in  Upper  Lu- 
satia. 

Biography,  fond  to  trace  the  promise  of  future 
greatness  in  childish  caprices,  pleases  itself 
with  the  circumstance,  that  at  the  age  of  five, 
he  was  unwilling  to  have  his  picture  taken 
otherwise,  than  with  a  great  pile  of  books  by 
his  side.  So  great,  it  is  intimated,  was  the 
child's  passion  for  Letters  ! 

At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was  sent  to  the 
High-school  at  Meissen  in  Saxony,  where  he 
labored  with  great  diligence  and  laid  the 
foundation  of  his  extensive  erudition.  At 
seventeen  he  entered  the  university  of  Leip- 
zig, where  his  parents  wished  him  to  study 
theology.  But  following  the  bent  of  his  own 
genius,  he  studied  everything  else  instead; 
and  though  a  constant  hearer  of  the  cele- 
brated Ernesti,  he  otherwise  gave  no  heed  to 
prepare  himself  for  the  sacred  office.  He  felt 
the  secret  ''Drang]  which  indicated  another 
calling,  and  in  fact  before  he  left  Leipzig  had 
already  begun  his  literary  career,  as  a  writer 
for  the  stage.  The  Drama  was  his  first  love ; 
but  he  did  not  confine  himself  to  that,  nor  to 
any  one  province  of  literature.  Indeed  there 
is  scarcely  one  which  his  learning  and  his 
genius  have  not  illustrated. 

In  1750  he  went  to  Wittenberg  to  prosecute 
his  theological  studies  in  compliance  with  the 
earnest  solicitation  of  his  parents.  His  younger 
brother,  Johann  Gottlieb,  was  already  a  student 
at  this  university  ;  and  the  two,  in  conjunction, 
published  several  essays  in  theology  and  polite 
literature,  which  procured  them  much  honor 
from  the  Public,  and  some  odium  from  the 
orthodox. 

Lessing  however  did  not  remain  Jong  in 
Wittenberg,  nor  did  he  ever  become  a  preacher. 
He  w^ent  to  Berlin,  and  lived  as  author  by  pro- 
fession, in  intimate  communion  with  Mendels- 
sohn, Nicolai,  Rammler,  and  others,  supporting 
himself  by  his  pen.  Some  of  his  principal 
works,  particularly  Emilia  Galotti  and  the  Lao- 
coon,  were  published  during  this  period,  and 

L 


while  holding  the  office  of  secretary  to  General 
Tauenzien,  at  Breslau.  In  1760  he  was  made 
member  of  the  Royal  academy  of  sciences  at 
Berlin.  In  1766  he  accepted  a  situation  con- 
nected with  the  theatre  at  Hamburg,  as  thea- 
trical critic,  and  there  wrote  his  Dramaturgic 
In  1770  he  was  made  librarian  to  the  library 
at  Wolfenbuttel,  in  the  Duchy  of  Brunswick- 
Wolfenbiittel,  where,  with  the  exception  of  a 
tour  to  Italy,  made  in  the  company  of  the  here- 
ditary Prince  of  Brunswick,  he  remained  until 
his  death.  Here  he  published  his  Nathan  the 
Wise,  and  several  theological  treatises.  The 
latter  involved  him  in  vexatious  controversies, 
and  subjected  him  to  persecutions  which  em- 
bittered the  remainder  of  his  days,  and,  as  it  is 
thought,  abridged  their  term.  He  died  in  the 
beginning  of  his  fifty-third  year ;  too  soon  for 
the  interests  of  literature,  too  late  for  his  own 
peace. 

The  life  comprehended  in  this  brief  outline 
wras  singularly  unblessed.  Lessing  was  not 
made  of  the  stuff  which  thrives  in  the  world  of 
men.  He  was  one  of  those  illstarred  geniuses, 
who,  owing  to  some  fatality  or  some  defect,  or, 
quite  as  often  perhaps,  to  some  unwonted  and 
unaccommodating  virtue,  fail  to  find  an  equal 
and  congenial  sphere  for  the  exercise  of  their 
faculties,  and  are  never  at  one  with  their 
destiny.  His  erratic  course,  not  wholly  free 
from  folly,*  was  crossed  with  frequent  vexa- 
tions and  bitter  disappointments.  He  had  the 
misfortune,  among  others,  to  lose,  soon  after 
marriage,  a  beloved  wife  to  whom  he  had  been 
betrothed  for  six  years. — "  Six  years,"  says  He- 
gelf — "what  a  long  time  for  a  betrothed  pair! 
and,  in  this  interim,  almost  nothing  but  vexation 
and  suffering  through  sickness.  And  then  the 
duration  of  the  marriage,  —  only  three  years! 
Who  can  help  thinking,  in  such  a  case,  of  the 
vanity  of  man  and  his  dearest  cares]  Should 
we  not  think  that,  if  a  man  could  know  this 


*He  is  accused  of  having  been  addicted  to  games  of 
hazard. 

f  "  Ueber  Lessing's  Briefwechsel  mit  seiner  Frau."  He- 
gel's Vermischte  Schriften. 

(81) 


82 


LESSING. 


beforehand,  he  would  prefer  an  earlier  death 
than  Nature  had  intended, to  such  a  life?" 

"That  a  man  like  Lessing,"  says  Heine,* 
"  could  never  be  happy  you  will  easily  com- 
prehend. Even  if  he  had  not  loved  the  truth, 
and  if  he  had  not  everywhere  fought  for  it,  of 
his  own  free  will,  he  must  nevertheless  have 
been  unhappy,  for  he  was  a  Genius.  They 
will  pardon  thee  everything,  said  lately  a  sigh- 
ing poet;  they  will  pardon  thy  riches,  they 
will  pardon  thy  high  birth,  they  will  pardon 
thy  handsome  figure,  they  will  even  pardon  thy 
talent,  but  to  genius  men  are  inexorable.  There- 
fore is  the  history  of  great  men  always  a  mar- 
tyr-legend. If  they  suffered  not  for  great 
Humanity,  they  suffered  for  their  own  great- 
ness, for  their  great  manner  of  being,  for  their 
unphilistine  ways,  their  dissatisfaction  with 
ostentatious  common-place,  with  the  smirking 
meanness  of  their  environment ; — a  dissatisfac- 
tion which  naturally  drives  them  into  extra- 
vagances, e.  g.  into  the  play-house,  or  even 
into  the  gambling-house,  as  happened  to  poor 
Lessing.  ***** 

It  is  heart-rending  to  read  in  his  biography, 
how  Destiny  denied  this  man  every  joy,  and 
how  it  was  not  even  permitted  him  to  recreate 
himself  from  his  daily  conflicts,  in  the  peaceful 
bosom  of  a  family.  Once  only,  Fortune  seemed 
disposed  to  favor  him.  She  gave  him  a  be- 
loved wife,  a  child.  But  this  happiness  was 
like  the  sunbeam  which  gilds  the  wing  of  a 
passing  bird.  It  passed  as  soon.  The  wife 
died  in  giving  birth  to  her  first  child ;  the 
child  immediately  after  birth.  Concerning  the 
latter,  he  wrote  to  a  friend  these  horribly  witty 
words :  "  My  joy  was  but  brief.  And  I  was 
unwilling  to  lose  him,  —  this  son.  For  he  had 
so  much  sense !  So  much  sense  !  Do  not  think 
that  the  few  hours  of  paternity  have  made  me 
such  an  ape  of  a  father.  I  know  what  I  say. 
Was  it  not  a  proof  of  sense,  that  he  came  so 
unwillingly  into  the  world  1 — that  he  suspected 
mischief  so  soon  ?  Was  it  not  a  proof  of  sense, 
that  he  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  be  oft' 
again  ?  —  I  had  hoped,  for  once,  to  have  some 
comfort  like  ether  people.  But  it  proved  a  bad 
business  for  me." 

"There  was  one  sorrow  of  which  Lessing 
never  spoke  with  his  friends ;  that  was,  his 
awful  loneliness,  his  spiritual  isolation.  Some 
of  his  cotemporaries  loved  him,  no  one  under- 


*  Salon,  vol.  ii. 


stood  him.  Mendelssohn,  his  best  friend,  de- 
fended him  with  zeal  when  he  was  accused  of 
Spinozism.  The  zeal  and  the  defence  were  as 
laughable  as  they  were  superfluous.  Be  quiet 
in  thy  grave,  old  Moses !  thy  Lessing,  to  be 
sure,  was  on  the  way  to  this  dreadful  error, 
this  pitiable  calamity  —  Spinozism.  But  the 
All-highest,  the  Father  in  heaven  rescued  him, 
at  the  right  moment,  by  death.  Be  quiet,  thy 
Lessing  was  not  a  Spinozist,  as  slander  would 
have  it.  He  died  a  good  deist,  like  thee  and 
Nicolai,  and  Teller,  and  the  Universal  Ger- 
man Library !" 

This  life,  so  unsuccessful,  so  tragic,  in  its 
personal  aspects,  was  eminently  successful  in 
its  fruits.  German  literature  is  indebted  to 
Lessing  as  scarcely  to  any  other  name  in  its 
annals.  He  has  been  to  it  what  Luther  was 
to  the  language, — the  father  of  a  new  era  and 
order  of  things.  That  era  of  the  German  in- 
tellect which  has  just  transpired,  that  era  which 
gave  to  Germany  her  present  intellectual  posi- 
tion among  the  nations,  and  which,  through  her 
influence,  has  become  an  era  in  the  progress  of 
the  universal  mind,  dates  from  Lessing,  its 
earliest  representative  in  general  literature; 
as  Kant  was  its  earliest  representative  in  phi- 
losophy. He  first  delivered  his  countrymen 
from  the  tyranny  of  French  forms,  and,  placing 
before  them  the  true  models  of  all  time,  parti- 
cularly Shakspeare  and  the  Greeks,  led  them 
back  to  Nature,  and,  through  Nature,  to  new 
creations.  Great  as  a  poet, — although  his  sub- 
lime ideal  of  the  poet's  function  led  him  to  dis- 
claim that  title, — *  he  was  still  greater  as  a 
critic,  and,  therein,  a  true  son  of  his  country,  a 


*  He  thus  speaks  of  himself  at  the  close  of  the  Drama- 
turgic: '•  I  am  neither  actor  nor  poet.  It  is  true  men 
have  sometimes  done  me  the  honour  to  rank  me  in  the 
latter  class.  But  it  is  only  because  they  misunderstood 
me.  They  should  not  infer  so  liberally  from  some  dra- 
matic attempts  which  I  have  hazarded.  Not  every  one 
who  takes  the  brush  in  his  hand  is  a  painter.  The  oldest 
of  those  attempts  were  made  at  that  age  when  we  are 
so  willing  to  mistake  pleasure  and  facility  for  genius. 
Whatever  is  tolerable  in  the  later  ones,  I  am  very  con- 
scious that  I  owe  it  wholly  and  only  to  criticism.  I  fefil 
not  in  me  the  living  fountain  which  struggles  forth,  of 
its  own  force,  and,  by  its  own  force,  shoots  up  in  such 
rich,  fresh  and  pure  rays.  I  have  to  squeeze  every  tiling 
out  of  me  by  pressure  and  pipes.  *  *  *  I  have  there- 
fore always  been  shamed  or  vexed,  when  I  have  heard  or 
read  anything  in  dispraise  of  criticism.  It  has  been  said 
to  stifle  genius;  and  I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  derived 
from  it  something  which  approaches  very  near  to  Genius. 
I  am  a  cripple,  and  cannot  possibly  be  edified  by  a  philip- 
pic against  crutches.  But,  to  be  sure,  as  the  crutch  may 
help  the  lame  man  to  move  from  place  to  place,  but  can 
never  make  him  a  runner,  so  it  is  with  criticism." 


LESSING. 


83 


genuine  representative  of  the  national  mind. 
Germany  has  produced  no  greater  critic  than 
Lessing.  And  when  we  say  this,  we  place 
him  at  the  head  of  that  "  group"  in  the  "  Pha- 
lanx" of  Letters.  Herder  testifies  of  him,  that 
"  no  modern  writer  has  exercised  a  greater  in- 
fluence on  Germany,  in  matters  of  taste  and  of 
refined  and  profound  judgment  on  literary  sub- 
jects." "  Lessing's  judgments  have,  for  the 
most  part,  been  confirmed  by  time.  What  then 
seemed  sharp,  is  now  thought  just ;  what  was 
then  hard,  is  now  sober  truth."  I  know  scarce 
any  one  who  could  speak  of  himself,  as  a  writer, 
with  greater  modesty  and  dignity  than  Lessing. 
And  generally,  he  is,  without  question,  in  ex- 
tent of  reading,  in  critical  acumen,  and  in  many- 
sided,  manly  understanding,  the  first  critic  of 
Germany."*  His  dissertation  on  the  Fable  is 
affirmed  by  the  same  author,  to  be  the  "  most 
concise  and  philosophic  theory  concerning  any 
species  of  composition,  that  has  been  written 
since  Aristotle." 

But  Lessing  wrought  even  more  powerfully, 
by  his  character  and  example,  as  the  fearless 
advocate  of  truth,  and  the  uncompromising  en- 
emy of  all  narrowness,  and  false  enlightenment, 
and  pretence, — of  all  half- culture  and  half- 
truth, — than  by  his  critical  theories.  This  is 
Heine's  view  of  him.  "  Since  Luther,  Germany 
has  produced  no  greater  and  better  man  than 
Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing.  These  two  are 
our  pride  and  our  delight.  Like  Luther,  Les- 
sing acted  not  only  by  means  of  certain  specific 
performances,  but  by  stirring  the  German  na- 
tion to  its  depths,  and  producing  a  wholesome 
mental  commotion  with  his  criticism  and  his 
polemics.  He  was  the  living  criticism  of  his 
time,  and  his  whole  life  was  polemic.  That 
criticism  made  itself  felt  in  the  widest  domain 
of  thought  and  feeling;  in  religion,  in  science, 
in  art.  That  polemic  overcame  every  adver- 
sary, and  grew  stronger  with  every  victory. 
Lessing,  according  to  his  own  confession,  re- 
quired such  controversy,  for  the  development 
of  his  own  mind.  He  resembled  that  fabulous 
Norman  who  inherited  the  talents,  knowledge, 
and  faculties  of  the  men  whom  he  slew  in  bat- 
tle, and,  in  this  way,  at  last,  was  endued  with 
all  possible  advantages  and  excellences.  It 
may  be  supposed  that  such  a  battle  -  loving 
champion  must  occasion  no  small  noise  in  Ger- 
many, quiet  Germany,  which,  at  that  time,  was 

*  Herder's  Zerstreute  Blatter.  II.  Th.  "  Gotthold  Eph- 
raim Lessing." 


more  sabbath-still  than  now-a-days.  People 
were  confounded  at  his  literary  boldness.  But 
this  very  quality  was  of  great  service  to  him. 
For  "  oser"  is  the  secret  of  success  in  literature 
as  well  as  in  revolutions — and  in  love.  At 
Lessing's  sword  trembled  all.  No  head  was 
secure  from  him.  *  *  *  Whom  his  sword 
could  not  reach,  he  slew  with  the  arrows  of  his 
wit.  *  *  *  Lessing's  wit  is  not  like  that 
Enjouement,that  Gaite, those  springing saillies 
which  are  known  in  this  country.  His  wit 
was  not  the  little  French  grey-hound,  that  runs 
after  its  own  shadow ;  it  was  more  like  a  great 
German  cat,  that  plays  with  the  mouse  before 
devouring  it.  *  *  *  Thus,  by  his  contro- 
versies, he  has  rescued  many  a  name  from  well- 
deserved  oblivion.  Several  tiny  authors  he  has, 
as  it  were,  spun  round  with  the  most  genial 
ridicule,  with  the  most  costly  humor;  and  now 
they  are  preserved  to  endless  ages  in  his  works, 
like  insects  caught  in  a  piece  of  amber.  While 
killing  his  adversaries,  he  made  them  immortal. 
Who  of  us  would  ever  have  heard  of  that  Klotz 
on  whom  Lessing  has  expended  so  much  ridi- 
cule and  acutenessl  The  rocks  which  he 
hurled  upon  that  poor  antiquary,  and  with 
which  he  crushed  him,  are  now  his  indestruc- 
tible monument. 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  wittiest  man  in 
Germany  was  also,  at  the  same  time,  the  most 
honest.  Nothing  can  equal  his  love  of  truth. 
Lessing  made  not  the  slightest  concession  to 
falsehood,  even  when,  after  the  usual  fashion 
of  the  worldly  wise,  he  could  promote  the  cause 
of  Truth  by  it.  He  could  do  everything  for  the 
truth  except  to  lie  for  it.  Whoso  thinks,  said 
he  once,  to  recommend  Truth  by  all  sorts  of 
masks  and  paints,  would  fain  be  her  pimp;  but 
her  lover  he  never  was. 

To  no  one  is  the  beautiful  saying  of  BufFon — 
"  the  style  is  the  man" — more  applicable  than 
to  Lessing.  His  manner  of  writing  is  entirely 
like  his  character,  true,  firm,  unadorned,  beau- 
tiful and  imposing  by  its  inherent  strength. 
His  style  is  the  style  of  Roman  architecture ; 
the  greatest  solidity  with  the  greatest  simpli- 
city." 

His  influence  in  Theology  has  been  as  great, 
perhaps,  as  in  Criticism  and  Art,  although  less 
generally  acknowledged,  and  although  most 
vehemently  resisted  at  the  time.  In  Theology, 
as  in  every  other  department,  he  was  a  refor- 
mer, at  war  with  the  prevailing  opinions  of  his 
time ;  and  was  persecuted,  as  only  theological 


B4 


LESSING. 


reformers  are.  He  published  some  fragments 
of  an  anonymous  skeptic,  found  in  the  library 
at  Wolfenbiittel,  containing  doubts  which  Les-„ 
sing  wished  to  have  solved,  but  which  he  was 
accused  of  circulating  with  impious  designs 
against  the  essential  truths  of  Christianity.  In 
the  storm  of  abuse  occasioned  by  these  publica- 
tions he  appeals  from  Lutheran  Divines  to  Lu- 
ther himself.  "O  !  that  he  could  judge  me ; — 
he  whom  I  would  prefer  of  all  others  for  my 
judge  !  Luther,  thou  !  Great  misunderstood ! 
And  by  none  more  misunderstood  than  by  those 
short-sighted,  headstrong  men  who,  with  thy 
slippers  in  their  hands,  saunter  screaming  or 
indifferent  along  the  path  prepared  by  thee. 
Thou  hast  delivered  us  from  the  yoke  of  Tra- 
dition :  who  shall  deliver  us  from  the  more  in- 
tolerable yoke  of  the  Letter !  Who  shall  bring 
us  at  last  a  Christianity  such  as  thou  wouldst 
now  teach,  such  as  Christ  himself  would  teach  !"* 
That  judgment,  in  the  spirit  of  Luther,  which 
he  so  vainly  craved  during  his  life,  was  libe- 
rally accorded  to  him,  by  all  the  best  minds  of 
Germany,  after  his  death ;  and  by  none  more 
liberally  than  by  Herder,  than  whom  he  could 
not  have  wished  for  himself — among  the  living 
— a  fitter  judge.  "  Lessing's  last  days,"  says 
this  writer,f  "  were  destined  to  be  embittered 
by  a  theological  controversy  from  which,  if  the 
Public  has  not  yet  derived  all  the  benefit  which 
he  certainly  expected  and  intended,  it  can 
hardly  be  considered  his  faulty  He  published 
the  « Fragments,  by  an  anonymous  Author,'  re- 
lating to  the  Resurrection  and  other  points  of 
biblical  history.  I,  who  knew  Lessing  person- 
ally, who  knew  him  at  the  time  when  the 
above-mentioned  pieces  had  probably  come  into 
his  hands,  and,  as  I  now  infer  from  many  ex- 
pressions of  his,  were  then  exercising  his  mind 
intensely ;  I,  who  also  heard  him  converse  on 
subjects  of  this  kind,  and  believe  myself  to  be 
sufficiently  acquainted  with  his  character  in 
what  relates  to  manly  love  of  truth;  —  I  am 
convinced,  for  my  own  part,  (for  others,  I  nei- 
ther pretend  nor  care  to  be,)  that  he  procured 
the  publication  of  these  pieces  solely  and  purely 


*"Durch  die  Fragmente  des  Wolfenbiittelischen  Un- 
gonannten  veranlasste  Schriften." 

t  Zerstreute  Bliitter.  II.  "  Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing." 

t  The  strictest  theologian  will  scarcely  deny  at  present 
that  the  publication  of  the  fragments  lias  been  of  service. 
The  surest  proof  of  which  is  that  if  they  were  to  appear 
now  they  would  scarcely  attract  the  attention  which  men 
then  involuntarily  bestowed  upon  them.  A  sign  that 
we  have  advanced. 


for  the  interests  of  Truth,  tor  the  sake  of  freer 
and  manly  inquiry,  examination  and  confirma- 
tion on  all  sides.  He  has  affirmed  this  himself 
so  often,  so  strongly,  so  plainly ;  —  the  whole 
manner  in  which  he  published  these  Fragments, 
and,  as  a  layman,  gave  here  and  there  his 
thoughts  upon  them,  sometimes  in  the  way  of 
refutation ; — Lessing's  general  character,  as  it 
must  have  impressed  every  one  who  knew  him 
(and  those  who  did  not  should  be  cautious  in 
their  judgment  of  it) ; — all  this  is  to  me  a  pledge 
of  his  pure  philosophical  conviction,  that  hereby 
also  he  should  occasion  and  effect  something 
useful,  to  wit, — I  repeat  it  again, — free  inves- 
tigation of  the  truth, — of  truth  so  important,  as 
this  history  must  be  to  every  one  who  believes 
it,  or  who  believes  on  it.  If,  of  all  truths  and 
histories,  this  truth  and  this  history  alone  may 
not  be  investigated, — may  not  be  investigated 
in  relation  to  every  doubt  and  every  doubter, — 
that  is  not  Lessing's  fault.  But,  in  our  day,  no 
theologian  and  no  religionist  will  maintain  this. 
If  we  grant  this  one  proposition, — that  Truth 
must  and  can  be  investigated;  —  that  Truth 
gains  with  every  free  and  earnest  examination, 
precisely  in  that  degree  and  proportion  in  which 
it  is  cognizable  by  us,  and  consequently,  only 
in  such  measure  binding  upon  us ; — if  we  grant 
this  proposition,  which  the  history  of  all  times, 
and  religions,  and  peoples,  especially  the  his- 
tory and  truth  of  the  Christian  religion,  wher- 
ever it  has  been  questioned  and  assailed,  incon- 
trovertibly  proves:  then  Lessing  has  won.  And 
then,  instead  of  talking  of  crooked,  malicious, 
wicked  designs,  we  should  thank  him  that  he 
has  given  us  occasion  for  the  investigation  and 
confirmation  of  the  most  important  truths ;  in 
short,  for  triumph. 

******** 
I  thanked  him,  always,  for  making  me  ac- 
quainted with  doubts  which  occupy  me  and 
bring  me  farther ;  which  develope  thoughts  in 
me,  although  not  in  the  smoothest  way. 
******** 
And  where  art  thou  now,  noble  truth-seeker, 
truth-perceiver,  truth-defender?  What  seest, 
what  discernest  thou  now  ]  Thy  first  glance 
beyond  the  bounds  of  this  darkness,  of  this 
earth -mist;  in  what  a  different,  higher  light 
did  it  reveal  to  thee  all  which  thou  sawest  and 
soughtest  on  earth  !  To  seek  the  truth,  not  to 
have  discovered  it;  to  strive  for  the  good,  not 
to  have  already  embraced  all  goodness ; — this 
was  here  thy  contemplation,  thy  serious  em- 


LESSING. 


ployment,  thy  study,  thy  life.  Eye  and  heart 
thou  soughtest  ever  to  keep  awake  and  sound; 
and  to  no  vice  wast  thou  so  opposed,  as  to  vague, 
creeping1  hypocrisy,  to  our  customary,  daily 
half-lie  and  half-truth,  to  the  false  politeness 
which  is  never  helpful,  to  dissembling  philan- 
thropy which  never  desires  to  be,  or  can  be  be- 
neficent ; — but  most  of  all  (agreeably  to  thy 
office  and  vocation)  to  that  wearisome,  drowsy, 
half-truth  which,  in  all  our  knowing  and  learn- 
ing, like  rust  and  cancer,  gnaws,  from  early 
childhood,  in  human  souls.  This  monster,  with 
all  its  frightful  brood,  thou  assailedst  like  a 
hero,  and  bravely  hast  thou  fought  thy  fight. 
Many  passages  in  thy  books,  full  of  pure  truth, 
full  of  manly,  firm  sentiments,  full  of  golden, 
eternal  goodness  and  beauty,  will  encourage, 
instruct,  confirm,  awaken  men  who,  also,  like 


SO 


thee,  shall  serve  the  truth  entirely ;  so  long  as 
truth  is  truth  and  the  human  mind  is  what  it 
was  created  to  be ;  who  shall  serve  every 
truth ;  even  though,  at  first,  it  may  seem  dread- 
ful and  hateful ; — persuaded  that,  in  the  end,  it 
will  prove,  nevertheless,  to  be  wholesome,  re- 
freshing, beautiful.  Wherever  thou  hast  erred, 
where  thy  acuteness  and  thine  ever  active, 
lively  mind  lured  thee  aside  into  by-ways  ; — in 
short,  where  thou  wast  a  man,  thou  erredst, 
assuredly  not  willingly,  and  strovest  ever  to 
become  a  whole  man ;  a  progressive,  growing 
spirit." 

Vitis  ut  arhoribus  decori  est,  ut  vitibus  uvie, 
Tu  decus  oinrie  tuis  :  postquam  te  fata  tulere 
Ipsa  Pales  a^ros,  atque  ipse  reliquit  Apollo. 
Sparse  humum  foliis  inducite  fontibus  umbras, 
Et  tumulum  facite  et  tumulo  superaddite  carmen. 
"Candidas  isrnotum  mira'ur  lumen  Olympi 
Sub  pedibusque  videt  nubes  et  sidera  Daphnis." 


«  FROM  LAOCOON."* 

LAOCOON,  OR  THE  LIMITS  OF  PAINTING  AND  POETRY. 
PREFACE. 

The  first  one  who  compared  Painting  with 
Poetry,  was  a  man  of  refined  feeling,  who  had 
experienced  in  himself  a  similar  effect  from 
these  two  arts.  Both,  he  perceived,  represent 
absent  things  as  present,  appearances  as  reality. 
Both  deceive,  and  the  deceptions  of  both  give 
pleasure. 

A  second  sought  to  penetrate  into  the  interior 
of  this  pleasure,  and  discovered  that,  in  both 
cases,  it  flows  from  the  same  source.  Beauty, 
the  first  notion  of  which  we  derive  from  cor- 
poreal objects,  has  general  rules  which  will 
bear  application  to  various  objects, — to  actions, 
to  thoughts,  as  well  as  to  forms. 

A  third,  who  reflected  on  the  value  and  dis- 
tribution of  these  general  rules,  observed  that 
some  of  them  obtain  most  in  Painting,  others  in 
Poetry,  and  that  in  regard  to  one  class  there- 
fore Painting  may  assist  Poetry,  in  regard  to 
the  other,  Poetry  Painting — with  illustrations 
and  examples. 

The  first  was  the  Amateur,  the  second  the 
Philosopher,  the  third  the  Critic. 


*  The  Laocoon  of  Lessing  is  the  masterpiece  of  German 
criticism,  as  his  Emilia  Galotti  is  the  masterpiece  of  Ger- 
man Tragedy.  It  unites,  with  extensive  erudition  and 
rare  penetration,  a  poet's  feeling  for  beauty  and  art.  The 
general  subject  is  announced  in  the  preface,  the  greater 
part  of  which  is  given  above.  But,  in  addition  to  the 
arguments  which  bear  directly  on  that  subject,  it  contains 
many  general  reflections  on  art  and  poetry,  of  great  value. 
The  brief  extract  which  is  here  offered,  contains  Lessing's 
answer  to  the  question,  why  Laocoon  does  not  '  cry,'  in 
the  representation  of  the  sculptor,  as  well  as  in  that  of 
the  poet  ? 


The  two  first  were  not  likely  to  make  a  false 
use,  either  of  their  feelings  or  their  conclusions. 
In  the  observations  of  the  critic,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  principal  point  is  the  correctness  of 
the  application  to  specific  cases;  and  since 
there  are  fifty  witty  critics  to  one  of  penetra- 
tion, it  would  be  a  wonder  if  this  application 
were  always  made  with  that  caution  which  is 
necessary  to  maintain  a  just  balance  between 
the  two  arts. 

If  Apeiles  and  Protogenes,  in  their  lost  works 
on  painting,  confirmed  and  illustrated  the  rules 
of  that  art  by  the  already  established  rules  of 
poetry,  we  may  rest  assured  that  they  did  it 
with  that  moderation  and  accuracy  with  which 
we  still  see  Aristotle,  Cicero,  Horace,  Quinti- 
lian,  in  their  works,  apply  the  principles  and 
experiences  of  Painting  to  Eloquence  and  Po- 
etry. It  is  the  prerogative  of  the  ancients,  in 
nothing,  to  have  done,  either  too  much  or  too 
little. 

But  we  moderns  have  thought  to  surpass 
them  in  many  things,  by  converting  their  little 
pleasure-paths  into  highways,  although  the 
shorter  and  safer  highways  have  dwindled,  by 
that  means,  into  bypaths  that  lead  through  wil- 
dernesses. 

The  dazzling  antithesis  of  the  Greek  Vol- 
taire, that  painting  is  silent  poetry,  and  poetry  a 
speaking  picture,  would  scarcely  be  found  in 
any  text-book.  It  was  one  of  those  conceits  in 
which  Simonides  abounded,  in  which  that  por- 
tion which  is  true  is  so  obvious,  that  men  think 
they  must  overlook  what  is  indefinite  and  false 
in  them. 

The  ancients,  however,  did  not  overlook  it. 
On  the  contrary,  while  they  limited  the  saying 
of  Simonides  to  the  effects  produced  by  the  two 
arts,  they  did  not  forget  to  insist  that,  notwith- 
8 


86 


LESSING. 


standing  the  perfect  similarity  of  these  effects, 
they  dilfered,  nevertheless,  as  well  in  the  ob- 
jects as  in  the  manner  of  their  imitation.  (Tto? 
xai  tportoif  /xifi^rssu^). 

But  just  as  if  no  such  difference  existed,  many 
of  the  latest  critics  have  drawn  from  that  coin- 
cidence between  painting  and  poetry,  the  most 
crude  conclusions.  At  one  time,  they  force 
poetry  into  the  narrow  bounds  of  painting;  at 
another,  they  give  to  painting  the  entire  dimen- 
sions of  the  wide  sphere  of  poetry.  All  that  is 
lawful  in  the  one  they  concede  to  the  other;  all 
that  pleases  or  displeases  in  the  one  must  needs 
be  pleasing  or  displeasing  in  the  other  also. 
Full  of  this  idea,  they  pronounce  the  most  shal- 
low judgments  with  the  most  confident  tone. 
They  treat  the  differences  observed  between 
the  works  of  a  poet  and  a  painter  handling  the 
same  theme,  as  faults  which  they  charge  upon 
the  one  or  the  other,  according  as  their  taste 
inclines  more  to  the  one  or  the  other  art. 

And  this  false  criticism  has,  to  some  extent, 
misled  the  virtuosi  themselves.  It  has  engen- 
dered a  fondness  for  sketching  in  poetry,  and 
introduced  allegory  into  painting.  Men  have 
attempted  to  make  the  former  "a  speaking 
picture,"  without  properly  understanding  what 
Poetry  can  or  ought  to  paint ;  and  to  make  the 
latter  "  a  silent  poem,"  not  considering  in  what 
degree  Painting  is  capable  of  expressing  univer- 
sal conceptions,  without  departing  too  far  from 
her  destination  and  becoming  a  kind  of  arbi- 
trary writing. 

To  counteract  this  false  taste  and  these  un- 
founded judgments  is  the  principal  design  of 
the  following  essays.  Their  origin  is  accidental, 
and  their  growth  has  followed  rather  the  order 
of  my  reading  than  the  methodical  development 
of  general  principles.  They  are,  therefore,  not 
so  much  a  book,  as  irregular  collectanea  for  a 
book. 

As  I  make  the  "Laocoon"  my  point  of  de- 
parture, and  often  recur  to  it,  I  have  determined 
to  give  it  a  share  in  the  title. 

I. 

The  universal  and  principal  characteristic  of 
the  Greek  master-pieces  in  painting  and  in 
sculpture,  according  to  Herr  Winkelmann,  is  a 
noble  simplicity  and  a  quiet  grandeur,  as  well 
in  the  attitude  as  in  the  expression.  "As  the 
depth  of  the  sea,"  he  says,  "  remains  for  ever 
quiet,  however  the  surface  may  rage,  so  the  ex- 
pression, in  the  figures  of  the  Greeks,  discovers, 
in  the  midst  of  passion,  a  great  and  calm  soul. 

"  This  soul  paints  itself  in  the  face  of  the  Lao- 
coon, and  not  in  the  face  alone,  under  the  most 
vehement  suffering.  The  pain  apparent  in  all 
the  muscles  and  sinews  of  the  body,  and  which, 
without  considering  the  face  and  other  parts, 
we  seem  almost  to  feel  ourselves,  in  the  painful 
drawing  in  of  the  abdomen  alone, — this  pain,  I 
say,  manifests  itself  nevertheless  with  no  degree 
of  violence  in  the  face,  or  in  the  whole  attitude. 


He  raises  no  such  fearful  cry  as  Virgil  sings  of 
his  Laocoon  ;  the  opening  of  the  mouth  does  not 
permit  it;  it  is  rather  an  anxious  and  oppressed 
sigh,  as  described  by  Sadolet.  The  pain  of  the 
body  and  the  greatness  of  the  soul  are  expressed 
with  equal  force  in  the  narrow  structure  of  the 
figure,  and,  as  it  were,  weighed,  the  one  against 
the  other.  Laocoon  suffers,  but  he  suffers  like 
the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles;  his  misery  touches 
our  soul,  but  we  wish,  at  the  same  time,  to  re- 
semble this  great  man  in  his  capacity  of  endur- 
ance. 

"  The  expression  of  so  great  a  soid  far  transcends 
the  imitation  of  mere  natural  beauty.  The  artist 
must  have  felt  in  himself  the  strength  of  mind 
which  he  has  impressed  upon  his  marble.  Greece 
possessed  artists  and  philosophers  in  the  same 
person,  and  had  more  than  one  Metrodorus. 
Wisdom  joined  hands  with  Art,  and  breathed 
into  her  figures  a  more  than  common  soul,  &c." 

The  observation  on  which  this  criticism  is 
based,  that  the  pain  of  Laocoon  does  not  show 
itself  in  his  countenance  with  that  degree  of 
vehemence  which  might  be  expected  from  its 
intensity,  is  perfectly  correct.  Further,  it  is  in- 
disputable that,  in  this  very  circumstance,  in 
which  a  half-critic  might  judge  the  artist  to 
have  fallen  below  Nature  and  not  to  have 
reached  the  true  pathos  of  pain,  his  wisdom  is 
most  conspicuously  manifest. 

But,  in  regard  to  the  reason  which  Herr 
Winkelmann  assigns  for  this  wisdom,  and  in 
regard  to  the  universality  of  the  rule  which  he 
deduces  from  this  reason,  I  venture  to  be  of  a 
different  opinion. 

I  confess,  the  depreciating  side-glance  which 
he  throws  at  Virgil,  first  caused  me  to  doubt; 
and  then  the  comparison  with  Philoctetes. 

"  Laocoon  suffers  like  the  Philoctetes  of 
Sophocles."  How  does  this  character  suffer? 
It  is  singular  that  his  suffering  should  have  left 
such  a  different  impression  upon  our  minds. 
The  complaints,  the  screams,  the  wild  execra- 
tions with  which  his  pain  filled  the  camp,  in- 
terrupting the  sacrifices  and  all  solemn  acts, 
sounded  not  less  terribly  through  the  desert 
island.  They  were  the  cause  of  his  being 
banished  thither.  What  tones  of  impatience, 
of  misery,  of  despair !  The  poet  made  the 
theatre  resound  with  his  imitation  of  them. 

A  cry  is  the  natural  expression  of  bodily 
pain.  Homer's  wounded  warriors  fall,  not 
seldom,  with  a  cry  to  the  ground.  Venus,  when 
injured,  shrieks  aloud,*  not  that  she  may  be 
characterized  by  this  cry  as  the  luxurious  God- 
dess of  pleasure,  but  that  Nature  may  have  her 
due.  For  even  the  iron  Mars,  when  he  feels 
the  lance  of  Diomed,  cries  so  horribly,  "as  if 
ten  thousand  mad  warriors  were  shrieking  at 
once,"  that  both  armies  are  terrified. f  Not- 
withstanding Homer  elevates  his  heroes  so  far 
above  human  nature  in  some  things,  they  al- 
ways remain  true  to  it,  when  it  comes  to  the 
feeling  of  pain  or  affront,  and  to  the  expression 

*  Iliad,  E.  v.  343.  t  Iliad,  ib-  859. 


LESSING. 


87 


of  that  feeling  by  cries  or  tears  or  by  railing. 
In  their  deeds  they  are  beings  of  a  higher 
order  ;  but,  in  their  sensations,  they  are  veritable 
men. 

I  know,  we  more  refined  Europeans,  of  a 
wiser  posterity,  understand  better  how  to  govern 
our  mouth  and  our  eyes.  Courtesy  and  grace 
forbid  cries  and  tears.  The  active  courage  of 
the  first,  rude  age  of  the  world  has  transformed 
itself,  with  us,  into  a  suffering  one.  Yet  even 
our  ancestors  were  greater  in  the  latter,  than  in 
the  former  kind.  But  our  ancestors  were  bar- 
barians. To  suppress  all  pain,  to  look  with 
unflinching  eye  on  the  stroke  of  death,  to  die 
laughing  under  the  bites  of  adders,  to  mourn 
neither  one's  own  sin  nor  the  loss  of  one's 
dearest  friend,  —  these  are  traits  of  the  old 
Northern  heroism.  Palnatoko  gave  the  citizens 
of  Joms  command,  to  fear  nothing,  nor  so  much 
as  to  name  the  word  fear. 

Not  so  the  Greek  !  He  felt  and  he  feared. 
He  gave  utterance  to  his  pains  and  his  grief. 
He  was  not  ashamed  of  any  human  weakness ; 
but  he  allowed  none  to  withhold  him  from  the 
path  of  honour,  or  to  hinder  him  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  duty.  What  was  savageness  and 
callousness  with  the  barbarians,  was,  with 
him,  the  result  of  principle.  Heroism,  with 
him,  was  like  the  hidden  sparks  in  the  flint, 
which  sleep  peacefully  so  long  as  they  are  not 
awakened  by  external  force ;  and  neither  take 
from  the  stone  its  smoothness  nor  its  coldness. 
With  the  barbarian,  heroism  was  a  bright,  de- 
vouring flame  which  raged  without  ceasing,  de- 
stroying or  blackening,  at  least,  every  other  good 
quality  in  his  nature.  When  Homer  leads  the 
Trojans  to  battle,  with  wild  shouts,  and  the 
Greeks,  on  the  other  hand,  in  resolute  silence, — 
the  commentators  remark  well,  that  the  poet 
intended  hereby  to  describe  the  former  as  bar- 
barians, and  the  latter  as  civilized  nations.  I 
wonder  they  have  not  noticed  a  similar  cha- 
racteristic contrast  in  another  passage.  The 
hostile  armies  have  concluded  an  armistice. 
They  are  occupied  with  the  burning  of  their 
dead,— an  employment  which  does  not  pass 
without  hot  tears  on  both  sides ;  Saxpva  &p/xa 
%tovrts.  But  Priam  forbids  his  Trojans  to  weep  ; 
«§'  fitt  xTjuslv  Ilptawoj  ^ufyaj.  He  forbids  them 
to  weep,  says  Madame  Dacier,  because  he  fears 
that  they  will  make  themselves  too  tender,  and 
enter  the  conflict  with  less  courage,  on  the  mor- 
row. Good  !  but  I  ask  why  must  Priam  alone 
fear  this?  Why  does  not  Agamemnon  also 
give  the  same  command  to  his  Greeks  1  The 
meaning  of  the  poet  lies  deeper.  He  designs 
to  teach  us,  that  only  the  civilized  Greek  can 
weep  and  be  brave  at  the  same  time ;  whereas 
the  Trojans,  in  order  to  be  so,  must  first  extin- 
guish every  feeling  of  humanity.  'SsfMaaafuu 
ye  psv  udsv  xTuuetv,  he  makes  the  intelligent  son 
of  the  wise  Nestor  say,  in  another  place. 

It  is  worthy  of  note,  that  among  the  few 
tragedies  that  have  come  down  to  vis  from 
antiquity,  there  are  two  in  which  bodily  pain 


constitutes  not  the  least  part  of  the  misery, 
with  which  the  hero  suffers.  The  Philoctetes 
and  the  Dying  Hercules.  The  latter,  also,  like 
the  former,  is  represented  by  Sophocles  as  wail- 
ing, moaning,  weeping,  and  crying.  Thanks 
to  our  decent  neighbours,  those  masters  of  pro- 
priety, a  howling  Philoctetes,  a  crying  Hercules, 
would  now  be  most  ridiculous  and  intolerable 
characters  on  the  stage.  True,  one  of  their 
newest  poets*  has  ventured  upon  Philoctetes. 
But  did  he  dare  to  show  them  the  true  Phi- 
loctetes ? 

Even  a  Laocoon  is  numbered  among  the  lost 
pieces  of  Sophocles.  Would  that  Fate  had 
spared  us  this  Laocoon  !  From  the  very  slight 
notices  of  it,  which  the  ancient  grammarians 
have  given,  it  is  impossible  to  determine  how 
the  poet  handled  this  subject.  But  of  this  I  am 
sure,  that  he  did  not  represent  Laocoon  as  more 
stoical  than  Philoctetes  and  Hercules.  Every- 
thing stoical  is  untheatrical,  and  our  compas- 
sion is  always  commensurate  with  the  suffer- 
ing expressed  by  the  object  that  interests  us. 
It  is  true,  if  we  see  that  object  bear  his  misery 
with  a  great  soul,  that  greatness  of  soul  will 
provoke  our  admiration.  But  admiration  is  a 
cold  feeling  which  precludes  every  warmer 
sentiment  and  every  clear  representation,  with 
its  vacant  stare. 

And  now  I  come  to  my  inference.  If  it  is 
true  that  cries,  under  the  infliction  of  bodily 
pain,  —  more  especially,  according  to  the  old 
Greek  view  of  the  subject, — are  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  greatness  of  soul ;  then  the  desire 
of  representing  such  a  soul,  cannot  be  the  rea- 
son why  the  artist  was  nevertheless  unwilling 
to  imitate  those  cries  in  his  marble.  On  the 
contrary,  there  must  be  some  other  reason  why, 
in  this  particular,  he  departs  from  his  rival,  the 
poet,  who  expresses  these  cries  with  the  most 
deliberate  intention. 

a 

Whether  it  be  fable  or  history,  that  the  first 
essay  in  the  plastic  arts  was  made  by  Love, — 
this  much  is  certain,  that  she  was  never  weary 
of  guiding  the  hand  of  the  great,  old  masters. 
For,  whereas,  at  the  present  day,  painting  is 
pursued,  in  its  whole  extent,  as  that  art  which 
imitates  bodies  in  general,  upon  surfaces,  the 
wise  Greek  confined  it  within  much  narrower 
limits.  He  restricted  it  to  the  imitation  of  those 
bodies  which  are  beautiful.  Their  artists  paint- 
ed nothing  but  the  beautiful.  Even  vulgar 
beauty,  the  beauty  of  inferior  orders,  was,  with 
them,  only  an  incidental  theme, — their  exercise, 
their  recreation.  Their  works  aimed  to  please 
by  the  perfection  of  the  object  itself.  They 
were  too  great  to  demand  of  the  spectator,  that 
he  should  content  himself  with  the  mere  cold 
enjoyment  arising  from  a  successful  likeness,— 
from  the  contemplation  of  their  own  skill. 
Nothing  in  their  art  was  dearer  to  them,  no- 


*  Chateaubrun. 


88 


LESSING. 


thing  seemed  to  them  more  noble,  than  the  aim 
of  the  art. 

"  Who  would  wish  to  paint  thee,  since  no  one 
likes  to  look  upon  thee  said  the  ancient  epi- 
grammatist,* of  a  very  deformed  person.  Many 
a  modern  artist  would  say:  "Be  thou  as  de- 
formed as  it  is  possible  to  be  ;  I  will  paint  thee 
notwithstanding.  Though  no  one  loves  to  look 
upon  thee,  yet  shall  men  look  with  pleasure  on 
my  painting,  not  because  it  represents  thee,  but 
as  a  proof  of  my  art  which  knows  how  to  copy 
such  a  scarecrow  so  accurately." 

True,  the  propensity  to  glory  in  mere  skill, 
undignified  by  the  worth  of  its  object,  is  too  na- 
tural not  to  have  produced,  among  the  Greeks 
also,  a  Pausonius  and  a  Pyreicus.  They  had 
such  painters,  but  they  rendered  them  strict 
justice.  Pausonius,  whose  department  was  be- 
low the  beauties  of  ordinary  nature,  —  whose 
depraved  taste  loved  best  to  represent  the  un- 
sightly and  defective  in  the  human  form, — lived 
in  the  most  contemptible  poverty.  And  Pyreicus 
who  painted  barber's-rooms,  dirty  workshops, 
asses  and  kitchen-herbs,  with  all  the  diligence 
of  a  Dutch  artist, — as  if  things  of  that  sort  were 
so  charming  and  so  rare  in  nature,  acquired  the 
name  of  Rhyparographer,  or  painter  of  filth  ; 
although  the  luxurious  rich  purchased  his  pic- 
tures for  their  weight  in  gold,  as  if  to  help  their 
nothingness  by  this  imaginary  value. j" 

The  magistrates,  themselves,  did  not  think  it 
unworthy  their  attention,  to  detain  the  artist 
forcibly  within  his  proper  sphere.  The  law  of 
the  Thebans,  which  required  the  imitation  of 
the  beautiful  and  forbade  the  imitation  of  the 
deformed,  is  well  known.  It  was  not  a  law 
against  bunglers,  as  it  is  generally,  and  even  by 
Junius  himself,}:  considered  to  be.  It  condemned 
the  Greek  Ghezzi, —  the  unworthy  artifice  of 
obtaining  a  resemblance  by  exaggerating  the 
deformities  of  the  originals  ;  in  a  word,  —  cari- 
cature. 

We  laugh  when  we  are  told  that  even  the 
arts  were  subject  to  civil  laws,  with  the  an- 
cients. But  we  are  not  always  right  when  we 
laugh.  Unquestionably,  the  laws  must  not 
arrogate  to  themselves  any  power  over  the 
sciences,  for  the  object  of  the  sciences  is  truth. 
Truth  is  necessary  to  the  soul,  and  it  is  tyranny 
to  place  the  slightest  restriction  on  the  gratifica- 
tion of  this  essential  want.  But  the  object  of 
the  arts,  being  pleasure,  is  not  indispensable. 
Therefore  it  may  well  depend  on  the  legislator, 
what  kind  of  pleasure  he  will  allow,  and  in 
what  degree  he  will  allow  it. 

The  plastic  arts  especially,  besides  the  in- 
evitable influence  which  they  exert  on  the 
character  of  a  nation,  are  capable  of  an  effect 
which  demands  the  close  inspection  of  the  Law. 
If  beautiful  men  produced  beautiful  statues, 

*  Antiochus.   (Antholog.  Lib.  ii.  Cap.  iv.) 

f  Hence  Aristotle  advises  that  his  pictures  should  not 
be  shown  to  young  people,  that  their  imagination  might 
be  kept  pure  from  ugly  images.    Aristot.  Polit.  L.  8.  C.  5. 

X  De  Pictura.  vet.  lib.  ii.  cap.  iv. 


these  again  reacted  upon  those ;  and  the  state 
was  indebted  to  beautiful  statues,  among  other 
causes,  for  its  beautiful  men.  With  us,  the 
sen>itiveness  of  maternal  imagination  appears 
to  express  itself  only  in  monsters. 

From  this  point  of  view,  I  think,  I  see  a  truth 
in  certain  ancient  traditions  which  have  been 
rejected,  without  qualification,  as  lies.  The 
mothers  of  Aristomenes,  of  Aristodamas,  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  of  Scipio,  of  Augustus,  of 
Galerius, — all  dreamed,  during  their  pregnancy, 
of  serpents.  The  serpent  was  a  symbol  of  god- 
head, and  the  beautiful  statues  and  paintings 
of  Bacchus,  of  Apollo,  of  Mercury,  of  Hercules, 
were  seldom  without  a  serpent.  The  honest 
women  had  feasted  their  eyes  on  the  god,  during 
the  day;  and  the  confounding  dream  awakened 
the  image  of  the  beast.  Thus  I  rescue  the 
dream,  and  surrender  the  explanation  which 
the  pride  of  their  sons,  and  the  impudence  of 
flatterers  have  made  of  it.  There  must  have 
been  some  reason  why  the  adulterous  fancy 
was  always  a  serpent. 

But  I  wander  out  of  my  way.  I  only  wished 
to  establish  this  point,  that  with  the  ancients 
beauty  was  the  highest  law  of  the  plastic  arts. 

And,  this  point  established,  it  follows  neces- 
sarily, that  everything  else,  to  which  the  plastic 
arts  might  likewise  extend,  must  yield,  alto- 
gether, where  it  was  found  incompatible  with 
beauty ;  and  where  it  was  compatible  with 
beauty,  must,  at  least,  be  subordinated  to  that. 

I  will  go  no  farther  than  the  expression. 
There  are  passions  and  degrees  of  passion 
which  manifest  themselves  in  the  countenance, 
by  the  ugliest  distortions,  and  throw  the  whole 
body  into  such  violent  attitudes,  that  all  the 
beautiful  lines  which  define  it  in  a  state  of 
rest,  are  lost.  Accordingly,  the  ancient  artists 
either  abstained  altogether  from  the  representa- 
tion of  these  passions ;  or  they  reduced  them  to 
a  lower  degree, — one  in  which  they  are  suscep- 
tible of  some  measure  of  beauty. 

Rage  and  despair  disfigured  none  of  their 
works.  I  venture  to  affirm  that  they  have  never 
represented  a  Fury.* 

They  reduced  anger  to  earnestness.  With 
the  poet,  it  was  the  angry  Jupiter  who  hurled 
the  lightning;  with  the  artist,  it  was  only  the 
earnest. 

Lamentation  was  softened  into  concern.  And 
where  this  could  not  be  done. — where  lamenta- 
tion would  have  been  as  belittling  as  it  was 
disfiguring, —  what  did  Timanthes  in  that  case? 
His  picture  of  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia, — 
wherein  he  apportions  to  each  of  the  spectators 
the  degree  of  sorrow,  proper  to  each,  but  covers 
the  face  of  the  father,  which  should  have  ex- 
hibited the  most  intense  of  all; — is  well  known, 
and  many  handsome  things  have  been  said  con- 
cerning it.  One  says :  "  the  painter  had  so  ex- 
hausted himself  in  sad  countenances,  that  he 


*  Except  on  coins,  whose  figures  belong  not  to  Art,  but 
to  the  language  of  symbols. 


89 


despaired  of  his  ability  to  give  the  father  a 
sadder  one."*  "He  confessed  by  this,"  says 
another,  "  that  the  grief  of  a  father,  in  such  a 
case,  is  beyond  all  expression. 'j-  For  my  part, 
I  see  here  neither  the  incompetence  of  the 
artist,  nor  the  incompetence  of  the  art.  With 
the  increase  of  the  passion,  the  traits  of  coun- 
tenance corresponding  to  that  passion  are  pro- 
portionally marked.  The  highest  degree  of  it 
has  the  most  decided  expression ;  and  nothing 
in  art  is  easier  than  to  represent  what  is  decided. 
But  Timanthes  knew  the  limits  which  the 
Graces  have  assigned  to  his  art.  He  knew  that 
the  degree  of  lamentation  which  became  Aga- 
memnon, as  father,  manifests  itself  in  distor- 
tions, which  are  always  ugly.  He  carried  the 
expression  of  grief  only  so  far  as  beauty  and 
dignity  could  be  combined  with  it.  What  was 
ugly  he  would  fain  have  passed  over,  or  would 
fain  have  softened ;  but  since  his  composition 
did  not  allow  of  both,  what  else  remained  but 
to  conceal  it? — What  he  might  not  paint,  he  left 
to  be  conjectured.  This  concealment  is  a  sacri- 
fice which  the  artist  made  to  beauty.  It  is  an 
example  showing,  not  how  expression  may  be 
carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  art,  but  how  it 
must  be  made  subject  to  the  first  law  of  art,  the 
law  of  beauty. 

Now,  applying  this  to  the  Laocoon,  we  see 
clearly  the  reason  which  I  am  seeking.  The 
master  laboured  for  the  highest  beauty  possible, 
under  the  given  conditions  of  bodily  pain.  Bodily 
pain,  in  all  its  deforming  vehemence,  was  in- 
compatible with  that  beauty.  It  was  necessary 
therefore,  that  he  should  reduce  it,  —  that  he 
should  soften  cries  into  sighs.  Not  because 
crying  betrays  an  ignoble  soul,  but  because  it 
disfigures  the  countenance,  in  a  manner  which 
is  disgusting.  Do  but  tear  open  the  mouth  of 
Laocoon,  in  imagination,  and  judge !  Let  him 
scream  and  see!  Before,  it  was  a  creation  which 
inspired  compassion,  because  it  united  pain  with 
beauty.  Now,  it  has  become  an  unsightly,  an 
abominable  creation,  from  which  we  are  fain  to 
turn  away  our  faces,  because  the  sight  of  pain 
awakens  displeasure ;  and  that  displeasure  is 
not  converted  into  the  sweet  sentiment  of  pity 
by  the  beauty  of  the  suffering  object. 

The  mere  wide  opening  of  the  mouth,  setting 
aside  the  violent  and  disgusting  derangement 
and  distortion  of  the  other  parts  of  the  counte- 
nance, produced  by  it,  —  causes,  in  painting,  a 
spot  and  in  sculpture,  a  cavity,  which  produces 
the  most  disagreeable  effect  in  the  world. 
Montfaucon  discovered  little  taste  when  he  de- 
clared an  old,  bearded  head,  with  wide,  gaping 
mouth,  to  be  a  Jupiter  delivering  an  oracle.^ 
Must  a  god  scream  when  he  discloses  the  fu- 
ture ?  Would  an  agreeable  outline  of  the  mouth 
render  his  speech  suspicious  ?  Neither  do  I 
believe  Valerius,  when  he  says  that  Ajax,  in  the 


*  Pliny,  lib.  xxxv.  sect.  35. 

|  Valerius  Maximus,  lib.  viii.  cap.  2. 

X  Antiq.  expl.  T.  I.  p.  50. 

M 


abovementioned  picture  of  Timanthes,  is  repre- 
sented as  screaming.*  Far  inferior  masters,  and 
that  too,  in  times  when  art  had  already  dege- 
nerated, do  not  let  even  the  wildest  barbarians, 
when  suffering  the  terrors  of  death  beneath  the 
sword  of  the  conqueror,  open  the  mouth  so  wide 
as  to  scream. 

It  is  certain  that  this  reduction  of  extreme 
bodily  pain  to  a  lesser  degree  of  feeling  was 
observable  in  various  ancient  works  of  art.  The 
suffering  Hercules  in  the  poisoned  garment,  by 
an  unknown  master,  was  not  the  Sophoclean 
Hercules,  who  shrieked  so  dreadfully,  that  the 
Locrian  rocks  and  the  Eubaean  Cape  resounded 
with  his  cries.  He  was  mure  gloomy  than  wild. 
The  Philoctetes  of  Pythagoras  Leontinus  seemed 
to  communicate  his  sufferings  to  the  beholder, 
an  effect  which  the  slightest  touch  of  the  horri- 
ble would  have  prevented. 

III. 

But,  as  has  been  hinted,  art,  in  modern  times, 
has  had  its  limits  greatly  enlarged.  It  is  con- 
tended that  the  sphere  of  its  imitations  embraces 
the  whole  extent  of  visible  nature,  of  which  the 
beautiful  is  only  a  small  part.  Truth  and  ex- 
pression are  said  to  be  its  first  law ;  and  as 
Nature  herself  always  sacrifices  beauty  to  higher 
ends,  so  the  artist  also  is  required  to  subordinate 
the  beautiful  to  his  general  calling,  and  to  pursue 
it  no  further  than  truth  and  expression  permit. 
Enough  that  by  truth  and  expression,  deformi- 
ties of  Nature  are  changed  into  beauties  of  Art. 

Suppose  we  leave  uncontested,  for  the  pre- 
sent, the  worth  or  unworthiness  of  these  views, 
may  there  not  be  other  considerations,  indepen- 
dent of  these,  which  should  induce  the  artist  to 
set  bounds  to  expression,  and  not  to  take  it  from 
the  extreme  point  of  the  action  represented  ? 

I  think  that  the  single  moment  of  time,  to 
which  the  material  limits  of  art  confine  all  its 
imitations,  will  lead  to  such  considerations. 

Since  the  artist  can  use  but  one  moment  of 
everchanging  nature,  and  the  painter,  more 
especially,  can  use  that  moment  only  from  a 
single  point  of  view;  and  since  their  works  are 
made,  not  to  be  seen  merely,  but  to  be  contem- 
plated, and  to  be  contemplated  repeatedly  and 
long,  it  is  evident  that  in  the  selection  of  that 
single  moment  and  that  single  point  of  view, 
too  much  care  cannot  be  had  to  choose  the  most 
fruitful.  But  only  that  is  fruitful  which  gives 
the  imagination  free  play.  The  more  we  see, 
the  more  we  must  be  able  to  imagine ;  and  the 
more  we  imagine,  the  more  we  must  think  we 
see.    Now,  in  the  whole  course  of  a  passion, 


*  He  enumerates  the  degrees  of  grief  expressed  by 
Timanthes  as  follows:  — Calchantem  tnstem,  moestmn 
Ulyssern,  clamantem  Ajacem,  lamentantem  Menelaum.— 
A  screaming  Ajax  would  have  been  an  ugly  figure;  and 
since  Cicero  and  Quintilian  do  not  mention  it  in  their 
descriptions  of  this  work,  I  am  the  rather  justified  in 
regarding  it  as  an  addition,  with  which  Valerius  has 
enriched  it,  out  of  his  own  head. 

8* 


90 


LESSING. 


there  is  no  one  moment  which  possesses  this 
advantage  in  so  slight  a  degree,  as  the  climax 
of  that  passion.  There  is  nothing  beyond  it ; 
and  to  exhibit  to  the  eye  the  uttermost,  is  to 
bind  the  wings  of  Imagination,  and  to  compel 
her,  since  she  is  unable  to  exceed  the  sensible 
impression,  to  occupy  herself  with  feebler 
images,  below  that  impression,  shunning,  as 
limitation,  the  visible  fulness  expressed.  When, 
therefore,  Laocoon  sighs,  Imagination  can  hear 
him  cry;  but  when  he  cries,  she  can  neither 
rise  one  step  above  that  representation,  nor  sink 
one  step  below  it,  without  beholding  him  in  a 
more  tolerable,  and,  consequently,  less  interest- 
ing condition.  She  hears  him  merely  groan,  or 
she  sees  him  already  dead. 

Further,  since  this  single  moment  receives 
from  art  an  unchangeable  duration,  it  should 
express  nothing  that  can  be  conceived  only  as 
transient.  All  phenomena  to  whose  essence, 
according  to  our  notion,  it  belongs,  to  break 
forth  suddenly,  and  suddenly  to  vanish, — to  be 
what  they  are  for  one  moment  only, — all  such 
phenomena,  whether  pleasing  or  terrible,  ac- 
quire, through  the  prolongation  given  to  them 
in  works  of  art,  so  unnatural  an  aspect,  that  the 
impression  is  weakened  each  time  we  look 
upon  it,  until,  at  last,  the  whole  subject  pro- 
duces only  shuddering  or  disgust.  La  Metrie, 
who  caused  himself  to  be  painted  and  engraved 
as  a  second  Democritus,  laughs  but  the  first 
time  he  is  seen.  If  we  look  at  him  often,  the 
philosopher  becomes  a  buffoon,  and  the  laugh 
changes  to  a  grin.  So  of  cries.  The  violent 
pain  which  extorts  the  cry  is  either  soon  re- 
lieved, or  else  it  destroys  the  sufferer.  Although, 
therefore,  a  man  of  the  greatest  patience  and 
fortitude  may  cry,  he  does  not  cry  unceasingly. 
And  it  is  only  this  appearance  of  perpetuity  in 
the  material  imitations  of  art,  that  makes  his 
crying  seem  like  feminine  impotence  or  like 
childish  petulance.  This,  at  least,  the  author 
of  the  Laocoon  was  bound  to  avoid,  even 
though  the  act  of  crying  were  not  incompatible 
with  beauty,  or  though  his  art  would  allow  him 
to  express  suffering  without  beauty. 

Among  ancient  painters,  Timomachus  seems 
to  have  delighted  most  in  scenes  of  vehement 
passion.  His  raving  Ajax  and  his  infanticide 
Medea  were  celebrated  paintings.  But,  from 
the  descriptions  we  have  of  them,  it  appears 
that  he  well  understood  and  knew  how  to  seize 
that  point,  where  the  beholder  does  not  so  much 
see  as  imagine  the  uttermost, — that  appearance 
with  which  we  do  not  so  necessarily  connect 
the  idea  of  transitoriness,  that  we  are  displeased 
with  the  prolongation  of  it.  The  Medea  he  did 
not  represent  at  the  moment  when  she  is  ac- 
tually slaying  her  children,  but  at  the  moment 
previous  to  that,  when  maternal  love  is  yet 
contending  with  jealousy.  We  foresee  the  result 
of  this  conflict.  We  tremble  in  anticipation  of 
beholding  soon  the  cruel  Medea  only,  and  our 
imagination  far  surpasses  all  that  the  painter 
could  exhibit  to  us  of  that  dread  moment.  But 


for  that  very  reason,  the  continued  irresolution 
of  Medea  is  so  far  from  displeasing,  in  a  work 
of  art,  that  we  even  wish  it  had  been  so  in 
reality,  —  that  the  conflict  had  never  been  de- 
cided, or  had  been  protracted,  until  time  and 
reflection  should  have  assuaged  the  fury  of 
passion,  and  secured  to  the  maternal  sentiment 
the  victory.  Timomachus  earned  great  and 
frequent  praises  by  this  proof  of  wisdom,  which 
gave  him  a  decided  superiority  over  another 
unknown  painter,  who  was  foolish  enough  to 
exhibit  Medea  at  the  very  height  of  her  mad- 
ness, and  thus  to  give  that  fleeting  and  transient 
fit  of  extreme  rage,  a  permanence  which  is  an 
outrage  against  Nature.  A  poet  who  reproaches 
him  witVi  this  want  of  judgment,  says  wittily, — 
addressing  the  picture  itself, — "  Dost  thou  then 
forever  thirst  after  the  blood  of  thy  children'? 
Is  there  ever  a  new  Jason,  ever  a  new  Creusa 
incessantly  irritating  thee  ?  To  the  Devil  with 
thee,  then,  even  in  the  picture,"  he  adds,  full 
of  disgust. 

Of  the  Raving  Ajax  of  Timomachus,  some 
judgment  may  be  formed  from  the  account  of 
Philostratus.*  Ajax  was  not  represented  in  it, 
as  he  storms  among  the  herds,  chaining  and 
slaying  oxen  and  rams  instead  of  men.  But 
the  master  exhibits  him,  on  the  contrary,  as  he 
sits  exhausted  there,  after  these  mad  exploits, 
and  revolves  the  intention  of  destroying  him- 
self. And  that  is  truly  the  "raving  Ajax,''  not 
because  he  raves  at  this  moment,  but  because 
it  is  evident  that  he  has  been  raving,  and  be- 
cause the  extent  of  his  madness  is  seen  most 
vividly  in  the  shame  and  despair  which  over- 
whelm him  at  the  recollection.  The  storm  is 
inferred  from  the  wrecks  and  the  corpses  which 
it  has  cast  upon  the  strand. 

IV. 

I  review  the  reasons  assigned,  why  the  au- 
thor of  the  Laocoon  was  obliged  to  observe  a 
certain  measure  in  the  representation  of  bodily 
pain;  and  I  find  that  they  are  all  derived  from 
the  peculiar  nature  of  his  art,  and  its  necessary 
limits  and  requirements.  They  will  hardly  be 
found  applicable  to  poetry. 

Without  inquiring  at  present,  how  far  the 
poet  can  succeed  in  depicting  corporeal  beauty, 
it  is  indisputable  that,  as  the  whole  immea- 
surable domain  of  perfection  is  open  to  him,  so 
the  visible  form,  by  means  of  which  perfection 
becomes  beauty,  is  only  one  of  the  least  of 
those  aids  by  which  he  contrives  to  interest  us 
in  his  characters.  Oftentimes  he  neglects  this 
aid  altogether,  assured  that  when  his  hero  has 
once  obtained  our  good-will,  we  shall  be  so 
much  occupied  with  his  nobler  qualities,  that 
we  shall  not  think  of  his  personal  appearance; 
or  so  won  by  them,  that,  if  we  do  think  of  the 
person,  we  shall  give  it,  of  our  own  accord,  a 
beautiful,  or  at  least  an  indifferent  look.  At  all 
events,  he  will  not  find  it  necessary  to  consult 


*  Vita  Apoll.  lib.  ii.  cap.  22. 


LESSING. 


91 


the  eye  in  each  particular  trait,  which  is  not 
expressly  designed  for  the  eye.  When  Virgil's 
Laocoon  cries,  who  considers  that  a  large  mouth 
is  necessary  for  this  purpose,  and  that  a  large 
mouth  is  not  becoming.  Enough  that  "  Clamo- 
res  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit"  is  sublime  to  the 
ear,  whatever  it  may  be  to  the  eye.  If  any 
one  requires  here  a  beautiful  image,  he  has 
entirely  missed  the  impression  which  the  poet 
intended. 

Again,  the  poet  is  not  required  to  concentrate 
his  sketch  into  a  single  moment.  He  can,  if  he 
pleases,  take  each  action  at  its  origin  and  carry 
it  through  to  its  termination.  Each  of  those 
variations,  which  would  cost  the  painter  a 
separate  picture,  costs  him  but  a  single  stroke. 
And  though  this  one  stroke,  in  itself  consider- 
ed, might  offend  the  imagination  of  the  hearer, 
it  is  so  well  prepared  by  what  preceded,  or  so 
qualified  and  compensated  by  what  follows, 
that  it  loses  its  individuality,  and,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  rest,  produces  the  most  charm- 
ing effect.  Although,  therefore,  it  were  really 
unbecoming  for  a  man  to  cry  out  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  pain;  how  can  this  trifling,  transient 
impropriety  injure,  in  our  estimation,  one  whom 
we  have  already  learned  to  know  and  to  love, 
as  the  most  careful  of  patriots,  and  the  most 
devoted  of  fathers  ?  We  refer  his  cries,  not  to 
his  character,  but  solely  to  his  intolerable  pain. 
This  is  all  that  we  hear  in  his  cries;  and  it 
was  only  by  means  of  them,  that  the  poet  could 
make  that  pain  apparent  to  his  readers. 

Who  then  will  reproach  him?  Who  will 
not  rather  confess  that,  if  the  artist  did  well 
not  to  represent  Laocoon  as  crying,  the  poet 
did  equally  well  to  let  him  cry. 


FROM  "THE   EDUCATION  OF  THE 
HUMAN  RACE."* 

What  education  is  to  the  individual,  revela- 
tion is  to  the  whole  human  race. 

Education  is  a  revelation  which  is  made  to 
the  individual ;  and  revelation  is  an  education 
which  has  taken  place  and  is  still  taking  place 
with  the  whole  human  race. 

Whether  any  advantage  may  accrue  to  the 
science  of  education,  by  considering  education 
from  this  point  of  view,  I  shall  not  here  inquire. 
But  unquestionably,  it  may  be  of  great  use  in 
theology,  and  may  help  to  resolve  many  diffi- 


*  This  Essay  is  considered  as  one  of  great  importance 
in  speculative  theology.  It  contains  the  germ  of  all  that 
is  most  valuable  in  subsequent  speculations  on  these 
subjects.  The  greater  part  of  it  is  given  above.  The 
little  that  has  been  omitted  seemed  not  to  be  essential  to 
the  fair  presentation  of  the  author's  idea.  The  original 
is  divided  into  formal  propositions,  numbering  one  hun- 
dred. It  was  thought  best  to  omit  the  formality  of  the 
numbers  in  the  translation. 


culties,  to  regard  revelation  as  an  education  of 
the  human  race. 

Education  gives  man  nothing  which  he  might 
not  have  had  from  himself;  it  only  gives  him 
that,  which  he  might  have  had  from  himself, 
more  rapidly  and  more  easily.  So  too,  revela- 
tion gives  mankind  nothing  which  the  human 
reason,  left  to  itself,  might  ,  not  also  have  at- 
tained to ;  but  it  gave  ihem  and  gives  them 
what  is  most  important,  sooner. 

And  as,  in  education,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  in- 
difference, in  what  order  the  faculties  of  man 
are  unfolded,  as  education  cannot  communi- 
cate all  things  at  once, —  even  so  God,  in  his 
revelation,  has  found  it  necessary  to  observe  a 
certain  order,  a  certain  measure. 

Although  the  first  man  had  been  furnished, 
at  the  outset,  with  the  notion  of  an  only  God, 
yet  this  notion,  being  not  an  acquired,  but  an 
itnparted  one,  could  not  possibly  continue,  in 
its  purity,  for  any  length  of  time.  As  soon  as 
human  reason,  left  to  itself,  began  to  work  upon 
it,  it  separated  the  one  Immeasurable  into 
several  Immeasurables,  and  gave  to  each  of 
these  parts  its  own  peculiar  characteristic. 

Thus  arose,  in  a  natural  way,  polytheism  and 
idolatry.  And  who  knows  how  many  million 
years  human  reason  might  have  wandered 
about  in  these  aberrations,  notwithstanding 
everywhere  and  at  all  times,  individual  men 
perceived  that  they  were  aberrations ;  had  it 
not  pleased  God,  by  a  new  impulse,  to  give  it 
a  better  direction  ? 

But  since  he  could  not  and  would  not  reveal 
himself  again  to  each  individual,  he  selected  a 
single  nation  for  his  special  training:  and  that 
the  most  rude  and  savage  of  all,  in  order  to 
begin  with  them  from  the  foundation. 

This  was  the  Israelitish  nation,  concerning 
which,  it  is  not  even  known,  what  kind  of 
worship  they  had  in  Egypt.  For  slaves  so 
degraded,  as  they  were,  were  not  allowed  to 
take  part  in  the  worship  of  the  Egyptians ;  and 
the  God  of  their  fathers  had  become  wholly 
unknown  to  them. 

Perhaps  the  Egyptians  had  expressly  forbid- 
den them  any  god  or  gods,  had  taught  them 
to  believe  that  they  had  no  god  or  gods,  that 
to  have  a  god  or  gods  was  a  prerogative  of  the 
superior  Egyptians.  Perhaps  they  had  taught 
them  this  in  order  to  tyrannize  over  them  with 
the  greater  show  of  justice.  Do  not  Christians 
at  the  present  day  pursue  very  much  the  same 
course  with  their  slaves'? 

To  this  rude  people,  therefore,  God  caused 
himself  at  first  to  be  proclaimed  as  the  God  of 
their  fathers,  in  order  first  to  familiarize  them 
with  the  idea,  that  they  too  had  a  God  of  their 
own. 

By  means  of  the  miracles  with  which  he 
brought  them  out  of  Egypt,  he  proved  himself, 
in  the  next  place,  a  God  who  was  mightier  than 
all  other  gods.  And  while  he  continued  to 
manifest  himself  as  the  mightiest  of  all,  a  dis- 
tinction which  only  one  can  possess,  he  accus- 


92 


LESSING. 


tomed  them  gradually  to  the  notion  of  an  only 
God. 

But  how  far  was  this  conception,  of  an  only 
God,  below  the  true  transcendental  idea  of 
unity,  which  reason,  so  long  afterward,  learned 
to  deduce,  with  certainty,  from  the  idea  of  in- 
finity. 

The  nation  was  very  far  from  being  able  to 
raise  itself  to  the  true  conception  of  the  One, 
although  the  more  enlightened  among  the  people 
had  already  approximated  more  or  less  nearly 
to  this  idea.  And  this  was  the  true  and  only 
cause  why  they  so  often  forsook  their  own,  and 
thought  to  find  the  only,  that  is,  the  most  power- 
ful God,  in  some  other  divinity,  of  another  nation. 

But  what  kind  of  moral  training  was  possible 
for  a  nation  so  rude,  so  unskilled  in  abstract 
thought,  so  completely  in  its  childhood?  Only 
such  a  one  as  corresponds  with  the  period  of 
childhood  ;  an  education  by  means  of  immediate, 
sensual  rewards  and  punishments. 

So  here  again,  education  and  revelation  coin- 
cide. As  yet,  God  could  give  his  people  no 
other  religion  and  no  other  law  than  one,  by  the 
keeping  or  transgressing  of  which,  they  might 
hope  to  be  happy  or  fear  to  be  wretched,  here 
on  earth.  For,  as  yet,  their  thoughts  extended 
no  further  than  the  present  life.  They  knew 
of  no  immortality  of  the  soul;  they  longed  for 
no  future  state  of  being.  To  have  revealed  to 
them  those  things  to  which  their  reason  as  yet 
was  so  little  adequate,  what  else  would  this 
have  been,  on  the  part  of  God,  but  to  commit 
the  fault  of  the  vain  pedagogue,  who  would 
rather  urge  his  pupil  forward  and  make  a  dis- 
play of  his  proficiency,  than  instruct  him  tho- 
rough ly  ? 

But  wherefore,  it  may  be  asked,  wherefore 
this  education  of  so  rude  a  people,  with  whom 
it  was  necessary  to  begin  thus  at  the  very  be- 
ginning? I  answer,  to  the  end  that  individuals 
among  them  might,  in  process  of  time,  be  used, 
with  so  much  the  greater  safety,  as  educators 
of  other  nations.  God  educated  in  them  the 
future  teachers  of  mankind.  This  the  Jews 
became;  and  only  they  could  become  this, — 
only  men  of  a  nation  so  trained. 

For,  further.  When  the  child  had  grown  up, 
under  blows  and  caresses,  and  was  now  arrived 
to  years  of  discretion,  all  at  once,  the  Father 
sent  it  abroad.  And  there,  at  once,  it  acknow- 
ledged the  advantages  it  had  enjoyed  without 
acknowledging  them  in  its  Father  s  house. 

During  the  time  that  God  had  led  his  chosen 
people  through  all  the  stages  of  a  childish  dis- 
cipline, the  other  nations  of  the  earth  had  ad- 
vanced, in  their  own  way,  by  the  light  of  rea- 
son. Most  of  them  had  remained  far  behind 
the  chosen  people,  but  some  of  them  had  out- 
stripped it.  And  thus  it  happens  with  children 
who  are  suffered  to  grow  up  by  themselves. 
Many  remain  quite  rude,  but  some  cultivate 
themselves  to  an  astonishing  degree. 

But  these  favoured  few  prove  nothing  against 
the  use  and  the  necessity  of  education.  And 


so  the  few  heathen  nations  which,  up  to  this 
period,  seemed  to  have  got  the  start  of  the  cho- 
sen people,  even  in  the  knowledge  of  God, 
prove  nothing  against  revelation.  The  child  of 
education  begins  with  slow  but  certain  steps ; 
it  is  late  in  overtaking  many  a  more  happily 
organized  child  of  Nature,  but  it  does  overtake 
it  at  last,  and,  thenceforward,  can  nevermore 
be  overtaken  by  it. 

As  yet  the  Jewish  nation  had  worshipped,  in 
their  Jehovah,  rather  the  mightiest  than  the 
wisest  of  all  the  gods ;  as  yet  they  had  feared 
him,  as  a  jealous  God,  rather  than  loved  him. 
And  this  too  may  serve  as  a  proof,  that  the  con- 
ceptions they  had  formed  of  their  highest  and 
only  God,  are  not  exactly  the  true  conceptions, 
those  which  we  ought  to  have  of  God.  But  now 
the  time  had  arrived  when  these  conceptions 
of  theirs  were  to  be  enlarged,  ennobled,  rectified. 
For  this  purpose,  God  made  use  of  a  quite 
natural  method ;  —  a  better  and  more  correct 
standard,  by  which  they  had  now  the  oppor- 
tunity of  estimating  him. 

Hitherto,  they  had  measured  him  only  with 
the  miserable  idols  of  the  small  and  rude  na- 
tions, their  neighbours,  with  whom  they  had 
lived  in  a  state  of  perpetual  jealousy  :  but  now, 
in  their  captivity,  under  the  wise  Persians,  they 
began  to  measure  him  with  the  Being  of  all 
beings,  whom  a  more  disciplined  reason  had 
learned  to  acknowledge  and  to  adore. 

Revelation  had  guided  their  reason,  and  now, 
all  at  once,  reason  threw  light  upon  their  reve- 
lation. 

This  was  the  first  mutual  service  which  both 
rendered  to  each  other ;  and  so  far  is  this  reci- 
procal influence  from  being  derogatory  to  the 
author  of  both,  that,  without  it,  one  of  the  two 
would  be  superfluous. 

The  child,  sent  into  foreign  lands,  saw  other 
children,  who  knew  more  and  behaved  better 
than  himself.  Mortified,  he  asked  himself,  why 
do  not  I  know  that  too?  Why  do  not  I  also 
live  thus?  Might  not  this  have  been  taught  to 
me  also  in  my  Father's  house?  Might  not  I 
also  have  been  held  to  this  ?  Then  he  looks  up 
his  elementary  books  once  more,  with  which 
he  had  long  been  disgusted,  for  the  sake  of 
casting  the  blame  upon  them.  But  behold!  he 
recognizes  that  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  books, 
but  purely  his  own  fault,  that  he  did  not  long 
ago  possess  the  same  knowledge  and  live  in  the 
same  manner. 

Thus  enlightened  respecting  their  own  na- 
tional treasures,  the  Jews  returned  and  became 
an  entirely  different  people,  whose  first  care 
was  to  make  this  light  permanent  among  them- 
selves. Soon  there  was  no  more  thought  of  de- 
fection or  idolatry.  For  one  may  become  faith- 
less to  a  national  god,  but  never  to  God,  when 
once  a  true  knowledge  of  him  has  been  attained. 

Theologians  have  sought  to  explain  this  entire 
change  of  the  Jewish  people,  in  different  ways. 
And  one  who  has  well  exposed  the  insufficiency 
of  these  different  explanations,  assigns,  as  the 


LESSING.  93 


true  reason  of  this  change,  the  visible  fulfilment 
of  the  prophecies  uttered  and  written  respecting 
the  Babylonish  captivity  and  the  restoration 
from  the  same.  But  this  reason,  too,  can  be 
true  only  as  it  supposes  more  elevated  concep- 
tions of  God,  now  first  attained  to.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  the  Jews  must  have  perceived, 
that  working  miracles  and  foretelling  the  future 
belonged  to  God  alone.  Hitherto,  they  had  as- 
cribed both  to  the  false  idols;  and  this  was  the 
reason  that  miracle  and  prophecy  had  hitherto 
made  so  feeble  and  transient  an  impression  on 
their  minds. 

Without  doubt,  too,  the  Jews  became  more 
familiar  with  the  doctrine  of  immortality,  under 
the  Chaldeans  and  Persians.  They  obtained  a 
still  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  it,  in  the 
schools  of  the  Greek  philosophers  in  Egypt. 

But  it  was  not  with  this  doctrine,  in  their  sa- 
cred writings,  as  it  was  with  that  of  the  unity 
and  the  attributes  of  God.  And  therefore  the 
belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  could  never 
be  the  belief  of  the  whole  people.  It  was  and 
continued  the  belief  only  of  a  particular  sect. 

A  preparation  for  the  doctrine  of  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul  may  be  found  in  the  divine 
threat  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children,  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation. 
This  accustomed  the  fathers  to  live,  in  imagina- 
tion, with  their  latest  posterity,  and  to  feel,  in 
anticipation,  the  misery  they  might  bring  upon 
their  innocent  heads.  An  allusion  to  this  doc- 
trine is  found  in  whatever  would  excite  curi- 
osity and  give  occasion  for  questions ;  as,  for 
example,  the  often  recurring  phrase,  "gathered 
to  his  fathers,"  as  synonymous  with  dying.  An 
indication  of  it  is  found  in  whatever  contained 
a  germ  from  which  the  unrevealed  truth  could 
be  developed.  Of  this  character,  was  the  in- 
ference which  Christ  drew  from  the  expression, 
"  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac  and  of  Jacob." 
This  indication,  indeed,  seems  to  me  capable 
of  being  developed  into  a  strict  demonstration. 

In  these  preparations,  allusions,  and  indi- 
cations, consists  the  positive  perfection  of  an 
elementary  book.  Its  negative  perfection  con- 
sists in  this,  that  the  way  to  those  truths  which 
are  still  kept  back,  is  not  closed  or  obstructed. 

But  every  elementary  book  is  suited  only  to  a 
particular  age.  For  the  child,  that  has  outgrown 
it,  to  linger  over  it  longer  than  was  intended,  is 
injurious.  For,  in  order  to  connect  any  kind  of 
use  with  this  detention,  it  is  necessary  to  sup- 
pose more  in  the  book  than  it  actually  contains, 
to  import  into  it  more  than  it  will  bear.  It  is 
necessary  to  seek  and  to  make  too  many  allu- 
sions and  hints,  to  shake  out*  the  allegories  too 
assiduously,  to  interpret  the  examples  too  mi- 
nutely, to  press  the  words  too  far.  In  this  way, 
the  child  acquires  a  narrow,  perverted,  hair- 
splitting mind,  becomes  fond  of  mystery,  super- 
stitious, and  impatient  of  everything  that  is 


*  t.  e.  As  one  shakes  a  vessel  or  cloth,  to  empty  it  com- 
pletely of  its  contents.  Tr. 


easy  and  intelligible.  This  is  the  way  in  which 
the  Rabbins  treated  their  sacred  books.  This 
was  the  kind  of  character  which  they,  thereby, 
impressed  on  the  mind  of  their  people. 

A  better  teacher  must  come  and  snatch  the 
elementary  book,  which  he  has  exhausted,  out 
of  the  pupil's  hands. — Christ  came. 

God  designed  to  embrace,  in  one  plan  of 
education,  only  that  portion  of  the  human  race, 
which  was  already  united  in  itself,  by  language, 
by  action,  by  government,  and  by  otlier  natural 
and  political  relations.  And  this  portion  was 
now  ripe  for  the  second  great  step  in  the  pro- 
gress of  their  education.  That  is,  this  portion 
of  mankind  had  advanced  so  far  in  the  exercise 
of  their  reason,  as  to  be  capable  of  and  to  re- 
quire nobler  and  worthier  motives  for  their 
moral  conduct,  than  the  temporal  rewards  and 
punishments  which  had  guided  them  hitherto. 
The  infant  becomes  a  boy.  Sweetmeats  and 
toys  give  place  to  the  growing  desire  to  be  as 
free,  as  honoured  and  as  happy  as  he  sees  his 
older  brothers  and  sisters. 

The  better  sort  among  that  portion  of  man- 
kind had  long  been  accustomed  to  be  governed 
by  a  shadow  of  these  nobler  motives.  The 
Greek  and  the  Roman  did  everything,  that  they 
might  continue  to  live  in  the  memory  of  their 
fellow-citizens,  after  death.  It  was  time  that 
another,  actual  life,  to  be  expected  after  this, 
should  influence  their  actions.  And  thus  Christ 
became  the  first  reliable,  practical  teacher  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul. 

The  first  reliable  teacher  —  reliable,  on  ac- 
count of  the  prophecies  which  seemed  to  be 
fulfilled  in  him,  on  account  of  the  miracles 
which  he  performed,  on  account  of  his  own 
resurrection  from  the  dead,  with  which  he 
sealed  his  doctrine.  Whether  we  are  able,  at 
this  day,  to  demonstrate  this  resurrection  and 
these  miracles,  I  shall  leave  out  of  view.  I 
shall  also  leave  out  of  view  the  question,  what 
was  the  person  of  Christ  1  All  this  may  have 
been  important  to  secure  the  reception  of  his 
doctrine  then,  but  it  is  no  longer  so  necessary 
to  the  understanding  of  his  doctrine  now.  The 
first  practical  teacher.  For  to  suppose,  to  wish, 
to  believe  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  as  a  phi- 
losophical speculation,  is  one  thing;  to  conform 
one's  inward  and  outward  life  to  it,  is  another 
thing.  And  this,  at  least,  was  first  taught  by 
Christ.  For,  though  it  was  the  belief  of  many 
nations,  before  him,  that  evil  actions  would  be 
punished  in  the  life  to  come,  it  was  only  those 
actions  which  were  injurious  to  society,  and 
which  therefore  had  a  penalty  attached  to  them 
already  by  society.  It  was  reserved  for  him 
alone  to  recommend  inward  purity  of  heart 
with  a  view  to  another  life. 

His  disciples  faithfully  disseminated  this  doc- 
trine. And  if  they  had  rendered  no  other  ser- 
vice than  to  procure  the  more  general  diffusion, 
among  various  nations,  of  a  truth  which  Christ 
seemed  to  have  designed  for  the  Jews  alone, 
|  they  ought,  even  on  this  account,  to  be  reckoned 


94 


LESSING. 


among  the  educators  and  benefactors  of  the 
human  race.  True,  they  mingled  this  one  great 
doctrine  with  other  doctrines,  the  truth  of  which 
was  less  apparent,  and  the  use  of  which  was 
less  edifying.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Let 
us  not,  therefore,  reproach  them.  Rather  let  us 
seriously  inquire  whether  even  these  associated 
doctrines  did  not  give  a  new  impulse  and  direc- 
tion to  human  reason. 

This  much,  at  least,  is  matter  of  experience, 
that  the  books  of  the  New  Testament,  in  which 
these  doctrines,  after  some  time,  found  a  repo- 
sitory, have  furnished  and  still  furnish  the 
second  better  elementary  book  for  the  human 
race.  For  seventeen  hundred  years  they  have 
occupied  the  human  understanding  more  than 
all  other  books.  More  than  all  other  books, 
they  have  enlightened  it,  even  though  it  were 
by  means  of  that  light  which  the  human  under- 
standing itself  has  carried  into  it.  No  other 
book  could  possibly  have  become  so  generally 
known  among  different  nations.  And,  unques- 
tionably, the  converse  of  such  entirely  dissimi- 
lar modes  of  thought,  with  the  same  book,  has 
aided  the  human  understanding  more  than  if 
each  nation  had  had  an  elementary  book  of  its 
own,  peculiar  to  itself. 

Moreover,  it  was  highly  essential  that  each 
nation  should,  for  a  time,  regard  this  book  as 
the  Non  plus  ultra  of  its  knowledge.  For  the 
boy,  too,  must  look  upon  his  elementary  book, 
in  this  light,  at  first,  that  his  eagerness  to  finish 
may  not  hurry  him  on  to  things  for  which  he 
has  laid  as  yet  no  sufficient  foundation.  And, 
what  is  still  of  the  highest  importance,  beware, 
you  of  superior  ability,  who  stamp  and  glow 
with  impatience  at  the  last  page  of  this  element- 
tary  book ;  beware  of  betraying  to  your  school- 
mates what  you  suspect,  or  begin  already  to 
discern.  Until  they  have  come  up  with  you, 
these  weaker  brethren,  rather  look  back  your- 
self once  more  into  this  elementary  book,  and 
examine  if  that  which  you  regard  as  a  pecu- 
liarity in  the  method,  or  as  intended  to  fill  up 
a  gap  in  the  didactic  portions,  be  not  something 
more  than  that. 

You  have  seen,  in  the  infancy  of  mankind,  in 
the  doctrine  of  the  unity  of  God,  that  mere 
truths  of  reason  are  taught,  at  first,  as  truths 
directly  revealed,  in  order  to  diffuse  them  more 
rapidly,  and  to  ground  them  more  firmly.  You 
experience  the  same  thing  in  the  boyhood  of 
mankind,  in  the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of 
the  soul.  This  doctrine  is  preached,  in  the  se- 
cond, more  perfect  elementary  book,  as  revela- 
tion ;  not  taught  as  the  result  of  human  reason- 
ing. As  it  no  longer  needs  the  Old  Testament 
to  teach  the  unity  of  God,  and  as  we  gradually 
begin  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  the  aid  of  the 
New,  in  regard  to  the  doctrine  of  the  immortal- 
ity of  the  soul,  may  there  not  be  mirrored  there 
still  other  doctrines  which  it  is  designed  that 
we  shall  wonder  at  as  revelations,  until  reason 
has  learned  to  deduce  them  from  and  to  con- 
nect them  with  other  established  truths  ? 


For  example,  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  What 
if  this  doctrine  were  designed  to  guide  the  human 
understanding  at  last,  after  numberless  aberra- 
tions to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  to  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  truth  that  God  cannot  be  one  in  the 
same  sense  in  which  finite  things  are  one, — 
that  even  his  unity  must  be  a  transcendental 
unity,  not  excluding  a  kind  of  plurality?  Must 
not  God  at  least  have  the  most  perfect  concep- 
tion of  himself?  i.  e.  a  conception  in  which 
everything  is  contained,  that  is  contained  in 
himself.  But  could  everything  be  contained  in 
that  conception  which  is  contained  in  himself, 
if,  of  his  necessary  actuality,*  as  of  his  other 
qualities,  there  were  merely  a  conception,  a 
bare  possibility?  This  possibility  exhausts  the 
essence  of  his  other  qualities,  but  does  it  also 
of  his  necessary  actuality  ?  I  think  not.  Con- 
sequently, either  God  can  have  no  perfect  con- 
ception of  himself,  or  this  perfect  conception  is 
just  as  necessarily  actual,  as  he  is  himself.  My 
reflection  in  the  mirror  is  an  empty  image  of 
me,  and  nothing  more;  because  it  has  only  that 
of  me,  from  which  rays  of  light  are  thrown 
upon  the  surface  of  the  mirror.  But  if  this 
image  contained  everything,  without  exception, 
that  is  contained  in  me,  it  would  no  longer  be 
a  mere  image,  but  an  actual  duplicate  of  my- 
self. If  I  think  I  see  the  same  duplication  of 
the  being  of  God,  it  is  not  so  much  an  error  of 
mine,  perhaps,  as  it  is  the  inability  of  language 
to  express  my  conception.  This  much  is  indis- 
putable, that  those  who  wished  to  make  this 
idea  popular,  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  more 
appropriate  and  intelligible  expression  than  that 
of  a  Son  whom  God  generates  from  all  eternity. 

And  the  doctrine  of  hereditary  sin.  How, 
if  everything  should  convince  us,  at  last,  that 
man,  in  the  first  and  lowest  stage  of  his  hu- 
manity, is  not  sufficiently  master  of  his  actions, 
to  be  capable  of  obeying  a  moral  law? 

And  the  doctrine  of  the  satisfaction  made  by 
the  Son.  How,  if  everything  should  force  us, 
at  last,  to  assume  that  God,  notwithstanding 
that  original  incapacity  of  man,  chose  rather  to 
give  him  moral  laws  and  to  pardon  all  trans- 
gressions of  the  same,  in  consideration  of  his 
Son,  that  is,  in  consideration  of  the  self-subsis- 
tent  extent  of  all  his  perfections,  before  which 
and  in  which,  every  imperfection  of  the  in- 
dividual vanishes;  that  he  chose  rather  to  do 
this,  I  say,  than  not  to  give  him  moral  laws, 
and  thereby  to  exclude  him  from  that  moral 
felicity  which  cannot  be  conceived  as  possible, 
without  those  laws? 

Let  it  not  be  objected,  that  this  kind  of  rea- 
soning concerning  the  mysteries  of  religion  is 
forbidden.  The  word  mystery  signified,  in  the 
first  ages  of  Christianity,  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  we  understand  by  it 
now  ;  and  the  development  of  revealed  truths 
into  truths  of  reason  is  absolutely  necessary,  if 


*  The  copy  before  me  has  fVirksamkeit  (activity)  which 
I  take  to  be  a  misprint  for  Wirklichkeit.  Tr. 


LESSING. 


95 


ever  men  are  to  be  helped  by  them.  At  the 
time  when  they  were  revealed,  they  were  not 
yet  truths  of  reason ;  but  they  were  revealed 
in  order  to  become  so.  They  were  the  Farit, 
as  it  were,  which  the  arithmetical  teacher  tells 
his  scholars  beforehand,  in  order  that  they  may 
have  some  regard  to  it,  in  their  reckoning.  If 
the  scholars  were  to  content  themselves  with 
the  Facit  announced  to  them  beforehand,  they 
would  never  learn  to  reckon,  and  so  fail  to 
fulfil  the  purpose  for  which  the  good  master 
gave  them  a  clue  in  their  labours. 

And  why  may  we  not  be  guided  by  a  re- 
ligion, with  whose  historical  truth,  if  you  please, 
there  are  so  many  difficulties,  to  nearer  and 
better  conceptions  of  the  Divine  Being,  of  our 
own  nature  and  our  relations  to  God,  excep- 
tions to  which  human  reason  would  never 
have  attained  of  itself? 

It  is  not  true,  that  speculations  concerning 
these  things  have  ever  done  mischief,  or  proved 
injurious  to  society.  Not  the  speculations  them- 
selves, but  the  folly,  the  tyranny,  of  attempting 
to  suppress  them,  of  not  allowing  their  own 
to  those  who  had  their  own,  is  liable  to  this 
reproach.  On  the  contrary,  these  speculations, 
whatever  may  be  their  result  in  individual 
cases,  are  unquestionably  the  most  fitting  exer- 
cise of  the  human  understanding,  generally,  as 
long  as  the  human  heart,  generally,  is  only 
capable,  at  the  utmost,  of  loving  virtue  for  the 
sake  of  its  eternally  happy  consequences.  For, 
with  this  self-interestedness  of  the  human  heart, 
to  exercise  the  human  understanding,  also,  on 
those  things  only,  which  concern  our  bodily 
necessities,  would  tend  rather  to  blunt  than  to 
sharpen  it.  It  needs,  positively,  to  be  exer- 
cised with  spiritual  objects,  if  ever  it  is  to 
attain  its  perfect  illumination,  and  produce  that 
purity  of  heart  which  shall  make  us  capable 
of  loving  virtue  for  its  own  sake. 

Or  is  the  human  race  destined  never  to 
reach  this  highest  grade  of  culture  and  purity? 
Never?  Let  me  not  imagine  this  blasphemy, 
thou  All-good !  Education  has  its  aim,  with 
the  race,  not  less  than  with  the  individual. 
That  which  is  educated  is  educated  for  some 
end.  The  flattering  prospects  which  are  opened 
to  the  youth,  the  honour  and  affluence  which 
are  held  up  before  him, — what  are  these,  but 
means  by  which  he  is  educated  to  become  a 
man,  a  man  who,  though  these  prospects  of 
affluence  and  honour  should  fail,  shall  still  be 
capable  of  doing  his  duty?  Is  this  the  aim  of 
human  education?  And  does  the  Divine  educa- 
tion fall  short  of  this  ?  Wnat  Art  can  accom- 
plish with  the  individual,  shall  not  Nature  ac- 
complish with  the  whole?  Blasphemy!  Blas- 
phemy ! 

No!  it  will  come!  it  will  surely  come,  the 
period  of  perfection,  when,  the  more  convinced 
his  understanding  is  of  an  ever  better  Future, 
the  less  man  will  need  to  borrow  from  that 
Future  the  motives  of  his  actions ;  when  he 
will  choose  the  good  because  it  is  good,  and 


not  because  arbitrary  rewards  are  annexed  to 
it  which  are  only  to  fix  and  strengthen  his 
wandering  gaze,  at  first,  until  he  is  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  interior  and  nobler  reward  of  well- 
doing. It  will  surely  come,  the  period  of  a 
new,  eternal  gospel,  which  is  promised  us,  even 
in  the  elementary  books  of  the  New  Covenant. 
Proceed  in  thine  imperceptible  course,  Eternal 
Providence!  Only  let  me  not  despair  of  thee, 
because  imperceptible.  Let  me  not  despair  of 
thee,  even  though  thy  steps,  to  me,  should  seem 
to  retrograde.  It  is  not  true,  that  the  shortest 
way  is  always  a  straight  one.  Thou  hast,  in 
thine  eternal  course,  so  much  to  take  along 
with  thee !  So  many  sidelong  steps  to  make  ! 
And  what  if  it  be  now,  as  good  as  proved,  that 
the  great,  slow  wheel  which  brings  the  race 
nearer  to  its  perfection,  is  put  in  motion,  only 
by  smaller,  quicker  wheels,  of  which  each  con- 
tributes its  part  to  the  same  end  ? 

Not  otherwise  !  The  path,  by  which  the  race 
attains  to  its  perfection,  each  individual  man — 
some  earlier,  and  some  later  —  must  first  have 
gone  over.  "  Must  have  gone  over  in  one  and 
the  same  life?  Can  he  have  been  a  sensual 
Jew  and  a  spiritual  Christian  in  the  same  life  ? 
Can  he,  in  the  same  life,  have  overtaken  both 
these?"  Perhaps  not!  But  why  may  not  each 
individual  man  have  existed  more  than  once 
in  this  world?  Is  this  hypothesis,  therefore,  so 
ridiculous,  because  it  is  the  oldest  ?  because  it 
is  the  one  which  the  human  understanding  im- 
mediately hit  upon,  before  it  was  distracted  and 
weakened  by  the  sophistry  of  the  schools?  Why 
may  not  I,  at  one  time,  have  accomplished, 
already  here  on  earth,  all  those  steps  tov\  ai  d 
my  perfection,  which  mere  temporal  rewards 
and  punishments  will  enable  man  to  accom- 
plish ;  and,  at  another  time,  all  those,  in  which 
we  are  so  powerfully  assisted  by  the  prospect 
of  eternal  compensations?  Why  should  1  not 
return  as  often  as  I  am  able  to  acquire  new 
knowledges,  new  talents?  Is  it  because  I  carry 
away  so  much,  at  one  time,  as  to  make  it  not 
worth  the  while  to  return?  Or,  because  I  for- 
get that  I  have  been  here  before  ?  It  is  well 
for  me  that  I  forget  it.  The  remembrance  of 
my  former  states  would  allow  me  to  make  but 
a  poor  use  of  the  present.  Besides,  what  I  am 
necessitated  to  forget  now,  have  I  forgotten  it 
forever?  Or  because,  on  this  supposition,  too 
much  time  would  be  lost  to  me?  Lost?  What 
have  I  then  to  delay?  Is  not  the  whole  eternity 
mine  ? 

FABLES. 

ZEUS*  AND  THE  SHEEP. 

The  sheep  was  doomed  to  suffer  much  from 
all  the  animals.    She  came  to  Zeus  and  prayed 

*  The  Father  of  the  Gods  is,  by  German  writers,  more 
often  designated  by  his  Greek  than  by  his  Latin  name. 
The  translator  has  thought  best  to  retain  this  appellation 
where  it  occurs  in  the  original. 


96 


LESSING. 


him  to  lighten  her  misery.  Zeus  appeared 
willing,  and  said  to  the  sheep  :  I  see  indeed,  my 
good  creature,  I  have  made  thee  too  defenceless. 
Now  choose  in  what  way  I  may  best  remedy 
this  defect.  Shall  I  furnish  thy  mouth  with  ter- 
rible teeth  and  thy  feet  with  claws? 

Ah  !  no,  said  the  sheep,  I  do  not  wish  to  have 
anything  in  common  with  the  beasts  of  prey. 

Or,  continued  Zeus,  shall  I  infuse  poison  into 
thy  spittle  ? 

Alas!  replied  the  sheep;  the  poisonous  ser- 
pents are  so  hated. 

What  then  shall  I  do  ?  I  will  plant  horns  in 
thy  forehead,  and  give  strength  to  thy  neck. 

Not  so,  kind  Father !  I  might  be  disposed  to 
butt  like  the  he-goat. 

And  yet,  said  Zeus,  thou  must,  thyself,  be 
able  to  injure  others,  if  others  are  to  beware  of 
injuring  thee. 

Must  I  ?  sighed  the  sheep.  0  !  then,  Kind 
Father,  let  me  be  as  I  am.  For  the  ability  to 
injure  will  excite,  I  fear,  the  desire.  And  it  is 
better  to  suffer  wrong  than  to  do  wrong. 

Zeus  blessed  the  good  sheep,  and  from  that 
time  forth,  she  forgot  to  complain. 

THE  BLIND  HEN. 

A  hen  which  had  become  blind  continued  to 
scratch  for  food  as  she  had  been  used.  What 
availed  it  the  industrious  fool?  Another  hen, 
that  could  see,  but  wished  to  spare  her  tender 
feet,  never  forsook  the  side  of  the  former, 
and  without  scratching  enjoyed  the  fruit  of 
scratching.  For  as  often  as  the  blind  hen  turned 
up  a  corn,  the  seeing  one  devoured  it. 

The  laborious  German  compiles  the  collectanea 
which  the  witty  Frenchman  uses. 

THE  WOLF  ON  HIS  DEATHBED. 

A  wolf  lay  at  the  last  gasp,  and  was  review- 
ing his  past  life.  It  is  true,  said  he,  I  am  a 
sinner,  but  yet,  I  hope,  not  one  of  the  greatest. 
I  have  done  evil,  but  I  have  also  done  much 
good.  Once,  I  remember,  a  bleating  lamb  that 
had  strayed  from  the  flock,  came  so  near  to  me, 
that  I  might  easily  have  throttled  it;  but  I  did 
it  no  harm.  At  the  same  time,  I  listened  with 
the  most  astonishing  indifference  to  the  gibes 
and  scoffs  of  a  sheep,  although  I  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  protecting  dogs. 

I  can  testify  to  all  that,  said  his  friend  the 
fox,  who  was  helping  him  prepare  for  death.  I 
remember  perfectly  all  the  circumstances.  It 
was  just  at  the  time  when  you  were  so  dread- 
fully choked  with  that  bone,  which  the  good- 
natured  crane  afterwards  drew  out  of  your 
throat. 

.flSSOP  AND  THE  ASS. 

Said  the  ass  to  iEsop  :  The  next  time  you  tell 
a  story  about  me,  let  me  say  something  that  is 
right  rational  and  ingenious. 

You  something  ingenious!  said  ^Esop  ;  what 
propriety  would  there  be  in  that  ?  Would  not  the 
people  say  you  were  the  moralist  and  I  the  ass? 


HERCULES. 

When  Hercules  was  received  into  heaven  he 
paid  his  respects  to  Juno  before  all  the  other 
divinities.  The  whole  Heaven  and  Juno  were 
astonished.  Dost  thou  show  such  preference  to 
thine  enemy?  Yes,  replied  Hercules,  even  to 
her.  It  was  her  persecution  alone,  that  furnished 
the  occasion  of  those  exploits,  with  which  I  have 
earned  Heaven. 

Olympus  approved  the  answer  of  the  new 
God,  and  Juno  was  reconciled. 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  SERPENT. 

A  boy  played  with  a  tame  serpent.  My  dear 
little  animal,  said  the  boy;  I  would  not  be  so 
familiar  with  thee  had  not  thy  poison  been 
taken  from  thee.  You  serpents  are  the  most 
malicious  and  ungrateful  of  all  animals.  I  have 
read  how  it  fared  with  a  poor  countryman  who, 
in  his  compassion,  took  up  a  serpent, — perhaps 
it  was  one  of  thy  ancestors,  —  which  he  found 
half-frozen  under  a  hedge,  and  put  it  into  his 
bosom  to  warm  it.  Scarcely  had  the  wicked 
creature  begun  to  revive,  when  it  bit  its  bene- 
factor ;  and  the  poor,  kind  countryman  was 
doomed  to  die. 

I  am  amazed,  said  the  serpent.  How  partial 
your  historians  must  be  !  Ours  relate  the  affair 
very  differently.  Thy  kind  man  thought  the 
serpent  was  actually  frozen,  and,  because  it 
was  one  of  the  variegated  sort,  he  put  it  into 
his  bosom,  in  order,  when  he  reached  home,  to 
strip  off  its  beautiful  skin.    Was  that  right  ? 

Ah  !  be  still !  replied  the  boy.  When  was 
there  ever  an  ingrate  who  did  not  know  how 
to  justify  himself? 

True,  my  son,  said  his  father,  who  had  listened 
to  the  conversation.  Nevertheless,  when  you 
hear  of  an  extraordinary  instance  of  ingratitude, 
be  sure  to  examine  carefully  all  the  circum- 
stances, before  you  brand  a  human  being  with 
so  detestable  a  fault.  Real  benefactors  have 
seldom  had  ungrateful  debtors;  —  no!  I  will 
hope,  for  the  honour  of  humanity, — never.  But 
benefactors  with  petty,  interested  motives, — 
they,  my  son,  deserve  to  reap  ingratitude  in- 
stead of  acknowledgments. 

THE  YOUNG  SWALLOW. 

What  are  you  doing  there?  demanded  a 
swallow  of  the  busy  ants.  We  are  collecting 
stores  for  the  winter,  was  the  ready  answer. 

That  is  wise,  said  the  swallow;  I  will  do  so 
too.  And  immediately  she  began  to  carry  a 
number  of  dead  spiders  and  flies  into  her  nest. 

But  to  what  purpose  is  that?  asked  her  mother 
at  last.  To  what  purpose  ?  Stores  for  the  ugly 
winter,  dear  mother.  Do  thou  gather  likewise. 
The  ants  have  taught  me  this  providence. 

0!  leave  to  earthly  ants  this  small  wisdom; 
replied  the  old  one.  That  which  befits  them, 
befits  not  the  nobler  swallows.  Kind  Nature 
has  destined  us  for  a  happier  fate.  When  the 
rich  Summer  is  ended,  we  go  hence;  we  gra- 
dually fall  asleep  on  our  journey,  and  then 


LESSING. 


07 


warm  marshes  receive  us,  where  we  rest  with- 
out wants,  until  a  new  Spring  awakens  us  to  a 
new  life. 

THE  APE  AND  THE  FOX. 

Name  to  me  an  animal,  though  never  so  skil- 
ful, that  I  cannot  imitate !  So  bragged  the  ape 
to  the  fox.  But  the  fox  replied  :  And  do  thou 
name  to  me  an  animal  so  humble  as  to  think  of 
imitating  thee ! 

Writers  of  my  country!  Need  I  explain  my- 
self more  fully ! 

ZEIS  AND  THE  HORSE. 

Father  of  beasts  and  of  men  ! — so  spake  the 
horse,  approaching  the  throne  of  Zeus, — I  am 
said  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  animals 
with  which  thou  hast  adorned  the  world  ;  and 
my  self-love  leads  me  to  believe  it.  Neverthe- 
less, might  not  some  things  in  me  still  be  im- 
proved ? 

And  what  in  thee,  thinkest  thou,  admits  of 
improvement?  Speak!  I  am  open  to  instruc- 
tion, said  the  indulgent  god  with  a  smile. 

Perhaps,  returned  the  horse,  I  should  be 
fleeter  if  my  legs  were  taller  and  thinner.  A 
long  swan -neck  would  not  disfigure  me.  A 
broader  breast  would  add  to  my  strength.  And, 
since  thou  hast  once  for  all  destined  me  to  bear 
thy  favourite,  man, — the  saddle  which  the  well- 
meaning  rider  puts  upon  me  might  be  created 
a  part  of  me. 

Good  !  replied  Zeus,  wait  a  moment.  Zeus, 
with  earnest  countenance,  pronounced  the  cre- 
ative word.  Then  flowed  life  into  the  dust ; 
then  organized  matter  combined  ;  and  suddenly 
stood  before  the  throne,  the  ugly  camel. 

The  horse  saw,  shuddered  and  trembled  with 
fear  and  abhorrence. 

Here,  said  Zeus,  are  taller  and  thinner  legs ; 
here  is  a  long  swan-neck;  here  is  a  broader 
breast;  here  is  the  created  saddle!  Wilt  thou, 
horse !  that  I  should  transform  thee  after  this 
fashion  ? 

The  horse  still  trembled. 

Go  !  continued  Zeus.  Be  instructed,  for  this 
once,  without  being  punished.  But  to  remind 
thee,  with  occasional  compunction,  of  thy  pre- 
sumption,— do  thou,  new  creation,  continue  ! — 
Zeus  cast  a  preserving  glance  on  the  camel ; — 
and  never  shall  the  horse  behold  thee  without 
shuddering. 

THE  RAVEN. 

The  fox  saw  how  the  raven  robbed  the  altars 
of  the  gods,  and  lived,  like  them,  upon  their 
sacrifices.  And  he  thought  within  himself:  I 
would  like  to  know,  whether  the  raven  par- 
takes of  the  sacrifices  because  he  is  a  prophetic 
bird  ;  or  whether  he  is  considered  a  prophetic 
bird,  because  he  is  so  bold  as  to  partake  of  the 
sacrifices. 

THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  FOX. 

Be  not  so  proud  of  thy  flight  !  said  the  fox  to 
the  eagle.    Thou  mountest  so  high  into  the  air 

N 


for  no  other  purpose  but  to  look  farther  about 
thee  for  carrion. 

So  have  I  known  men  who  became  deep- 
thinking  philosophers,  not  from  love  of  truth, 
but  for  the  sake  of  lucrative  offices  of  instruction. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Believe  me,  friends!  the  great  world  is  not 
for  the  philosopher, — is  not  for  the  poet.  Their 
real  value  is  not  appreciated  there  ;  and  often, 
alas !  they  are  weak  enough  to  exchange  it  for 
a  far  inferior  one. 

In  the  earliest  times,  the  swallow  was  as 
tuneful  and  melodious  a  bird  as  the  nightingale. 
But  she  soon  grew  tired  of  living  in  the  solitary 
bushes,  heard  and  admired  by  no  one  but  the 
industrious  countryman,  and  the  innocent  shep- 
herdess. She  forsook  her  humbler  friend  and 
moved  into  the  city.  What  followed  ?  Because 
the  people  of  the  city  had  no  time  to  listen  to 
her  divine  song,  she  gradually  forgot  it,  and 
learned,  instead  thereof,  to — build  ! 

THE  RAVEN. 

The  raven  remarked  that  the  eagle  sat  thirty 
days  upon  her  eggs.  "And  that,  undoubtedly," 
said  she,  "  is  the  reason  why  the  young  of  the 
eagle  are  so  all -seeing  and  strong.  Good!  I 
will  do  the  same." 

And  since  then,  the  raven  actually  sits  thirty 
days  upon  her  eggs  ;  but,  as  yet,  she  has  hatched 
nothing  but  miserable  ravens. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLOMON. 

An  honest  old  man  still  bore  the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  day.  With  his  own  hands  he 
ploughed  his  field;  with  his  own  hand  he  cast 
the  pure  seed  into  the  loosened  bosom  of  the 
willing  earth. 

Suddenly  under  the  broad  shadow  of  a  Lin- 
den-tree, there  stood  before  him  a  godlike  ap- 
parition. The  old  man  was  astounded.  I  am 
Solomon,  said  the  phantom,  with  a  voice  which 
inspired  confidence.  What  dost  thou  here,  old 
man  1 

If  thou  art  Solomon,  replied  the  old  man,  how 
canst  thou  ask?  In  my  youth,  thou  sentest  me 
to  the  ant:  I  considered  her  ways,  I  learned 
from  her  to  be  diligent  and  to  hoard.  What  I 
then  learned,  I  still  practise. 

Thou  hast  learned  thy  lesson  but  half,  re- 
turned the  Spirit.  Go  to  the  ant  again  !  And 
now  learn  from  her,  also,  to  rest  in  the  winter 
of  thy  days,  and  to  enjoy  what  thou  hast  ga- 
thered ! 

THE  SHEEP. 

When  Jupiter  celebrated  his  nuptials,  and 
all  the  animals  brought  him  gifts.  Juno  missed 
the  sheep. 

Where  is  the  sheep  ?  asked  the  goddess. 
Why  does  the  good  sheep  delay  to  bring  us  her 
well-meant  offering? 

The  dog  took  upon  himself  to  reply,  and  said  : 
9 


9b 


LESSING. 


Be  not  angry,  Goddess!  It  is  but  to-day  that  I 
saw  the  sheep.  She  was  very  sad,  and  lamented 
aloud. 

And  why  grieved  the  sheep  ?  asked  the  God- 
dess, beginning  to  be  moved. 

Ah  wretched  me !  she  said ;  I  have,  at  pre- 
sent, neither  wool  nor  milk.  What  shall  I  bring 
to  Jupiter?  Shall  I,  I  alone,  appear  empty  before 
him?  Rather  will  I  go  and  beg  the  shepherd 
to  make  an  offering  of  me. 

At  this  moment, — together  with  the  prayer 
of  the  shepherd, — the  smoke  of  the  offered  sheep 
ascended  to  Jupiter  through  the  clouds,  —  a 
sweet-smelling  savour.  And  now  had  Juno 
wept  the  first  tear,  if  ever  tears  bedewed  im- 
mortal eyes. 

THE  POSSESSOR  OF  THE  BOW. 

A  man  had  an  excellent  bow  of  ebony,  with 
which  he  shot  very  far  and  very  sure,  and  which 
he  valued  at  a  great  price.  But  once,  after  con- 
sidering it  attentively,  he  said:  "A  little  too 
rude  still  !  Your  only  ornament  is  your  polish. 
It  is  a  pity!  However,  that  can  be  remedied," 
thought  he.  "  I  will  go  and  let  a  first-rate  artist 
carve  something  on  the  bow."  He  went,  and 
the  artist  carved  an  entire  hunting-scene  upon 
the  bow.  And  what  more  fitting  for  a  bow 
than  a  hunting-scene  ? 

The  man  was  delighted.  "You  deserve  this 
embellishment,  my  beloved  bow."  So  saying 
he  wished  to  try  it.  He  drew  the  string.  The 
bow  broke ! 

THE  AGED  WOLF.* 

The  mischievous  wolf  had  begun  to  decline 
in  years,  and  conceived  the  conciliating  resolu- 
tion of  living  on  a  good  footing  with  the  shep- 
herds. Accordingly,  he  took  up  his  march  and 
came  to  the  shepherd  whose  folds  were  nearest 
to  his  den.  Shepherds !  said  he,  you  call  me  a 
blood-thirsty  robber,  which  I  really  am  not.  To 
be  sure,  I  must  hold  by  your  sheep,  when  I  am 
hungry ;  for  hunger  hurts.  Protect  me  from 
hunger ;  only  give  me  enough  to  eat,  and  you 
shall  be  very  well  satisfied  with  me  ;  for  really, 
I  am  the  tamest  and  most  gentle  of  creatures, 
when  I  have  had  enough  to  eat. 

When  you  have  had  enough?  Very  likely; 
replied  the  shepherd.  But  when  will  that  be? 
You  and  avarice  never  have  enough.  Go  your 
ways ! 


*  From  "  The  History  of  the  aged  Wolf,"  in  seven  fa- 
bles.—The  first  fable. 


I  want  to  ask  you  something,  said  a  young 
eagle  to  a  contemplative  and  profoundly  learned 
owl.  They  say  there  is  a  bird  called  Merops, 
who,  when  he  ascends  into  the  air,  flies  with 
the  tail  first,  and  with  the  head  turned  toward 
the  earth.    Is  that  true  ? 

No,  indeed!  answered  the  owl;  it  is  a  silly 
invention  of  man.  He  may  he  a  Merops  him- 
self; for  he  is,  all  the  time,  wishing  to  fly  to 
heaven,  but  is  not  willing,  for  one  moment,  to 
lose  sight  of  the  earth. 

THE  WASPS. 

Foulness  and  corruption  were  destroying  the 
proud  fabric  of  a  war-horse  which  had  been 
shot  beneath  its  brave  rider.  Ever-active  Na- 
ture always  employs  the  ruins  of  one  creation 
for  the  life  of  another.  And  so  there  flew  forth 
a  swarm  of  young  wasps  from  the  fly-blown 
carrion.  Ah !  cried  the  wasps,  what  a  divine 
origin  is  ours !  The  most  superb  horse,  the  fa- 
vourite of  Neptune,  is  our  progenitor. 

The  attentive  fabulist  heard  the  strange  boast, 
and  thought  of  the  modern  Italians,  who  con- 
ceive themselves  to  be  nothing  less  than  the 
descendants  of  the  ancient,  immortal  Romans, 
because  they  were  born  among  their  graves. 

THE  PEACOCKS  AND  THE  CROW. 

A  vain  crow  adorned  herself  with  the  feathers 
of  the  richly-tinted  peacocks,  which  they  had 
shed,  and  when  she  thought  herself  sufficiently 
tricked  out,  mixed  boldly  with  these  splendid 
birds  of  Juno.  She  was  recognized,  and  quickly 
the  peacocks  fell  upon  her  with  sharp  bills,  to 
pluck  from  her  the  lying  bravery. 

Cease  now!  she  cried  at  length,  you  have 
your  own  again !  But  the  peacocks,  who  had 
observed  some  of  the  crow's  own  shining  wing- 
feathers,  replied  :  Be  still,  miserable  fool !  these 
too  cannot  be  yours  !  And  they  continued  to 
peek. 

EXTRACT 

FROM  LESSING'S  THEOLOGICAL  WRITINGS. 

If  God  should  hold  all  truth  inclosed  in  his 
right  hand,  and  in  his  left  only  the  ever-active 
impulse  to  the  pursuit  of  truth,  although  with 
the  condition  that  I  should  always  and  forever 
err ;  and  should  say  to  me  :  Choose !  I  should 
fall  with  submission  upon  his  left  hand,  and 
say :  Father,  give !  Pure  Truth  is  for  Thee  alone ! 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 

Bom  1729.   Died  1786. 


A  Jew  by  birth  and  conviction,  this  able 
writer  and  excellent  man  is  celebrated,  not 
less  for  the  services  rendered  to  his  own  peo- 
ple, his  "kinsmen  according  to  the  flesh," 
by  his  labors  as  a  Hebraist  and  expositor  of 
Jewish  affairs,  than  for  those  which  literary 
Germany  associates  with  his  honored  name. 
No  man  has  done  more  to  soften  the  rigor  of 
that  hostility  which  embittered  the  lot  of  the 
German  Israelite,  a  century  ago.  Since 
Maimonides,  no  Jewish  writer,  not  excepting 
the  famous  Manasseh  Ben  Israel,  has  exerted 
a  greater  influence  on  the  Jewish  mind.* 
Since  Nathaniel,  no  one  has  better  deserved 
the  commendation  bestowed  on  that  disciple : 
"An  Israelite,  indeed,  in  whom  there  is  no 
guile !"  He  was  one  of  those  who  have 
wrought  even  more  by  what  they  were  than 
by  what  they  did.  His  writings  are  a  valuable 
contribution  to  the  literature  of  his  country; 
but  his  character,  as  an  upright,  magnanimous 
and  religious  man,  is  a  legac}7  to  his  brethren, 
more  valuable  than  his  writings,  and  "richer 
than  all  his  tribe." 

Mendelssohn f  was  a  native  of  Dessau.  His 
father  Mendel  who  taught  the  Jews'  school  in 
that  city  was  wretchedly  poor  and  could  give 
him  nothing  but  the  Mishna  and  the  Gemarra  ; 
himself  more  familiar  with  Hebrew  roots  than 
with  any  more  substantial  nourishment.  He 
speaks  of  being  roused  at  three  o'clock,  A.  M., 
in  the  winter,  wrapped  in  a  cloak  and  carried 
to  the  "seminary,"  when  only  seven  years 
old. 

At  an  early  age  he  fell  in  with  the  More 
Nebochim,  or  Guide  of  the  Perplexed,  a  work 
of  Maimonides,  the  intense  study  of  which 
made  an  era  in  his  life ;  and  that  in  two  ways. 
It  laid  the  foundation  of  his  mental  culture, 
and  also  of  his  bodily  disease  and  suffering. 

*  I  speak  only  of  those  whom  Israel  has  acknowledged 
and  retained.  Spinoza,  unquestionably  the  greatest  in- 
tellect  that  has  sprung  from  the  seed  of  Abraham  since 
the  dispersion,  can  hardly  be  ranked  as  a  Jewish  writer. 

f  The  following  sketch  is  taken  chiefly  frntn  the  "  Me- 
moirs of  Moses  Mendelssohn,  &c,"  by  M.  Samuels. 
Second  Edition.  London.  1827. 


"  Maimonides,"  he  said,  "  is  the  cause  of  my 
deformity,*  he  spoiled  my  figure,  and  ruined 
my  constitution;  but  still  I  doat  on  him  for 
many  hours  of  dejection,  which  he  has  con- 
verted into  hours  of  rapture.  And  if  he  has 
unwittingly  weakened  my  body,  has  he  not 
made  ample  atonement  by  invigorating  my 
soul  with  his  sublime  instructions  V1 

At  fourteen,  we  find  him  an  adventurer  at 
Berlin,  without  the  means  of  procuring  a  single 
meal.  In  his  distress,  he  applied  to  Rabbi 
Frankel,  who  had  been  his  teacher  at  Dessau ; 
"and  there  he  happened  to  meet  with  Mr. 
Hyam  Bamberg,  a  benevolent  man,  and  an 
encourager  of  aspiring  young  Jews,  who  al- 
lowed him,  on  the  Rabbi's  intercession,  an 
attic  to  sleep  in,  and  two  days'  board  weekly." 
His  first  object  was  not  to  get  a  living  but  to 
get  an  education.  He  had  come  to  Berlin  for 
this  purpose,  and  to  this  he  devoted  several 
successive  years  of  intense  application,  under 
all  the  difficulties  and  discouragements  which 
may  be  supposed  to  hamper  a  youth  so  circum- 
stanced ;  without  teachers,  without  books,  with 
seldom  enough  to  satisfy  his  hunger,  and  to 
whom  a  belly -full  was,  as  Lamb  says,  'a 
special  Pr.ovidence.'  The  manner  in  which 
he  studied  Latin  illustrates  his  indomitable 
energy  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  Having 
mastered  the  nouns  and  the  verbs  and  procured 
an  old  second-hand  dictionary,  he  set  himself 
to  translate  into  Latin  Locke's  "  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding,"  a  task  which  he  ac- 
tually accomplished,  at  that  early  stage  of  his 
progress ;  fighting  his  way  through  difficulties, 
metaphysical  and  philological,  with  a  painful 
laboriousness  unknown,  out  of  Germany,  in 
modern  times. 

His  only  means  of  support  during  this 
period,  in  addition  to  the  charity  of  Herr  Bam- 
berg, was  an  occasional  gruschen  obtained  by 
copying  Hebrew  for  his  old  master.  He  sub- 
sisted principally  on  dry  brown  bread,  and 
when  purchasing  a  loaf,  "  he  would  notch  it, 

*  Mendelssohn  was  hump-backed  and  extremely  small 
and  feeble  in  person. 

(99) 


100 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


according  to  the  standard  of  his  means,  into 
so  many  meals;  never  eating  according  to  his 
appetite,  but  according  to  his  finances." 

In  this  way  he  spent  several  years  of  hard- 
ship and  suffering,  during  which,  however,  he 
had  by  dint  of  incredible  exertions,  made  him- 
self thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  principal 
languages  and  the  mathematics.  But  now  a 
kind  Providence  brought  him  acquainted  with 
a  wealthy  manufacturer  of  the  Jewish  faith, 
who  received  him  into  his  house,  as  the  tutor 
of  his  children,  then  into  his  counting-room,  as 
clerk,  and  finally  into  his  silk-manufactory, 
first  as  manager,  and  soon  after  as  partner. 
A  new  tide  in  his  affairs  set  in  with  this  con- 
nection. An  immediate  support,  not  ample  at 
first,  but  sufficient  for  his  wants,  was  secured 
to  him,  and  he  now  commenced  his  career  as 
an  author,  devoting  his  days  to  business,  and 
his  nights  to  Letters.  About  this  time,  he 
became  acquainted  with  Abbt,  Nicolai  and 
Lessing.  With  the  latter,  he  formed  an  inti- 
mate friendship,  from  which  he  derived  incal- 
culable benefit  in  the  way  of  literary  and 
philosophic  culture,  and  which  he  always  re- 
garded as  among  the  most  fortunate  circum- 
stances of  his  life.  "  Lessing  loved  Men- 
delssohn," says  his  biographer,  "  for  his  excel- 
lent heart  and  highly  cultivated  understanding, 
and  Mendelssohn  was  no  less  attached  to  Les- 
sing for  his  inflexible  consistency  and  his  tran- 
scendent abilities.  A  union  founded  on  esteem 
and  friendship  was  cemented  between  them, 
which  neither  time  nor  long  separation,  nothing 
indeed  but  death  could  dissolve.  The  noble 
monument  of  their  mutual  affection,  preserved 
to  posterity  in  the  latter  pages  of  the  Morgen- 
stunden,  will  endure  as  long  as  virtue  and 
science  are  cherished  and  cultivated  among 
mankind."  In  Lessing,  than  whom  no  man 
was  ever  more  free  from  the  prejudices  of 
creed  and  nation,  Mendelssohn  found  a  hearty 
sympathy  and  an  effective  fellow-laborer  in  his 
various  projects  for  bettering  the  condition  of 
the  German  Jews ;  an  object,  which,  then  and 
at  all  times,  lay  nearest  his  heart.  Indeed  the 
known  friendship  of  so  eminent  a  man  for  one 
of  that  tribe,  in  defiance  of  all  the  prejudices 
of  his  age,  was  scarcely  less  important  to  the 
Jews  in  general  than  it  was  to  Mendelssohn 
in  particular. 

One  of  the  first,  perhaps  the  very  first  lite- 
rary effort  by  which  he  became  distinguished 
beyond  the  pale  of  his  own  communion,  was 


his  "  Philosophical  Dialogues,"  a  work  which 
owed  its  origin  to  the  following  circumstance. 
"  Lessing  once  brought  to  Mendelssohn  a  work 
written  by  a  celebrated  character,  to  hear  his 
opinion  upon  it.  Having  given  it  a  reading, 
he  told  his  friend  that  he  deemed  himself  a 
match  for  the  author,  and  would  refute  him. 
Nothing  could  be  more  welcome  to  Lessing, 
and  he  strongly  encouraged  the  idea.  Ac- 
cordingly, Mendelssohn  sat  down  and  wrote 
his  "Philosophical  Dialogues,"  in  which  he 
strictly  redeemed  his  pledge  of  confuting  the 
author ;  and  carried  the  manuscript  to  Lessing 
for  examination.  'When  I  am  at  leisure,' 
said  Lessing,  '  I  will  peruse  it'  After  a  con- 
venient interval,  he  repeated  his  visit,  when 
Lessing  kept  up  a  miscellaneous  conversation, 
without  once  mentioning  the  manuscript  in 
question ;  and  the  other,  being  too  bashful  to 
put  him  in  mind  of  it,  was  obliged  to  de- 
part. The  same  thing  happened  at  several 
subsequent  meetings.  At  last,  he  mustered 
sufficient  resolution  to  inquire  after  it.  Want 
of  leisure  was  pleaded  as  before,  but  now  "  he 
would  certainly  read  it.  Mr.  Mendelssohn 
might,  in  the  mean  while,  take  yonder  small 
volume  home  with  him,  and  let  him  know  his 
opinion  of  it."  On  opening  it,  Mendelssohn 
was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  his  own  Dia- 
logues in  print.  "Put  it  into  your  pocket," 
said  Lessing,  good-naturedly,  "  and  this  Mam- 
mon along  with  it.  It  is  what  I  got  for  the 
copyright ;  it  will  be  of  service  to  you."  He 
afterward,  at  the  instigation  of  Nicolai  and 
Lessing,  collected  all  his  philosophical  lucu- 
brations, and  published  them  under  the  title 
"  Philosophische  Schriften"  Three  editions 
of  this  work  which  appeared,  anonymously  at 
first,  but  afterward  with  the  author's  name, 
were  exhausted  in  a  short  time. 

Through  his  connection  with  Herr  Bernard, 
Mendelssohn  soon  became  rich,  as  a  Jew  should 
be,  and,  being  rich,  he  married,  as  a  rich  Jew 
should  do.  His  wife  was  a  daughter  of  Abra- 
ham Gavgenheim  of  Hamburg.  By  her  he  had 
several  children,  among  them  a  son  who  gave 
rise  to  one  of  his  most  celebrated  works  — 
the  "  Morgenstunden"  (Morning-hours.)  This 
book  consists  of  lectures  on  the  existence  of 
God, — the  result  of  many  years'  inquiry  on  that 
subject  —  the  original  design  of  which  was  to 
instruct  his  oldest  son,  Joseph,  his  son-in-law 
and  other  Jewish  youths  in  the  rudiments  of 
religion.    The  lessons  were  given  before  the 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


101 


hours  of  business,  whence  the  title  Morgen- 
stunden.  The  work  is  a  fragment,  the  death 
of  the  author  arresting  its  progress  soon  after 
the  publication  of  the  first  volume. 

The  most  popular  of  his  works  and  that 
which  contributed  most  to  his  celebrity  abroad, 
was  his  Phaedon,  a  work  on  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  based  on  Plato's  dialogue  of  that  name 
— in  fact  a  translation  of  Plato,  with  much  ad- 
ditional matter  of  his  own.  In  less  than  two 
years  it  went  through  three  large  German  edi- 
tions and  was  translated  into  the  English, 
French,  Dutch,  Italian,  Danish,  and  Hebrew. 

Mendelssohn's  fame  was  at  its  height,  and  zea- 
lous Christians  were  wondering  that  so  enlight- 
ened and  exemplary  a  man  should  retain  the  faith 
of  his  Fathers,  when  his  peace  and  religious  li- 
berty were  somewhat  rudely  assailed — though 
with  no  unkind  intentions — by  a  challenge  from 
Lavater,  who,  with  an  obtuse  zeal  which  knew 
no  scruple  on  the  score  of  delicacy,  sought  to 
drag  him  into  theological  controversy.  The 
good  Lavater,  with  all  his  humanity,  was  a 
little  intolerant  in  matters  of  religion.  A  re- 
ligious man  and  not  a  Christian  by  profession, 
was  an  idea  for  which  he  could  find  no  room 
in  his  philosophy.  It  was  not  enough  that  Men- 
delssohn was  all  that  a  Christian  should  be; 
he  insisted  on  a  formal  and  public  renunciation 
of  Judaism  in  favor  of  Christianity.  In  order 
to  bring  about  this  result,  he  dedicated  to  him 
his  translation  of  Bonnet's  "Inquiry  into  the 
evidences  of  Christianity,"  with  the  request 
that  he  would  refute  it,  in  case  he  should  find 
the  argument  untenable ;  and  that,  if  it  should 
seem  to  him  conclusive,  he  would  "  do  what 
policy,  love  of  truth  and  probity  demanded, 
what  Socrates  doubtless  would  have  done,  had 
he  read  the  work  and  found  it  unanswerable ;" 
thus  offering  him  the  alternative,  either  to  in- 
cur the  odium  of  his  own  people  by  formally 
abjuring  the  faith  of  his  Fathers,  or  to  draw 
down  upon  himself  the  wrath  of  the  Christian 
clergy  by  a  public  assault  on  their  religion. 

To  a  timid  and  sensitive  nature  like  Men- 
delssohn's, constitutionally  averse  from  all  con- 
troversy and  especially  from  controversy  in 
religion,  such  a  challenge  was  perfectly  over- 
whelming. Prostrate  with  ill  health  at  the 
time,  he  suffered  intensely  from  this  attempt  to 
drag  him  forth  from  the  strict  reserve  which  he 
had  always  maintained  on  these  subjects.  But 
rallying  himself  to  reply,  he  adroitly  put  by 
both  horns  of  the  threatened  dilemma,  in  a 


letter  which  satisfied  all  parties  and  which 
drew  from  Lavater  a  public  apology  and  re- 
tracttation  of  his  peremptory  challenge. 

The  agitation  caused  by  this  transaction 
aggravated  Mendelssohn's  constitutional  com- 
plaints and  brought  on  a  severe  sickness  which 
threatened  his  life  and,  for  a  long  time,  incapa- 
citated him  for  intellectual  labor.  After  his 
recovery,  he  published  his  commentary  on  Ec- 
clesiasticus ;  soon  after,  his  translation  of  the 
Pentateuch,  "a  work,"  says  his  biographer, 
"  which  forms  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  mo- 
dern Judaism,  and  which,  for  its  vast  utility 
and  the  immense  good  it  has  wrought,  entitles 
the  author  to  the  eternal  gratitude  of  his  na- 
tion." To  this  was  added  a  metrical  transla- 
tion of  the  psalms.  Then  followed  a  work 
which  excited  a  good  deal  of  attention  in  Ger- 
many, at  the  time,  entitled  "  Jerusalem,  oder 
uber  religiose  Macht  und  Judenthum."*  It 
contained  a  plea  for  toleration  founded  on  the 
principles  of  the  social  compact,  together  with 
an  able  defence  of  Judaism.  It  is  still  the  best 
treatise  on  these  subjects. 

Mendelssohn  was  doomed  to  experience  an- 
other severe  trial  of  his  sensibility,  in  an  attack 
on  his  friend  Lessing,  by  Friedrich  Heinrich 
Jacobi.  This  eminent  author  published  a 
volume  of  "  Letters  to  Mr.  Mendelssohn  on  the 
Doctrine  of  Spinoza,"  in  which  he  charged 
Lessing  with  being  an  "implicit  Spinozist." 
Mendelssohn  endeavored  to  refute  the  charge 
in  a  work  entitled  "  Moses  Mendelssohn  to  the 
friends  of  Lessing."  The  answer  was  con- 
sidered triumphant  and  drew  from  Kantf  the 
remark,  "  It  is  Mendelssohn's  fault  that  Jacobi 
thinks  himself  a  philosopher." 

But  the  excitement  of  a  controversy  so  re- 
pugnant to  his  gentle  nature,  acted  fatally  on 
his  long  enfeebled  constitution  and  reduced  him 
to  that  degree  that  a  trifle  sufficed  to  snap  the 
slender  thread  which  bound  him  to  this  world. 
Returning  from  the  synagogue  one  frosty 
morning,  he  took  a  cold  of  which  he  died  with- 
in four  days ;  on  the  4th  January  1786,  in  his 
fifty-eighth  year. 

"Mendelssohn  died  as  he  had  lived,  calm 
and  placid,  and  took  an  earthly  smile  with  him 

*  Jerusalem,  or  on  religious  power  and  Judaism. 

f  Speaking  of  Kant,  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  Mendels- 
sohn, in  the  earlier  part  of  his  career,  was  the  successful 
competitor  of  this  distinguished  philosopher  in  a  contest 
for  the  prize  awarded  by  the  Royal  Academy  of  Berlin,  to 
the  best  essay  on  the  question:  "Are  metaphysics  sus- 
ceptible of  mathematical  demonstration  ?" 

9* 


102 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


into  eternity.  When  his  death  became  known, 
the  whole  city  of  Berlin  was  a  scene  of  un- 
feigned sorrovv.  The  citizens  of  all  denomina- 
tions looked  on  his  death  as  a  national  cala- 
mity." 

"  Mendelssohn  was  of  a  short  stature,  very 
thin,  and  deformed  in  the  back.  His  com- 
plexion was  very  dark  and  sallow ;  hair  black 
and  curly;  nose  rather  large  and  aquiline.  A 
gentle  smile  played  around  his  mouth  which 
was  always  a  little  open.  Nothing  could  ex- 
ceed the  fire  of  his  eyes,  and  there  was  so 
much  kindness,  modesty,  and  benevolence  por- 
trayed on  his  countenance  that  he  won  every 
heart  at  first  sight.  His  vaulted  brow  and  the 
general  cast  of  his  features  bespoke  a  vast  in- 
tellect and  a  noble  heart." 

"From  sensual  gratification  he  abstained 
firmly  to  the  end.  It  was  inconceivable  that 
the  quantity  of  food  to  which  he  restricted  him- 


self could  nourish  a  human  body.  Yet  Provi- 
dence had  blessed  him  with  affluence;  his 
fortune  enabled  him  to  live  genteelly  and  keep 
a  hospitable  table ;  and  it  was  affecting  to  see 
him  press  his  guests  to  partake  of  viands  and 
liquors  which  he  himself,  though  never  so  de- 
sirous, durst  not  venture  to  taste." 

His  disinterestedness  was  without  limits  and 
his  beneficence  corresponded  with  his  means. 

Professor  Rammler  erected  to  him  a  monu- 
ment with  this  inscription : 

MOSES  MENDELSSOHN, 
BORN  AT  DESSAU  OF  HEBREW  PARENTS, 
A  SAGE  LIKE  SOCRATES, 
FAITHFUL  TO  THE  ANCIENT  CREED, 
TEACHING  IMMORTALITY, 
HIMSELF  IMMORTAL. 

Besides  the  works  which  have  been  men- 
tioned, he  published  several  others  in  German 
and  some  in  Hebrew. 


LETTER  TO  J.  C.  LAVATER * 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  CHALLENGE  EITHER  TO  REFUTE  BONNET'S  EVI- 
DENCES OF  CHRISTIANITY,  OR  ELSE  TO  ADOPT  THE  CHRISTIAN 
RELIGION. 

Honoured  Philanthropist, 

You  were  pleased  to  dedicate  to  me  your 
translation  from  the  French  of  Bonnet's  Inquiry 
into  the  Evidences  of  the  Christian  Religion, 
and  most  publicly  and  solemnly  to  conjure  me 
"  to  ref  ute  that  work,  in  case  I  should  rind  the 
main  arguments  in  support  of  the  facts  of  Chris- 
tianity untenable,  or  should  I  find  them  con- 
clusive, to  do  what  policy,  love  of  truth,  and 
probity  bid  me,  what  Socrates  would  have  done 
had  he  read  the  work,  and  found  it  unanswer- 
able;" which,  I  suppose,  means,  to  renounce 
the  religion  of  my  fathers,  and  embrace  that 
which  Mr.  Bonnet  vindicates.  Now,  were  I 
ever  mean-spirited  enough  to  balance  love  of 
truth  and  probity  against  policy,  I  assure  you  I 
should,  in  this  instance,  throw  them  all  three 
into  the  same  scale. 

I  should  deem  myself  beneath  a  worthy 
man's  notice,  did  I  not  acknowledge,  with  a 
grateful  heart,  the  friendship  and  kindness  you 
manifest  for  me  in  that  dedication,  which  I  am 
fully  persuaded  flowed  from  a  pure  source,  and 
cannot  be  ascribed  to  any  but  benevolent  and 
philanthropic  motives.  Yet  I  must  own  that  it 
appeared  to  me  exceedingly  strange,  and  I 
should  have  expected  anything  rather  than  a 
public  challenge  from  a  man  like  Lavater. 

It  seems  you  still  recollect  the  confidential 

*  From  the  "Memoirs  of  Moses  Mendelssohn,"  by  M. 
Samuels.  For  an  account  of  this  correspondence,  see  the 
biographical  sketch  given  above. 


conversation  I  had  the  pleasure  of  holding  with 
yourself  and  your  worthy  friends  in  my  apart- 
ment. Can  you  then  possibly  have  forgotten 
how  frequently  I  sought  to  divert  the  discourse 
from  religious  to  more  neutral  topics,  and  how 
much  yourself  and  your  friends  had  to  urge  me 
before  I  would  venture  to  deliver  my  opinion 
on  a  subject  of  such  vital  importance  ?  If  I  am 
not  mistaken,  preliminary  assurances  were  even 
given  that  no  public  use  should  ever  be  made  of 
any  remarkable  expression  that  might  drop  on 
the  occasion.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  will  rather 
suppose  myself  in  error  than  tax  you  with  a 
breach  of  promise.  But  as  I  so  sedulously 
sought  to  avoid  an  explanation  in  my  own 
apartment  amidst  a  small  number  of  worthy 
men,  of  whose  good  intentions  I  had  every  rea- 
son to  be  persuaded,  it  might  have  been  reason- 
ably inferred  that  a  public  one  would  be  ex- 
tremely repugnant  to  my  disposition ;  and  that 
I  must  have  inevitably  become  the  more  em- 
barrassed when  the  voice  demanding  it  hap- 
pened to  be  entitled  to  an  answer  at  any  rate. 
What  then,  sir,  could  induce  you  to  single  me 
thus,  against  my  well-known  disinclination,  out 
of  the  many,  and  force  me  into  a  public  arena 
which  I  so  much  wished  never  to  have  occasion 
to  enter  ?  If  even  you  placed  my  reserve  to  the 
score  of  mere  timidity  and  bashfulness,  these 
very  foibles  would  have  deserved  the  modera- 
tion and  forbearance  of  a  charitable  heart. 

But  my  scruples  of  engaging  in  religious  con- 
troversy never  proceeded  from  timidity  or  bash- 
fulness.  Let  me  assure  you  that  it  was  not  only 
from  the  other  day  that  I  began  searching  into 
my  religion.  No,  I  became  very  early  sensible 
of  the  duty  of  putting  my  actions  and  opinions 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


103 


to  a  test.  That  I  have  from  my  early  youth 
devoted  my  hours  of  repose  and  relaxation  to 
philosophy  and  the  arts  and  sciences,  was  done 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  qualifying  myself  for 
this  important  investigation.  What  other  mo- 
tives could  I  have  had  ?  In  the  situation  I  was 
then  in,  not  the  least  temporal  benefit  was  to 
be  expected  from  the  sciences.  I  knew  very 
well  that  I  had  no  chance  of  getting  forward  in 
the  world  through  them.  And  as  to  the  gra- 
tification they  might  afford  me  —  alas!  much 
esteemed  philanthropist!  —  the  station  allotted 
to  my  brethren  in  the  faith,  in  civil  society,  is 
so  incompatible  with  the  expansion  of  the  mind, 
that  we  certainly  do  not  increase  our  happiness 
by  learning  to  view  the  rights  of  humanity 
under  their  true  aspect.  On  this  point,  too,  I 
must  decline  saying  any  more.  He  that  is  ac- 
quainted with  our  condition,  and  has  a  human 
heart,  will  here  feel  more  than  I  dare  to  ex- 
press. 

If,  after  so  many  years  of  investigation,  the 
decision  of  my  mind  had  not  been  completely 
in  favour  of  my  religion,  it  would  infallibly 
have  become  known  through  my  public  con- 
duct. I  do  not  conceive  what  should  rivet  me 
to  a  religion  to  appearance  so  excessively  se- 
vere, and  so  commonly  exploded,  if  I  were  not 
convinced  in  my  heart  of  its  truth.  Let  the 
result  of  my  investigation  have  been  what  it 
may,  so  soon  as  I  discovered  the  religion  of  my 
fathers  not  to  be  the  true  one,  I  must  of  course 
have  discarded  it.  Indeed,  were  I  convinced 
in  my  heart  of  another  religion  being  true,  there 
could  not,  in  my  opinion,  be  a  more  flagitious 
depravity  than  to  refuse  homage  to  truth,  in 
defiance  of  internal  evidence.  What  should 
entice  me  to  such  depravity  ?  Have  I  not 
already  declared,  that  in  this  instance,  policy, 
love  of  truth,  and  probity,  would  lead  me  to 
steer  the  same  course? 

Were  I  indifferent  to  both  religions,  or  derided 
and  scorned,  in  my  mind,  revelation  in  general, 
I  should  know  well  enough  what  policy  sug- 
gests, when  conscience  remains  neutral.  What 
is  there  to  deter  me?  Fear  of  my  brethren  in 
the  faith  ?  Their  temporal  power  is  too  much 
curtailed  to  daunt  me.  What  then?  Obstinacy? 
Indolence  ?  A  predilection  for  habitual  notions  ? 
Having  devoted  the  greatest  portion  of  my  life 
to  the  investigation,  I  may  be  supposed  to  pos- 
sess sufficient  good  sense  not  to  sacrifice  the 
fruit  of  my  labours  to  such  frivolities. 

Thus  you  see,  sir,  that,  but  for  a  sincere  con- 
viction of  my  religion,  the  result  of  my  theologi- 
cal investigations  would  have  been  sealed  by  a 
public  act  of  mine.  Whereas,  on  the  contrary, 
they  have  strengthened  me  in  the  faith  of  my 
fathers ;  still  I  could  wish  to  move  on  quietly 
without  rendering  the  public  an  account  of  the 
state  of  my  mind.  I  do  not  mean  to  deny  that 
I  have  detected  in  my  religion  human  additions 
and  base  alloy,  which,  alas !  but  too  much  tar- 
nish  its  pristine  lustre.  But  where  is  the  friend 
of  truth  that  can  boast  of  having  found  his  reli- 


gion free  from  similar  corruptions?  We  all, 
who  go  in  search  of  truth,  are  annoyed  by  the 
pestilential  vapour  of  hypocrisy  and  supersti- 
tion, and  wish  we  could  wipe  it  off  without 
defacing  what  is  really  good  and  true.  Yet  of 
the  essentials  of  my  religion  I  am  as  firmly,  as 
irrefragably  convinced,  as  you,  sir,  or  Mr.  Bon- 
net, ever  can  be  of  those  of  yours.  And  I  here- 
with declare,  in  the  presence  of  the  God  of 
truth,  your  and  my  creator  and  supporter,  by 
whom  you  have  conjured  me  in  your  dedica- 
tion, that  I  will  adhere  to  my  principles  so  long 
as  my  entire  soul  does  not  assume  another  na- 
ture. My  contrariety  to  your  creed,  which  I 
expressed  to  yourself  and  to  your  friends,  has 
since,  in  no  respect,  changed.  And  as  to  my 
veneration  for  the  moral  character  of  its  founder! 
had  you  not  omitted  the  reservations  which  I  so 
distinctly  annexed  to  it,  I  should  concede  as  much 
now.  We  must  finish  certain  inquiries  once  in 
our  life,  if  we  wish  to  proceed  further.  This,  I 
may  say,  I  had  done,  with  regard  to  religion, 
several  years  ago.  I  read,  compared,  reflected, 
and — made  up  my  mind. 

Yet,  for  what  I  cared,  Judaism  might  have 
been  hurled  down  in  every  polemical  compen- 
dium, and  triumphantly  sneered  at  in  every 
academic  exercise,  and  I  would  not  have  enter- 
ed into  a  dispute  about  it.  Rabbinical  scholars, 
and  rabbinical  smatterers,  might  have  grubbed 
in  obsolete  scribblings,  which  no  sensible  Jew 
reads  or  knows  of,  and  amused  the  public  with 
the  most  fantastic  ideas  of  Judaism,  without  so 
much  as  a  contradiction  on  my  part.  It  is  by 
virtue  that  I  wish  to  shame  the  opprobrious 
opinion  commonly  entertained  of  a  Jew,  and 
not  by  controversial  writings.  My  religious 
tenets,  philosophy,  station  in  civil  society,  all 
furnish  me  with  the  most  cogent  reason  for 
abstaining  from  theological  disputes,  and  for 
treating  in  my  publications  of  those  truths  only 
which  are  equally  important  to  all  persuasions. 

Pursuant  to  the  principles  of  my  religion,  I 
ain  not  to  seek  to  convert  any  one  who  is  not 
born  according  to  our  laws.  This  proneness  to 
conversion,  the  origin  of  which  some  would  fain 
tack  on  the  Jewish  religion,  is,  nevertheless, 
diametrically  opposed  to  it.  Our  rabbins  una- 
nimously teach,  that  the  written  and  oral  laws, 
which  form  conjointly  our  revealed  religion,  are 
obligatory  on  our  nation  only.  "Moses  com- 
manded us  a  law,  even  the  inheritance  of  the 
congregation  of  Jacob."  We  believe  that  all 
other  nations  of  the  earth  have  been  directed 
by  God  to  adhere  to  the  laws  of  nature,  and  to 
the  religion  of  the  patriarchs.  Those  who  regu- 
late their  lives  according  to  the  precepts  of  this 
religion  of  nature  and  of  reason,  are  called  vir- 
tuous men  of  other  nations,  and  are  the  children 
of  eternal  salvation. 

Our  rabbins  are  so  remote  from  Proselytoma- 
nia,  that  they  enjoin  us  to  dissuade,  by  forcible 
remonstrances,  every  one  who  comes  forward 
to  be  converted.  We  are  to  lead  him  to  reflect 
that,  by  such  a  step,  he  is  subjecting  himself 


104 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


needlessly,  to  a  most  onerous  burthen;  that,  in 
his  present  condition,  he  has  only  to  observe  the 
precepts  of  a  Nouchide,  to  be  saved  ;  but  the 
moment  he  embraces  the  religion  of  the  Israel- 
ites, he  subscribes  gratuitously  to  all  the  rigid 
rites  of  that  faith,  to  which  he  must  then  strictly 
conform,  or  await  the  punishment  which  the 
legislator  has  denounced  on  their  infraction. 
Finally,  we  are  to  hold  up  to  him  a  faithful  pic- 
ture of  the  misery,  tribulation,  and  obloquy,  in 
which  the  nation  is  now  living,  in  order  to  guard 
him  from  a  rash  act,  which  he  might  ultimately 
repent. 

Thus,  you  see,  the  religion  of  my  fathers  does 
not  wish  to  be  extended.  We  are  not  to  send 
missions  to  both  the  Indies,  or  to  Greenland,  to 
preach  our  doctrine  to  those  remote  people. 
The  latter,  in  particular,  who,  by  all  accounts, 
observe  the  laws  of  nature  stricter  than,  alas ! 
we  do,  are,  in  our  religious  estimation,  an  envi- 
able race.  Whoever  is  not  born  conformable 
to  our  laws,  has  no  occasion  to  live  according 
to  them.  We  alone  consider  ourselves  bound 
to  acknowledge  their  authority ;  and  this  can 
give  no  offence  to  our  neighbours.  Let  our  no- 
tions be  held  ever  so  absurd,  still  there  is  no 
need  to  cavil  about  them,  and  others  are  cer- 
tainly at  liberty  to  question  the  validity  of  laws, 
to  which  they  are,  by  our  own  admission,  not 
amenable ;  but  whether  they  are  acting  manly, 
socially,  and  charitably,  in  ridiculing  these  laws, 
must  be  left  to  their  consciences.  So  long  as 
we  do  not  tamper  with  their  opinions,  wrangling 
serves  no  purpose  whatsoever. 

Suppose  there  were  amongst  my  contempo- 
raries, a  Confucius  or  a  Solon,  I  could,  consis- 
tently with  my  religious  principles,  love  and 
admire  the  great  man,  but  I  should  never  hit 
on  the  extravagant  idea  of  converting  a  Confu- 
cius or  a  Solon.  What  should  I  convert  him 
for  ?  As  he  does  not  belong  to  the  congregation 
of  Jacob,  my  religious  laws  were  not  legislated 
for  him  ;  and  on  doctrines  we  should  soon  come 
to  an  understanding.  Do  I  think  there  is  a 
chance  of  his  being  saved  ?  I  certainly  believe, 
that  he  who  leads  mankind  on  to  virtue  in  this 
world,  cannot  be  damned  in  the  next.  And  I 
need  not  now  stand  in  awe  of  any  reverend  col- 
lege, that  would  call  me  to  account  for  this  opi- 
nion, as  the  Sorbonne  did  honest  Marmontel. 

I  am  so  fortunate,  as  to  count  amongst  my 
friends,  many  a  worthy  man,  who  is  not  of  my 
faith.  We  love  each  other  sincerely,  notwith- 
standing we  presume,  or  take  for  granted,  that, 
in  matters  of  belief,  we  differ  widely  in  opinion. 
I  enjoy  the  delight  of  their  society,  which  both 
improves  and  solaces  me.  Never  yet  has  my 
heart  whispered,  "Alas!  for  this  excellent  man's 
soul !" — He  who  believes  that  no  salvation  is  to 
be  found  out  of  the  pale  of  his  own  church, 
must  often  feel  such  sighs  rise  in  his  bosom. 

It  is  true,  every  man  is  naturally  bound  to 
diffuse  knowledge  and  virtue  among  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  to  eradicate  error  and  prejudice 
as  much  as  lies  in  his  power.    It  might  there- 


fore be  concluded,  that  it  is  a  duty,  publicly  to 
fling  the  gauntlet  at  every  religious  opinion, 
which  one  deems  erroneous.  But  all  prejudices 
are  not  equally  noxious.  Certainly,  there  are 
some  which  strike  directly  at  the  happiness  of 
the  human  race ;  their  effect  on  morality  is  ob- 
viously deleterious,  and  we  cannot  expect  even 
a  casual  benefit  from  them.  These  must  be 
unhesitatingly  assailed  by  the  philanthropist. 
To  grapple  with  them,  at  once,  is  indisputably 
the  best  mode,  and  all  delay,  from  circuitous 
measures,  unwarrantable.  Of  this  kind  are 
those  errors  and  prejudices  which  disturb  man's 
own,  and  his  fellow-creatures'  peace  and  hap- 
piness, and  canker,  in  youth,  the  germ  of  bene- 
volence and  virtue,  before  it  can  shoot  forth. 
Fanaticism,  ill-will,  and  a  spirit  of  persecution, 
on  the  one  side,  levity,  Epicurism,  and  boasting 
infidelity,  on  the  other. 

Yet  the  opinions  of  my  fellow-creatures,  erro- 
neous as  they  may  appear  to  my  conviction,  do 
sometimes  belong  to  the  higher  order  of  theo- 
retical principles,  and  are  too  remote  from  prac- 
tice, to  become  immediately  pernicious;  they 
constitute,  however,  from  their  generality,  the 
basis,  on  which  the  people  who  entertain  them 
have  raised  their  system  of  morality  and  social 
order ;  and  so  they  have  casually  become  of 
great  importance  to  that  portion  of  mankind. 
To  attack  such  dogmas  openly,  because  they 
appear  prejudices,  would  be  like  sapping  the 
foundation  of  an  edifice,  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 
amining its  soundness  and  stability,  without 
first  securing  the  superstructure  against  a  total 
downfall.  He  who  values  the  welfare  of  man- 
kind more  than  his  own  fame,  will  bridle  his 
tongue  on  prejudices  of  this  description,  and 
beware  of  seeking  to  reform  them  prematurely 
and  precipitately,  lest  he  should  overset,  what 
he  thinks  a  defective  theory  of  morality,  before 
his  fellow-creatures  are  firm  in  the  perfect  one, 
which  he  means  to  substitute. 

Therefore,  there  is  nothing  inconsistent  in  my 
thinking  myself  bound  to  remain  neutral,  under 
the  impression  of  having  detected  national  pre- 
judices and  religious  errors  amongst  my  fellow- 
citizens, — provided  these  errors  and  prejudices 
do  not  subvert,  directly,  either  their  religion  or 
the  laws  of  nature,  and  that  they  have  a  ten- 
dency to  promote,  casually,  that  which  is  good 
and  desirable.  The  morality  of  our  actions, 
when  founded  in  error,  it  is  true,  scarcely  de- 
serves that  name ;  and  the  advancement  of 
virtue  will  be  always  more  efficaciously  and 
permanently  effected  through  the  medium  of 
truth,  where  truth  is  known,  than  through  that 
of  prejudice  or  error.  But  where  truth  is  not 
known,  where  it  has  not  become  national,  so  as 
to  operate  as  powerfully  on  the  bulk  of  the 
people  as  deep-rooted  prejudice — there  prejudice 
will  be  held  almost  sacred  by  every  votary  of 
virtue. 

How  much  more  imperative,  then,  does  this 
discretion  become,  when  the  nation,  which,  in 
our  opinion,  fosters  such  prejudices,  has  rendered 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


105 


itself  otherwise  estimable  through  wisdom  and 
virtue,  when  it  contains  numbers  of  eminent 
men,  who  rank  with  the  benefactors  of  man- 
kind !  The  human  errors  of  such  a  noble  por- 
tion of  our  species,  ought  to  be  deferentially 
overlooked  by  one,  who  is  liable  to  the  same  ; 
he  should  dwell  on  its  excellences  only,  and 
not  insidiously  prowl  to  pounce  upon  it,  where 
he  conceives  it  to  be  vulnerable. 

These  are  the  reasons  which  my  religion  and 
my  philosophy  suggest  to  me,  for  scrupulously 
avoiding  polemical  controversy.  Add  to  them, 
my  local  relations  to  my  fellow-citizens,  and 
you  cannot  but  justify  me.  I  am  one  of  an  op- 
pressed people,  who  have  to  supplicate  shelter 
and  protection  of  the  ascendant  nations ;  and 
these  boons  they  do  not  obtain  everywhere,  in- 
deed nowhere,  without  more  or  less  of  restric- 
tion.* Rights  granted  to  every  other  human 
being,  my  brethren  in  the  faith  willingly  forego, 
contented  with  being  tolerated  and  protected  ; 
and  they  account  it  no  trifling  favour,  on  the 
part  of  the  nation,  who  takes  them  in  on  bear- 
able terms,  since,  in  some  places,  even  a  tem- 
porary domicile  is  denied  them.  Do  the  laws  of 
Zurich  allow  your  circumcised  friend  to  pay  you 
a  visit  there  ?  No.  —  What  gratitude  then  do 
not  my  brethren  owe  to  the  nation,  which  in- 
cludes them  in  its  general  philanthropy,  suffer- 
ing them,  without  molestation,  to  worship  the 
Supreme  Being  after  the  rites  of  their  ancestors? 
The  government  under  which  I  live,  leaves 
nothing  to  wish  for  in  this  respect;  and  the 
Hebrews  should  therefore  be  scrupulous  in  ab- 
staining from  reflections  on  the  predominant 
religion,  or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  in  touching 
their  protectors,  where  men  of  virtue  are  most 
tender. 

By  those  principles,  I  have  resolved  invaria- 
bly to  regulate  my  conduct ;  unless  extraordinary 
inducements  should  compel  me  to  deviate  from 
them.  Private  appeals,  from  men  of  worth,  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  tacitly  to  decline.  The 
importunities  of  pedants,  who  arrogated  to 
themselves  the  right  of  worrying  me  publicly, 
on  account  of  my  religious  principles,  I  con- 
ceived myself  justified  in  treating  with  con- 
tempt. But  the  solemn  conjuration  of  a  Lavater, 
demands  at  any  rate  this  public  avowal  of  my 
sentiments:  lest  too  pertinacious  a  silence  should 
be  construed  into  disregard,  or  —  into  acquies- 
cence. 

I  have  read,  with  attention,  your  translation 
of  Bonnet's  work.  After  what  I  have  already 
stated,  conviction  becomes,  of  course,  foreign  to 
the  question:  but,  even  considered  abstractedly, 
as  an  apology  of  the  Christian  religion,  1  must 
own,  it  does  not  appear  to  me  to  possess  the 
merit  which  you  attach  to  it.  I  know  Mr.  Bon- 
net from  other  works,  as  an  excellent  author; 
but  I  have  read  many  vindications  of  the  same 


*  Justice  and  gratitude  require  nie  to  observe,  that  this 
was  written  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  Enlightened 
Europe  presents  in  our  days,  but  one  state  to  verify  it. 
o 


religion,  I  will  not  only  say  by  English  writers, 
but  by  our  own  German  countrymen,  which  I 
thought  much  more  recondite  and  philosophical 
than  that  by  Bonnet,  which  you  •  are  recom- 
mending for  my  conversion.  If  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, most  of  your  friend's  hypotheses  are  even 
of  German  growth  ;  for  the  author  of  the  Essai 
de  Psychologies  to  whom  Mr.  Bonnet  cleaves  so 
firmly,  owes  almost  every  thing  to  German  phi- 
losophers. In  the  matter  of  philosophical  prin- 
ciples, a  German  has  seldom  occasion  to  borrow 
of  his  neighbours. 

Nor  are  the  general  reflections  premised  by 
the  author,  in  my  judgment,  the  most  profound 
part  of  the  work;  at  least  the  application  and 
use  which  he  makes  of  them,  for  the  vindica- 
tion of  his  religion,  appear  to  me  so  unstable 
and  arbitrary,  that  I  scarcely  can  trace  Bonnet 
in  them.  It  is  unpleasant,  that  my  opinion  hap- 
pens to  be  so  much  at  variance  with  yours ;  but 
I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  Bonnet's  internal 
conviction,  and  laudable  zeal  for  his  religion, 
have  given  to  himself  a  cogency  in  his  argu- 
ments, which,  for  my  own  part,  I  cannot  dis- 
cover in  them.  The  major  part  of  his  conse- 
quents flow  so  vaguely  from  the  antecedents, 
that  I  am  confident  I  could  vindicate  any  re- 
ligion by  the  same  ratiocination.  After  all,  this 
may  not  be  the  author's  fault;  he  could  have 
written  for  those  only  who  are  convinced  like 
himself,  and  who  read  merely  to  fortify  them- 
selves in  their  belief.  When  an  author  once 
agrees  with  his  readers  about  the  result,  they 
will  not  fall  out  about  the  argument.  But  at 
you,  sir,  I  may  well  be  astonished  ;  that  you 
should  deem  that  work  adequate  to  convince  a 
man,  who,  from  his  principles,  cannot  but  be 
prepossessed  in  favour  of  its  reverse.  It  was 
probably  impossible  for  you  to  identify  the 
thoughts  of  a  person,  like  me,  who  is  not  fur- 
nished with  conviction,  but  has  to  seek  it.  But 
if  you  have  done  so,  and  believe,  notwithstand- 
ing, what  you  have  intimated,  that  Socrates 
himself  would  have  found  Mr.  Bonnet's  argu- 
ments unanswerable,  one  of  us  is,  certainly,  a 
remarkable  instance  of  the  dominion  of  pre- 
judice and  education,  even  over  those  who  go, 
with  an  upright  heart,  in  search  of  truth. 

I  have  now  stated  to  you  the  reasons  why  I 
so  earnestly  wish  to  have  no  more  to  do  with 
religious  controversy;  but  I  have  given  you,  at 
the  same  time,  to  understand  that  I  could,  very 
easily,  bring  forward  something  in  refutation  of 
Mr.  Bonnet's  work.  If  you  should  prove  peremp- 
tory, I  must  lay  aside  my  scruples,  and  come  to 
a  resolution  of  publishing,  in  a  counter-inquiry, 
my  thoughts,  both  on  Mr.  Bonnet's  work,  and  on 
the  cause  which  he  vindicates.  But,  I  hope 
you  will  exonerate  me  from  this  irksome  task, 
and  rather  give  me  leave  to  withdraw  to  that 
state  of  quietude,  which  is  more  congenial  to 
my  disposition.  Place  yourself  in  my  situation; 
take  my  view  of  circumstances,  not  yours,  and 
you  will  no  longer  strive  against  my  reluctance. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  be  led  into  the  temptation 


106 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


of  breaking  through  those  boundaries,  which  I 
have,  after  such  mature  deliberation,  marked 
out  to  myself. 

I  am,  with  most  perfect  respect, 
yours  sincerely, 

Moses  Mendelssohn. 
Berlin,  the  12th  of  December,  1769. 

To  this  Lavater  replied  in  a  second  Letter, 
which  gave  rise  to  another  publication  on  the 
part  of  Mendelssohn,  entitled, 

SUPPLEMENTARY  REMARKS. 
****  *  *** 

*  *  *  As  to  what  regards  Bonnet's 
work,  I  confess,  that  my  judgment  on  it  referred 
entirely  to  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  recom- 
mended to  me  by  Mr.  Lavater.  I  might,  it  is 
true,  have  taken  for  granted,  that  it  was  not  at 
all  Mr.  Bonnet's  aim  to  oppugn,  by  his  Inquiry, 
any  religious  persuasion  whatsoever,  least  of  all 
Judaism;  but  that  he  had  only  the  benevolent 
intention  of  leading,  by  means  of  a  more  whole- 
some philosophy,  back  into  the  paths  of  truth, 
the  sceptics  and  weak  in  faith  of  his  own 
church,  who  have  been  deluded  by  a  false 
philosophy,  to  laugh  at  religion,  Providence, 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  resurrection, 
and  retribution,  as  absurd  superstitions.  In  this 
light  I  should  have  considered  Mr.  Bonnet's 
work,  in  order  to  form  a  more  correct  estimate 
of  its  merits. 

But  the  unlucky  dedication  had  at  once  de- 
ranged the  proper  aspect  of  things.  And  as 
that  was  the  point  from  which  I  started,  and 
not  knowing  that  the  author  had  disapproved 
of  the  translator's  proceeding,  I  read  the  whole 
performance  under  the  impression,  that  it  was 
levelled  against  myself,  and  those  of  my  per- 
suasion. In  this  view,  then,  the  use  and  ap- 
plication which  Mr.  Bonnet  makes  of  philosophi- 
cal principles,  could  not  but  appear  to  me  loose 
and  arbitrary ;  and  I  could  say,  with  propriety, 
that  I  was  confident  I  could  vindicate,  in  the 
same  manner,  any  religion  one  pleases.  *  * 
*  *  *  I  will  mention  a  single  point  by  way 
of  illustration. 

Mr.  Bonnet  constitutes  miracles  the  infallible 
criterions  of  truth  ;  and  maintains  that  if  there 
be  but  credible  testimony  that  a  prophet  has 
wrought  miracles,  his  divine  mission  is  no 
longer  to  be  called  in  question.  He  then 
actually  demonstrates,  by  very  sound  logic, 
that  there  is  nothing  impossible  in  miracles, 
and  that  testimony  concerning  them  may  be 
deserving  of  credit. 

Now,  according  to  my  religious  theory,  mira- 
cles are  not,  indiscriminately,  a  distinctive  mark 
of  truth ;  nor  do  they  yield  a  moral  evidence 
of  a  prophet's  divine  legation.  The  public 
giving  of  the  law,  only,  could,  according  to  our 
creed,  impart  satisfactory  authenticity  ;  because 
the  ambassador  had,  in  this  case,  no  need  of 
credentials,  the  divine  commission  being  given 


in  the  hearing  of  the  whole  nation.  Here  no 
truths  were  to  be  confirmed  by  actual  proceed- 
ings, no  doctrine  by  preternatural  occurrences, 
but  it  was  intended  it  should  be  believed,  that 
the  divine  manifestation  had  chosen  this  very 
prophet  for  its  legate,  as  every  individual  had 
himself  heard  the  nomination.  Accordingly, 
we  read  (Exod.  xix.  9.),  "  And  the  Lord  said 
unto  Moses,  Lo,  I  come  unto  thee  in  a  thick 
cloud,  that  the  people  may  hear  when  I  speak 
unto  thee,  and  believe  thee  forever :"  (Exod. 
iii.  12.)  "And  this  shall  be  a  token  unto  thee, 
When  thou  hast  brought  forth  the  people  out 
of  Egypt,  ye  shall  serve  God  upon  this  moun- 
tain/' Our  belief  in  a  revealed  religion  is, 
therefore,  not  founded  in  miracles,  but  on  a 
public  legislation.  The  precept  to  hearken  to 
a  wonder-working  prophet  (Deut.  xviii.  15.)  is, 
as  our  rabbins  teach,  a  mere  implicit  law,  as 
given  by  the  legislator,  and  quite  independent 
of  the  intrinsic  evidence  of  such  wonders.  So 
does  a  similar  law  (Deut.  xvii.  6.)  direct  us  to 
abide,  in  juridical  cases,  by  the  evidence  of  two 
witnesses,  though  we  are  not  bound  to  consider 
their  evidence  as  infallible.  Further  informa- 
tion on  this  Jewish  elemental  law  will  be 
found  in  Maimouides'  Elements  of  the  Law, 
chap.  8,  9,  10.  And  there  is  an  ample  illustra- 
tion of  this  passage  of  Maimonides,  in  Rabbi 
Joseph  Albo,  Sepher  Ikkarim,  sect,  i.,  cap.  18. 

I  also  meet  with  decisive  texts  in  the  Old 
Testament,  and  even  in  the  New,  showing  that 
there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  enticers  and 
false  prophets  performing  miracles;*  whether 
by  magic,  occult  sciences,  or  by  the  misapplica- 
tion of  a  gift  truly  conferred  on  them  for  proper 
purposes,  I  will  not  pretend  to  determine.  So 
much,  however,  appears  to  me  incontrovertible, 
that,  according  to  the  naked  text  of  Scripture, 
miracles  cannot  be  taken  as  absolute  criterions 
of  a  divine  mission. 

I  could,  therefore,  perfectly  well  maintain 
that  an  argument,  founded  on  the  infallibility 
of  miracles,  does  not  decide  any  thing  against 
the  believers  in  my  religion,  since  we  do  not 
acknowledge  that  infallibility.  My  Jewish 
principles  will  fully  bear  me  out  in  the  asser- 
tion, that  I  would  undertake  to  vindicate,  by 
similar  reasoning,  any  religion  one  pleases ; 
because  I  do  not  know  any  religion  which  has 
not  signs  and  miracles  to  produce ;  and  surely 
every  one  has  a  right  to  place  confidence  in  his 
forefathers.  All  revelation  is  propagated  by 
tradition  and  by  monuments.  There,  I  sup- 
pose, we  agree.  But,  according  to  the  funda- 
mentals of  my  religion,  not  miracles  only,  but 

*  How  are  we,  for  instance,  to  account  for  the  Egyp- 
tian magicians?  In  the  Old  Testament  (Deut.  xiii.  2.), 
a  case  is  laid  down,  when  we  are  not  to  hearken  to  a 
prophet  or  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  even  if  he  give  a  sign 
or  a  wonders  hut  put  him  to  death.  In  the  New  Testa- 
ment, it  is  distinctly  said  (Matt.  xxiv.  24.),  "  For  there 
shall  arise  false  Christs  and  false  prophets,  and  shall 
show  great  signs  and  wonders."  Sec.  Not  to  mention 
other  texts. 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


107 


a  public  giving  of  the  law,  must  be  the  origin 
of  tradition. 

It  will  now  be  seen  that  the  assertion  of 
mine,  which  Mr.  Lavater  calls  singular,  is  not 
only  compatible  with  the  belief  in  a  revelation, 
but  that  it  even  emanates  from  the  very  ele- 
ments of  my  religion.  As  an  Israelite,  I  have 
argued  on  Israelitish  principles.  How  could  I 
have  done  otherwise,  under  the  impression  that 
Mr.  Bonnet  meant  to  controvert  those  principles  ? 
But  now  that  I  am  aware  that  this  excellent 
author's  design  was  to  oppugn  the  unbelievers 
of  his  own  church  only,  and  to  show  them  that 
the  doctrines  which  they  revile,  are,  by  far, 
more  reconcilable  with  sound  reason  than  their 
own  fantastic  deliration,  many  difficulties  which 
I  have  met  with  on  reading  the  German  trans- 
lation, of  course  vanish  of  themselves ;  and  I 
must  own,  that,  so  far  as  its  scope  goes,  the 
work  is  more  important,  and  more  worthy 
of  Mr.  Bonnet's  pen,  than  I  had,  at  first,  an 
idea  of. 


ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND  THE  NAIVE  IN 
POLITE  LITERATURE.* 

In-  reading  Longinus  his  treatise  on  the  sub- 
lime, one  cannot  but  regret  that  the  work  of 
Csecilius,  treating  of  the  same  matter,  has  been 
lost.  Longinus,  it  is  true,  says  of  him,  that  "he 
merely  laboured  to  give  us  an  idea  of  the 
sublime,  by  an  infinite  number  of  examples,  as 
if  no  one  knew  what  it  was,  but  wholly  omit- 
ted what  is  most  essential,  that  is,  the  method 
by  which  we  may  accustom  our  minds  to  a 
true  elevation."  But  as  Longinus  occupied 
himself  exclusively  with  the  latter, — taking  the 
former  for  granted,  either  as  something  which 
every  one,  as  he  thought,  must  be  acquainted 
with,  or  as  known  to  his  Terentian,  at  least, 
out  of  Ctecilius ;  we  are  in  want  of  a  very 
necessary  part  of  the  knowledge  of  the  sublime, 
to  wit,  a  lucid  explanation  of  it;  and  those 
translators  and  commentators  of  Longinus  who 
have  endeavoured  to  supply  this  defect,  do  not 
appear  to  have  been  very  successful  in  their 
attempts. 

Perhaps  the  idea  of  the  sublime,  which,  as 
Longinus  says,  constitutes  the  highest  perfec- 
tion in  writing,  may  be  rendered  somewhat 
clearer  by  the  principles  which  have  been 
established  in  the  foregoing  essaysf  on  the 
nature  of  the  sentiments  and  on  the  sources  of 
the  fine  arts  in  general. 

We  have  seen  that  the  strictly  beautiful  has 
its  own  determinate  limits  which  it  may  not 

*  Belles  lettres,  Schbne  Wissenschaften,  literally  Beauti- 
ful sciences.  I  prefer  the  above  as  being  more  English  and 
customary,  while  it  answers  more  exactly  to  the  subject 
matter  of  this  treatise.  Tr. 

t  See  "Mendelssohn's  philosophische  Schriften,"  in 
two  vols.,  Berlin,  1777,  from  which  this  essay  is  taken. 
Tr. 


pass.  When  the  whole  extent  of  the  ob- 
ject is  not  taken  in  by  the  senses  at  once,  it 
ceases  to  be  sensuously  beautiful  and  becomes 
monstrous  or  disproportionately  great  in  extension. 
The  sensation  which  is  then  awakened  is  one 
of  a  mixed  character  indeed,  but  one  which 
has  something  repulsive  for  well-educated 
minds  accustomed  to  order  and  symmetry. 
The  senses  discover  the  boundaries  at  last,  but 
cannot,  without  difficulty,  embrace  and  com- 
bine them  in  one  idea. 

When  the  limits  of  this  extension  are  still 
farther  removed,  they  may  vanish  entirely,  at 
last,  to  the  senses,  and  then  arises  the  sensuous 
immeasurable.  The  senses,  perceiving  some- 
thing connected,  wander  about  to  discover  its 
limits  and  lose  themselves  in  the  illimitable. 
Thence,  as  was  shown  in  the  first  treatise,* 
arises,  at  first,  a  shuddering  which  comes  over 
us,  and  then  something  like  giddiness  which 
often  obliges  us  to  take  our  eyes  from  the 
object.  The  vast  ocean,  a  far  extended  plain, 
the  innumerable  host  of  the  stars,  every  height 
or  depth  whose  limits  are  not  discoverable,  and 
other  like  objects  of  Nature,  which  seem  im- 
measurable to  the  senses,  awaken  this  kind  of 
sensation,  which,  as  is  there  set  forth  more 
minutely,  is,  in  some  cases,  exceedingly  plea- 
sant, but,  in  others,  may  occasion  discomfort. 

The  artist  also  avails  himself  of  these  sensa- 
tions on  account  of  their  agreeableness,  and 
endeavours  to  produce  them  by  imitation.  The 
imitation  of  the  sensuous  immeasurable  is  de- 
nominated, in  general  terms,  the  grand.  By  this 
term  is  understood  not  a  limited  magnitude,  but 
one  which  seems  to  be  limitless,  and  is  adapted 
to  produce  an  agreeable  awe.  There  is,  in  art, 
a  particular  method  of  producing  this  sensation, 
where  the  immeasurable  itself  cannot  be  repre- 
sented. It  is  to  repeat,  at  equal  intervals  of 
time  or  space,  a  single  impression,  unaltered, 
uniform,  and  very  often.  The  senses,  in  that 
case,  detect  no  symmetrical  process,  no  rule  of 
arrangement  from  which  the  end  of  this  repeti- 
tion might  be  inferred;  they  are  thrown  into  a 
state  of  restlessness  which  resembles  the  awe 
produced  by  the  immeasurable.  An  instance, 
in  architecture,  is  a  straight  colonnade  in  which 
the  columns  are  like  and  separated  from  each 
other  by  equal  distances.  A  colonnade  of  this 
kind  has  something  grand  which  immediately 
disappears  when  the  uniformity  of  the  repeti- 
tion is  interrupted  and  a  prominent  contrast 
introduced  at  certain  intervals.  The  monotonous 
iteration  of  a  single  sound  after  equal  pauses 
has  the  same  effect  in  music,  and  is  used  to 
express  veneration,  the  terrible,  the  awful.  In 
literary  composition  there  are  arts  of  speech 
which  produce  the  same  effect.  Sometimes  it 
is  done  by  the  multiplication  of  conjunctions, — 
of  the  connecting  and  : 

Und  das  Geschrei  und  der  todtenden  Wuth  und 
der  donnernde  Himniel. 

*  Zusiitze  zu  deu  Briefen  iiber  die  Empfindungeu,  p. 
36.  Tr. 


108  MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


So  too, 

 und  ist  noch  und  denkt  noch  und  fluchet. 

Sometimes  too  by  the  multiplication  of  verbs 
or  nouns  without  the  connecting  and.  Longinus 
gives  an  example  from  Xenophon:  They  dashed 
their  shields  against  each  other,  they  crowded, 
they  struggled,  they  slew,  they  fell.  *  * 
»         *  "      *         *         *         *         *  * 

The  climax  which  increases  in  regular  gra- 
dations has  a  similar  effect;  but  this  pleases 
also  for  other  reasons,  which  it  would  be  out 
of  place  to  enlarge  upon  here. 

As  diere  is  an  illimitable  in  extended  magni- 
tude, whose  effects  we  have  just  described,  so 
there  is  an  illimitable  in  intensity,  or  unextend- 
ed  magnitude,  which  produces  similar  effects. 
Power,  genius,  virtue,  have  their  unextended 
immeasurable,  which  also  awakens  a  sensation 
of  awe,  and  which  has  at  the  same  time  this 
advantage,  that  it  does  not,  by  tedious  uniform- 
ity, terminate  at  last  in  satiety  and  disgust,  as 
is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  the  immeasurable  in 
extension.  They  are  various  as  they  are  great, 
and,  as  it  was  remarked  in  the  passage  already 
referred  to,  the  sensation  which  they  excite  is 
unmixed  on  the  part  of  the  object ;  and  there- 
fore it  is  that  the  soul  affects  these  with  so  much 
eagerness.  We  commonly  call  the  intensively 
great,  powerful ;  and  the  powerful,  in  its  per- 
fection, we  designate  with  the  special  appella- 
tion of  sublime.  We  may  say  then,  generally, 
that  everything  which  is,  or  appears  immeasur- 
able in  the  degree  of  its  perfection,  is  called 
sublime.  We  call  God  the  most  sublime  of  be- 
ings. We  call  a  truth  sublime,  which  concerns 
a  very  perfect  nature,  as  God,  the  universe,  the 
human  soul ;  which  is  of  immeasurable  value 
to  human  kind,  or  for  the  discovery  of  which  a 
great  genius  was  required.  In  the  fine  arts  and 
in  letters,  the  sensuously  perfect  representation 
of  the  immeasurable  will  be  grand,  powerful  or 
sublime,  according  as  the  magnitude  relates  to 
extension  or  number,  to  a  degree  of  strength,  or 
particularly  to  a  degree  of  perfection. 

The  sensation  produced  by  the  sublime  is  a 
compound  one.  The  greatness  arrests  our  at- 
tention ;  and  since  it  is  the  greatness  of  perfec- 
tion, the  soul  clings  with  pleasure  to  that  object, 
and  all  collateral  ideas  are  thrown  into  obscu- 
rity. The  illimitableness  awakens  an  agreeable 
awe  which  pervades  us  wholly,  while  the  va- 
riety prevents  us  from  being  satiated,  and  gives 
the  imagination  wings  to  penetrate  farther  and 
ever  farther.  All  these  sensations  blend  toge- 
ther in  the  soul ;  they  flow  into  each  other,  and 
grow  to  a  single  sentiment  which  we  call  ad- 
miration. If,  therefore,  we  wished  to  describe 
the  sublime  according  to  its  effects,  we  might 
say  it  is  the  sensuously  perfect  in  art  which  is 
capable  of  exciting  admiration. 

Every  perfection  which,  by  its  greatness,  sur- 
passes our  ordinary  conceptions,  which  exceeds 
the  expectation  we  had  of  a  certain  object,  or 
which  outdoes  all  that  we  had  imagined  of  per- 


fection, is  an  object  of  admiration.  The  deter- 
mination of  Regulus  to  return  to  Carthage,  al- 
though well  advised  of  the  tortures  which 
awaited  him  there,  is  sublime,  and  excites 
admiration,  because  we  had  not  supposed  that 
the  duty  of  keeping  one's  promise,  even  with 
an  enemy,  could  exert  such  power  over  the 
human  heart.  The  unexpected  reconciliation 
of  Augustus  with  Cinna,  in  the  celebrated  tra- 
gedy of  Corneille,  produces  the  same  effect, 
because  the  character  of  this  prince  had  pre- 
pared us  for  a  very  different  course  of  conduct. 
In  Canute,  the  mercy  shown  to  Ulfo  does  not 
create  so  sudden  a  sensation,  because  it  was 
not  so  unexpected  in  view  of  the  character  of 
the  ever  merciful  Canute. 

Finally,  the  attributes  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
as  recognized  in  his  works,  awaken  the  most 
extatic  admiration,  because  they  surpass  all  that 
we  can  imagine  of  greatness,  perfection,  subli- 
mity. 

Since  the  great  and  the  sublime  are  so  nearly 
related,  we  see  why  artists  so  often  maintain 
the  sublime  by  means  of  the  great,  and,  as  it 
were,  by  sensible  impressions  of  the  great,  pre- 
pare us  for  the  intellectual  conception  of  the 
sublime.  They  magnify  the  measure  or  the 
proportions  of  those  things  which  they  desire  to 
represent  as  sublime.  They  make  use  of  a 
bright  lustre  which  dazzles  by  its  intensity,  or 
of  an  obscurity  which  causes  the  boundaries  of 
objects  to  disappear,  but  never  of  a  moderate 
light.  The  image  of  the  sublime  is  never  fully 
drawn ;  single  traits  are  hyperbolically  exag- 
gerated, and  the  rest  left  indefinite,  in  order 
that  the  imagination  may  lose  itself  in  their 
vastness. 

 "  I  stretch  my  head  into  the  clouds, 

My  arm  into  eternity." 

We  accompany  the  sublime  in  poetry  with 
the  great  in  music,  with  the  artificially  immea- 
surable in  iteration,  &c. ;  not  because  all  that  is 
great  is  also  sublime,  as  is  generally  supposed, 
but  because  similar  sensations  mutually  support 
each  other,  and  because  the  great  is  precisely 
the  same  in  respect  to  the  external  senses,  that 
the  sublime  is  in  relation  to  the  inner  sense. 
Therefore,  the  impression  on  the  inner  sense 
must  needs  be  strengthened  when  the  external 
senses  are,  by  means  of  similar  impressions, 
attuned  in  harmony  with  it. 

Admiration  in  regard  to  the  productions  of 
the  fine  arts,  as  well  as  the  perfection  which  is 
expressed  by  it,  may  be  of  two  different  kinds. 
Either  the  object  to  be  represented  possesses  in 
and  of  itself  qualities  which  are  admirable;  in 
which  case  the  admiration  of  the  object  be- 
comes the  dominant  idea  in  the  soul ;  or  the 
object  is  not  particularly  remarkable  in  and  of 
itself,  but  the  artist  possesses  the  skill  to  bring 
out  its  qualities  and  to  place  them  in  an  un- 
common light ;  and  then  the  admiration  is  di- 
rected rather  to  the  imitation  than  to  the  arche- 
type, rather  to  the  excellences  of  art  than  to  the 
excellences  of  the  object.    And  as  every  work 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN, 


109 


is  an  embodying  of  the  perfections  of  the  mas- 
ter, so  the  admiration,  in  the  latter  case,  regards 
more  especially  the  artist  and  his  characteristic 
excellences.  We  admire  his  great  wit,  his  ge- 
nius, his  imagination,  and  other  faculties  of  the 
soul  which  harmonize  together  for  so  worthy 
an  end;  and  whose  invisible  nature  he  has 
found  means  to  manifest  in  his  work.  That 
which  especially  pleases  us  in  art,  considered 
as  art,  refers  to  the  intellectual  endowments  of 
the  artist,  which  are  brought  to  view  in  his 
works.  When  these  exhibit  the  marks  of  genius 
or  of  extraordinary  talent,  they  excite  our  admi- 
ration. 

This  classification  will  furnish  opportunities 
of  deciding  how  far  the  sublime  is  compatible 
with  ornate  expression,  and  in  what  cases  it 
rejects  such  expression.  We  will  begin  with 
that  species  in  which  the  admiration  arises  im- 
mediately from  the  object  itself. 

Perfections  of  the  external  condition  are  of  too 
little  worth  to  excite  the  admiration  of  a  man 
of  understanding.  Hence  riches,  splendour, 
authority  and  power  without  merit  are  justly 
excluded  from  the  province  of  the  sublime. 

"  Those  things,"  says  Longinus  very  strikingly, 
"the  contempt  of  which  is  considered  as  some- 
thing great,  can  never  possess  real  sublimity  in 
themselves."  In  fact  we  admire  not  so  much 
those  who  possess  great  wealth  or  hold  distin- 
guished posts  of  honour,  as  those  who  might 
have  these  things,  but  who,  from  a  noble  mag- 
nanimity, reject  them.  Therefore  the  repre- 
sentation of  these  things  in  architecture  and  the 
arts  of  embellishment,  where  advantages  of  ex- 
ternal condition  come  into  consideration,  may 
be  showy,  proud,  splendid  ; — but  true  sublimity 
is  attained  only  by  means  of  a  noble  simplicity, 
i.  e.  by  the  avoidance  of  all  which  would  seem 
to  place  much  value  on  those  advantages.  Not 
the  lavish  use  of  wealth  and  splendour,  but  a 
wise  indifference  toward  them  exalts  the  soul 
and  teaches  us  to  know  its  real  dignity.  They 
must  be  objects  of  importance  with  the  spend- 
thrift, if  he  wishes  to  shine  with  them. 

Physical  perfections,  as,  for  example,  uncom- 
mon strength  or  bravery,  a  beautiful  form  in  an 
insignificant  posture,  a  beautiful  countenance 
whose  features  indicate  neither  intellect  nor 
sentiment,  an  extraordinary  nimbleness  in  the 
motions  of  the  limbs  without  grace  or  attraction, 
&c,  may  indeed  excite  a  slight  degree  of  admi- 
ration, but  we  are  never  so  charmed  as  we  are 
in  contemplating  great  mental  perfections.  A 
great  intellect,  great  and  noble  sentiments,  a 
happy  imagination  combined  with  penetrating 
sagacity,  generous  and  vehement  emotions 
which  rise  above  the  conceptions  of  ordinary 
minds,  whether  they  have  a  true  or  only  an 
apparent  good  for  their  object,  and,  in  general, 
all  great  qualities  of  mind  which  surprise  us 
unexpectedly,  ravish  our  soul  and  lift  it,  as  it 
were,  above  itself.  The  immeasurably  great 
which  is  there  implied,  and  which  seems  new, 
because  unsuspected,  fixes  the  attention  of  the 


mind  and  enfeebles  all  collateral  ideas,  uncon- 
genial with  it,  to  such  an  extent  that  the  soul 
finds  no  transition  to  other  objects,  but,  for 
awhile,  is  lost  in  wonder.  When  this  inability 
to  quit  the  object  continues  for  a  time,  that  state 
of  mind  is  called  astonishment. 

This  admiration,  however,  may  be  likened 
almost  to  a  flash  of  lightning,  which  dazzles  us 
for  a  moment  and  disappears,  unless  its  flame 
is  maintained  and  nourished  by  the  fire  of  a 
gentle  sentiment.  When  we  love  the  object 
which  we  admire,  or  when,  by  undeserved 
suffering,  it  merits  our  compassion,  then  admi- 
ration alternates  with  a  more  affectionate  senti- 
ment, in  our  minds;  we  wish,  we  hope,  we 
fear  for  the  object  of  our  love  or  of  our  compas- 
sion; and  we  admire  his  great  soul  which  is 
raised  above  hope  and  fear.  When  the  artist, 
by  his  magic  power,  can  transport  us  into  this 
frame  of  mind,  he  has  reached  the  summit  of 
his  art,  and  satisfied  art's  worthiest  aims.  It  is 
a  spectacle  pleasing  to  the  gods,  says  an  ancient 
philosopher,  when  they  behold  a  good  man 
struggling  with  fate,  sacrificing  everything  but 
his  virtue.  Ecce  spectaculum  dignum,  ad  quod 
respiciat  intentus  operi  suo  Deus :  ecce  par  Deo 
dignum,  vir  fortis  cum  mala  for  tuna  compositus  !* 

These  then  are  the  principal  kinds  of  admi- 
ration which  flow  directly  from  the  object  itself 
without  reference  to  the  perfections  of  the  artist. 
We  will  examine  how  far  external  embellish- 
ment of  expression  is  compatible  with  them. 

The  truly  sublime,  as  has  been  stated  in  the 
foregoing  remarks,  occupies  the  faculties^of  the 
soul  to  such  an  extent,  that  all  collateral  ideas 
connected  with  it  must  needs  disappear.  It  is 
a  sun  which  shines  alone  and  eclipses  all  feebler 
lights  with  its  splendour.  Moreover  in  the 
moment  when  we  perceive  the  sublime,  neither 
wit  nor  imagination  can  perform  their  functions, 
to  turn  our  thoughts  in  any  other  direction ;  for 
no  other  similar  idea  was  ever  connected  in  our 
mind  with  the  object  of  admiration,  so  as  to 
follow  naturally  in  its  own  train  according  to 
the  laws  of  the  imagination.  Whoever  doubts 
this,  let  him  consider  that,  according  to  our  ex- 
planation, the  unexpected,  the  new  is  an  essen- 
tial condition  of  the  sublime.  It  is  this,  pre- 
cisely, that  causes  the  strong  impression  which 
admiration  makes  on  our  minds,  and  which  is 
not  unfrequently  succeeded  by  astonishment,  or 
even  by  a  kind  of  stupor — a  loss  of  consciousness. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that  excessive  ornament 
is  incompatible  with  the  sublime  of  the  first 
class.  Any  amplification,  by  means  of  collate- 
ral ideas,  is  unnatural;  for  all  such  ideas  are 
necessarily  thrown,  as  it  were,  into  the  darkest 
shade.  The  analysis  of  the  main  idea  would 
weaken  admiration  by  its  slowness ;  it  would 
allow  us  to  feel  the  sublime  only  by  little  and 
little.  On  the  other  hand,  comparisons  and 
other  ornaments  of  speech  are  still  more  out  of 
place,  since  wit  and  imagination,  from  which 


*  Seneca,  de  Providentia,  C.  II. 
10 


110 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


they  spring,  suspend  their  functions  during  the 
contemplation  of  the  sublime,  and  allow  the 
soul  the  repose  which  is  necessary  to  dwell  on 
that  idea  and  to  think  it  over  in  all  its  grandeur. 
The  main  idea  of  the  sublime  is  properly  that, 

"  Judicis  argutum  quod  non  formidat  acumen." 

We  may  say  of  it,  volet  hoc  sub  luce  videri  ■ 
whereas  of  collateral  ideas  it  may  be  said,  hoc 
amat  obscurum.  Therefore  the  artist,  in  the 
representation  of  this  species  of  the  sublime, 
should  cultivate  a  naive,  inartificial  expression, 
which  leaves  the  reader  or  spectator  to  imagine 
more  than  is  said.  Nevertheless,  the  expression 
must  be  derived  from  actual  vision  (anschauend), 
and  if  possible  refer  to  particular  instances,  in 
order  that  the  mind  of  the  reader  may  be 
roused  and  inspired  to  meditation. 

We  will  illustrate  these  thoughts  by  some 
examples.  This  proposition,  what  God  willed, 
that  came  to  pass,  contains  the  same  lofty  idea 
which  we  admire  in  the  well-known  "God  said, 
Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light."  But  the 
former  expression  is  abstract  and  therefore  not 
sufficiently  inspired.  This  sensuous  act,  "said," 
— this  individual  object,  light,  make  the  idea  an 
intuition,  and  give  it  life. 

Reges  in  ipsos  imperium  est  Jovis 
Cuncta  supercilio  moventis, 

is  an  unusually  sublime  conception ;  but  sub- 
stitute mente  or  voluntate  instead  of  supercilio, 
or  regnantis  instead  of  moventis,  and  a  portion 
of  the  sublimity  vanishes,  because  the  concrete 
ideas  are  changed  to  abstract  ones.  The  omni- 
potent wink,  supercilio,  the  sensuous  action, 
moventis,  produce  in  our  imagination  the  sub- 
lime image  of  the  Jupiter  of  Phidias.  We  see 
the  omnipotent,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  face 
to  face,  Qui  totum  nutu  tremefacit  Olympum. 
In  the  following  passage  of  Horace, 

Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis 
Impavidum  ferient  ruins, 

the  danger  which  threatens  the  wise  man  is 
perfectly  painted,  while  the  state  of  his  soul  by 
which  it  is  more  particularly  designed  to  excite 
our  admiration,  is  indicated  by  only  one  word, 
impavidum.  Substitute 

Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis, 

Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum 

Impavidum  ferient  ruinse; 

and  where  then  is  the  admired  sublimity?  The 
misplaced  circumlocution  has  detained  the  im- 
patient mind  of  the  spectator,  eager  for  the  is- 
sue, too  long,  and  suffered  the  fire  of  expectation 
to  become  extinct.  The  same  remark  will  ap- 
ply to  the  sacred  psalmist,  in  reference  to  that 
passage  in  which  he  carried  out  a  similar  idea 
more  worthily  perhaps  than  Horace.  "  There- 
fore will  we  not  fear  though  the  earth  be 
removed  and  though  the  mountains  should  be 
carried  into  the  midst  of  the  sea."  The  danger, 
in  this  case,  is  described  as  minutely,  but  with 
far  greater  truth  than  in  Horace.  But  how  could 
the  influence  of  trust  in  God  be  expressed  more 
simply  and  artlessly, — "  we  will  not  fear" — for 
which  the  Hebrew  needs  but  three  syllables. 


Observe,  by  the  way,  the  careful  selection  of 
phrases  in  both  these  great  poets,  if  it  may  be 
allowed  us  to  compare  them  together.  Horace 
describes  the  quality  of  mind  of  a  Stoic  philo- 
sopher, whom  the  thought,  that  destiny  is  neces- 
sary and  immutable,  has  rendered  insensible  to 
all  untoward  accidents.  He  may  anticipate 
every  evil;  the  ruins  of  the  world  actually  smite 
him,  feriunt  ruincc,  —  but  he  is  not  dismayed. 
No  calamity  can  overtake  him  unprepared.  He 
has  armed  himself  against  every  stroke  of  Fate. 
The  sacred  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  is  speaking 
of  the  state  of  mind  of  a  good  man,  who  reposes 
entirely  on  God  and  places  his  trust  in  him.  He 
may  be  alarmed  when  sudden  danger  threatens, 
but  his  thoughts  recur  to  God.  Therefore  he  is 
not  afraid. 

Some  objects  are,  in  their  nature,  so  perfect, 
so  sublime,  that  they  cannot  be  reached  by  any 
finite  thought,  nor  correctly  indicated  by  any 
sign,  nor  represented  as  they  are  by  any  pic- 
tures;  such  are  God,  the  universe,  eternity,  &c. 
Here  the  artist  must  strain  all  the  powers  of  his 
mind  to  find  the  worthiest  figures  by  which 
these  infinitely  sublime  ideas  may  be  brought 
sensuously  before  the  mind.  He  may  do  so  the 
more  safely  that  the  thing  signified  must  always 
remain  greater  than  the  sign  he  employs ;  and 
consequently  his  expression,  however  full  he 
may  make  it,  will  always  be  naive  in  compari- 
son with  the  thing.    The  sacred  poet  sings : 

Lord,  thy  mercy  reaches  above  the  heavens, 
And  thy  truth  above  the  clouds, 
Thy  justice  is  like  the  mountains  of  God, 
And  thy  right  an  unfathomable  deep  ! 

SjC  3ji  jjc  5jC  5j<  ifc 

The  sublime  in  sentiment,  or  the  heroic, 
which,  as  we  remarked  above,  is  an  inferior 
variety  of  the  sublime  of  the  first  class,  consists 
in  those  perfections  of  the  affective  powers 
which  excite  admiration.  When  the  hero  him- 
self is  introduced  and  made  to  utter  such  senti- 
ments in  person,  he  should  express  himself  as 
briefly  and  as  inartificially  as  possible.  A  great 
soul  utters  its  sentiments  gracefully  and  empha- 
tically, but  without  parade  of  diction.  It  argues 
greater  perfection  when  our  noble  sentiments 
have  become,  as  it  were,  a  second  nature  ;  when 
we  think  greatly  and  act  greatly  without  know- 
ing it  or  without  making  any  particular  merit 
of  it.  Hence  we  are  pleased  with  the  emphatic 
brevity  of  the  old  Horatius,  "Qu'il  mourut;" — 
of  Brutus  in  Voltaire,  "Brutus  l'eut  iramole" — 
and  the  artless  offer  of  friendship  in  Corneille, 
"  soyons  amis,  Cinna!" 

To  this  class  belongs  the  answer  of  that  Spar- 
tan who,  when  a  Persian  soldier  boasted  that 
the  arrows  and  javelins  of  the  Persian  army 
would  cover  the  sun,  replied.  Then  we  shall 
fight  in  the  shade.  The  epitaph  of  Simonides 
on  the  Lacedaemonians,  who  fell  in  battle  at 
Thermopylae,  is  of  the  same  kind  ; 

Die  hospes  Spartae  nos  te  hie  vidisse  jacentes 
Dum  Sanctis  patriae  legibus  obsequimur.* 

*  Cicero.  Tuscul.  Quaest.  L.  I. 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


Ill 


These  patriotic  men  considered  their  death  as 
sufficiently  compensated,  if  Sparta  learned  that 
they  had  fallen,  while  obeying  the  sacred  laws 
of  their  country. 

But  though  the  heroic  soul  is  thus  immovable 
in  its  sentiments  and  thus  brief  and  emphatic 
in  the  expression  of  them,  when  the  determina- 
tion has  once  been  formed ;  it  must  show  itself 
rich  and  inexhaustible  in  thought,  when  deli- 
berating on  its  actions,  and  while  yet  uncertain 
which  the  path  is  that  virtue  prescribes.  It 
must  be  neither  obstinate  nor  rash,  and,  in 
doubtful  cases,  must  weigh  the  reasons  for  and 
against  its  purposed  course  with  great  caution, 
before  it  inclines  to  one  or  the  other  side.  Then, 
the  sublime  in  sentiment  admits  of  the  richest 
ornament  in  expression.  All  the  fire  of  rhetoric 
is  brought  into  requisition,  in  order  to  exhibit 
the  motives,  on  both  sides,  in  the  strongest  light. 
The  undetermined  soul  wavers  as  if  driven  by 
waves  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  carries 
the  hearer  with  it  in  every  direction,  until  it 
recognizes  the  voice  of  virtue  which  puts  an 
end  to  its  irresolution. 

Immediately,  all  doubts  are  removed,  all  ob- 
stacles overcome,  the  resolve  stands  firm  and 
nothing  can  cause  it  to  vacillate  again. 

From  the  sublime  of  this  last  description  have 
arisen  the  monologues  in  tragedies,  which,  in 
modern  times,  since  the  Chorus  is  done  away, 
have  come  very  much  into  vogue.  The  mono- 
logue of  Augustus  in  the  tragedy  of  China,  (Act 
VI.  sc.  III.)  that  of  Rodogune  in  the  tragedy  of 
that  name,  (Act  III.  sc.  3.)  of  Agamemnon  in 
the  tragedy  of  Iphigenia,  (Act  IV.  sc.  3.)  of  Cato 
in  Addison,  (Act.  V.  sc.  1.)  of  iEneas  in  the 
Dido  of  Metastasio,  (Act.  I.  sc.  19.)  are  master- 
pieces in  their  kind.  But  they  are  all  outdone 
by  the  celebrated  soliloquy  of  Shakspeare's 
Hamlet,  Act.  III.  sc.  2. 

*  *  *  *  #  *  # 

Among  all  the  varieties  of  the  sublime,  the 
sublime  of  passion, — when  the  soul  is  suddenly 
stunned  with  terror,  remorse,  anger,  and  des- 
pair,—  requires  the  most  artless  expression.  A 
mind  in  commotion  is  occupied  singly  and  alone 
with  its  own  passion,  and  every  idea  which 
would  withdraw  it  from  that,  is  torture  to  it. 
The  soul  labours  under  the  multitude  of  con- 
ceptions which  overwhelm  it.  In  the  moment 
of  vehement  emotion  they  all  press  forward  for 
utterance,  and  since  the  mouth  cannot  utter 
them  all  at  once,  it  hesitates  and  is  scarce  able 
to  pronounce  the  single  words  which  first  offer 
themselves. 

What,  for  example,  could  CEdipus  say,  in  that 
terrible  moment  when,  by  the  confession  of  the 
ancient  servant,  the  whole  mystery  was  ex- 
plained to  him,  and  he  felt  that  the  terrible 
imprecation  which  he  had  pronounced  against 
the  murderer  of  Laius  must  fall  upon  himself? 

Wo  !  wo !  now  all  is  plain ! 
Sophocles  makes  him  exclaim.     CEdipus,  to 
whom  so  many  oracles,  testimonies  and  circum- 
stances were  known  in  relation  to  this  matter, 


which  seemed  now  to  contradict  each  other, 
and  now  to  contradict  his  own  consciousness, 
perceives  at  length,  with  horror,  that  they  per- 
fectly agree,  and  that  he  is  the  most  miserable 
of  men.  Wo !  wo !  is  the  expression  of  Nature 
in  the  first  stupor,  the  sigh  which  the  wretch 
heaves  forth  when  he  can  find  no  words.  And 
the  first  idea  which  could  arise  again  in  the 
soul  of  CEdipus  must  needs  have  reference  to 
the  agreement  of  the  circumstances.  "Now  all 
is  clear." 

Seneca,  on  the  contrary,  who  seems  to  have 
thought  this  much  too  quiet,  makes  his  CEdipus, 
on  the  same  occasion,  rave  after  a  very  different 
fashion : 

Dehisce  tellus  tuque  tenebrarum  potens 
In  Tartara  ima  rector  umbrarum  rape. 

One  sees  that  the  more  foaming  the  words,  the 
colder  the  heart;  for  we  feel  that  it  is  the  stilted 
poet,  not  the  wretched  CEdipus  whom  we  hear. 

In  Shakspeare's  Macbeth,  Macduff  learns 
that  Macbeth  has  seized  on  his  castle  and  mur- 
dered his  wife  and  children.  He  falls  into  a 
profound  melancholy;  his  friend  endeavours  to 
comfort  him,  but  he  hears  nothing;  he  is  medi- 
tating the  means  of  revenge,  and  breaks  forth 
at  last  into  those  terrible  words : 

He  hath  no  children ! 
These  few  words  breathe  more  vengeance  than 
could  have  been  expressed  in  a  whole  oration. 

When  Joseph  could  no  longer  contain  himself 
for  grief,  and  had  removed  all  the  bystanders, 
in  order  to  discover  himself  to  his  brethren, 
what  words  should  he  find  to  express  the  con- 
dition of  his  soul  ?  How  make  known  to  his 
brethren,  in  one  word,  that  he  was  the  indivi- 
dual whom  they  had  abused,  but  their  brother 
still  ?  u  I  am  Joseph"  he  says  ;  "  doth  my  Father 
yet  live?''''  "And  they  could  not  answer  him, 
for  they  were  troubled  at  his  presence." 

Louginus  has  remarked,  that  the  true  sublime 
may  sometimes  be  attained  by  mere  silence. 
"The  sublime,"  he  says,  in  the  ninth  division 
of  his  treatise,  "  is  nothing  but  the  echo  of  a 
great  mind.  And  therefore  we  sometimes  ad- 
mire the  mere  musing  of  a  man,  even  when  he 
utters  no  word,  like  the  silence  of  Ajax  in  Hell,* 
which  has  in  it  more  sublimity  than  all  which 
he  could  have  said."  This  eloquent  silence  is 
imitated  by  Virgil, j"  who  says  of  Dido,  when 
addressed  by  iEneas  in  the  Elysian  fields: 

Ilia  solo  fixos  oculos  aversa  tenebat, 
Nec  magis  incepto  vultum  sennone  movetur 
Quam  si  dura  silex  aut  stet  Marpesia  cautes. 
Tandem  proripuit  sese,  aique  ininiica  refugit 
In  nemus  umbriferum. 

Among  the  moderns,  Klopstock  has  likewise 
attempted  to  make  use  of  this  sublime  silence, 
in  that  passage  where  Abdiel  is  addressed  by 
the  repentant  Abaddon,  who  was  his  friend 
before  they  fell,  with  what  success  I  will  not 
undertake  to  say. 

Where  this  dumb  rhetoric,  if  it  may  be  called 

*  Odyssee,  B.  XL  v.  563.        t  jEneid,  B.  VI.  v.  469. 


112 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


so,  is  connected  with  the  sublime  in  passion,  at 
the  right  point,  it  is  capable  of  producing  the 
most  happy  effect  on  the  mind  of  the  attentive 
spectator.  In  the  (Edipus  of  Sophocles,  (Act 
IV.  sc.  3.)  the  Corinthian  shepherd  says  to 
(Edipus  in  the  presence  of  Jocaste  that  he  may 
return  without  fear  to  Corinth  ;  that  Merope  is 
not  his  mother,  nor  Polybius  his  father ;  that  he 
himself,  the  shepherd,  had  discovered  him  on 
the  mountain  Citharon,  and  brought  him  from 
thence  to  Corinth.  This  declaration  must  needs 
strike  the  mind  of  Jocaste  like  a  thunderbolt. 
She  is  now  fully  informed  with  regard  to  her 
terrible  fate.  She  had  caused  her  son  to  be 
exposed  on  that  very  mountain,  for  fear  that  he 
might  some  time  murder  his  father  Laius  ac- 
cording to  the  oracle.  CEdipus  was  found  on 
that  mountain,  and  is  now  her  husband.  The 
dark  sayings  of  Tiresias  and  the  whole  of  the 
terrible  mystery  are  suddenly  made  clear  to  her 
soul.  But  she  is  dumb.  Grief  has  so  stupified 
her  that  she  stands  there  like  a  pillar.  Her 
husband  and  son  continues  to  inquire  of  the 
shepherd.  What  despair  must  have  shown 
itself  in  her  looks  during  this  conversation ! 
CEdipus,  tormented  by  the  most  dreadful  doubts, 
is  impelled  by  his  rashness  to  put  a  question  to 
her  also.  Now  she  suddenly  wakes  from  her 
death-slumber. 

Joe.  How,  what  did  he  say?  For  the  sake  of  heaven,  if  thou 
lovest  thyself,  cease  to  inquire  farther.  I  am  sufficiently  misera- 
ble thus. 

CEdip.  Be  calm  '  And  though  I  were  descended  from  three-fold 
slaves,  it  cannot  dishonour  thee. 

Joe.  Nevertheless,  obey  me  !   Be  entreated !   0  do  it  not ! 

(Edip.  Nay  !    I  must  bring  the  truth  to  light. 

Joe.  Ah  !  Knowest  thou  what  weighty  reasons  I  have  for  pre- 
venting thee ! 

CEdip.  It  is  even  these  secret  reasons  which  double  my  unea- 
siness. 

Joe.  (.aside).  Miserable !  0  that  thou  mightest  never  learn  who 
thou  art ! 

CEdip.  Bring  hither  the  other  shepherd  speedily.  Let  the  queen 
be  ashamed  of  my  condition  if  she  will,  and  be  proud  of  her  own. 

Joe.  Alas  !  alas  !  Thou  most  miserable  of  all  mortals  !  This  is 
all  that  I  have  to  say  to  thee.   I  can  endure  it  no  longer.  {Exit.) 

So  speaks  the  true  sublime  in  passion.  The 
dumbness  of  Jocaste,  so  long  as  the  discourse 
was  not  addressed  to  her,  the  wild,  despairing 
looks,  the  oppression,  the  convulsive  trembling 
in  every  joint,  with  which  a  good  actress  would 
accompany  this  dreadful  silence,  produce  the 
utmost  terror  in  the  spectators,  who  are  kept  in 
a  state  of  constant  expectation  by  the  impatience 
of  CEdipus,  and  the  near  development  of  the 
great  mystery.  They  are  not  yet  indeed  fully 
informed  as  to  the  fate  of  Jocaste;  but  so  much 
the  more  terrible  are  the  anticipations  to  which 
her  conduct,  the  responses  of  the  oracles,  and 
the  sayings  of  Tiresias,  give  rise. 

At  length,  she  speaks;  but  what  words  !  what 
perplexity!  "How?  What  said  he  ?"  &c.  In 
departing,  she  gives  us  plainly  enough  to  un- 
derstand what  purpose  she  nourishes  in  her 
breast,  and  hastens  to  execute  without  wit- 
nesses. "This  is  all  that  I  have  to  say  to  thee  ; 
I  can  endure  no  longer!"    Who  does  not  now 


tremble  for  her  life  ?  Who  does  not  follow  her 
with  the  eyes,  and  wish  that  she  might  not  be 
left  to  herself,  in  her  despair?  CEdipus,  only, 
is  too  much  occupied  with  himself,  and  appre- 
hends no  danger  on  her  part.  She  departs,  and 
we  learn,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  act,  that 
our  fear  was  but  too  well  founded. 

So  much  for  the  sublime  of  the  first  class,  in 
which  the  ground  of  admiration  is  to  be  found 
in  the  object  itself,  which  is  brought  before  us. 
Perhaps  I  have  dwelt  on  it  too  long;  but  the 
sublime  in  sentiment  required  a  more  detailed 
exposition  from  the  circumstance  that,  among 
all  the  examples  of  the  sublime  which  Longinus 
adduces,  there  is  to  be  found  scarcely  one  which 
can  be  ranked  in  this  class.  I  except  the  case 
of  the  silence  of  Ajax,  which  really  belongs 
here,  as  also  the  well-known  exclamation  of 
that  hero:  "0!  Father  Zeus!  deliver  the  Greeks 
from  darkness!  Let  it  be  light,  that  our  eyes 
may  see  once  more.  In  the  light  of  day  destroy 
us,  if  thou  hast  so  determined!" — which  Longi- 
nus quotes  in  his  ninth  section. 

The  second  class  of  the  sublime  is  that  in 
which  the  admiration  is  directed  rather  to  the 
art  of  representing  than  to  the  representation 
itself;  and,  therefore,  as  was  shown  above, 
recurs,  for  the  most  part,  to  the  genius  and  the 
wonderful  abilities  of  the  author.  The  object 
in  itself  may  contain  nothing  lofty,  nothing  ex- 
traordinary; but  we  admire  the  great  talents 
of  the  poet,  his  happy  imagination,  his  power 
of  invention,  his  deep  insight  into  the  nature 
of  things,  into  characters  and  passions,  and  the 
noble  manner  in  which  he  has  known  how  to 
express  his  excellent  thoughts.  A  man  rolling 
in  the  agonies  of  death,  on  the  field  of  battle, 
is  not,  in  itself,  a  remarkable  object.  But  who 
does  not  admire  the  genius  of  a  Klopstock  in 
describing  this  circumstance.  It  was  a  happy 
conception,  in  the  outset, —  and  one  which 
opened  a  field  for  great  thoughts, — to  place  an 
atheist  instead  of  an  ordinary  man  in  this 
situation. 

 And  the  victor  approaching, 

And  the  rearing  steed,  and  the  din  of  the  sounding  armour, 
And  the  cries  and  the  rage  of  the  slaying  and  the  thundering 
heaven 

Storms  over  him.   He  lies  and  sinks  with  cloven  head, 
Stupid  and  unconscious  among  the  dead,  and  thinks  he  is  passing 
away. 

Again  he  lifts  himself  up  and  still  is,  and  thinks  still,  and  curses, 
Because  he  still  is,  and  spurts  with  his  pale  dying  fingers 
Blood  toward  heaven ;  curses  God  and  would  fain  yet  deny  him. 

That  which  the  painters  call  fracas,  —  the 
wild  tumult  on  a  field  of  battle, — which  is  here 
described  with  admirable  traits,  throws  the 
mind  of  the  reader  into  the  utmost  commotion. 
The  raving  despair  of  the  atheist,  who  now 
feels  that  there  is  a  God,  in  the  midst  of  this 
terrible  uproar,  attracts  our  whole  attention  and 
fills  us  with  disgust  and  amazement.  The 
horrible,  the  dreadful  assails  us  on  every  side. 
On  all  hands  we  have  the  sensibly  immeasur- 
able, which  causes  a  shuddering  sensation,  one 
after  another,  and,  agreeably  to  the  explanation 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


113 


given  above,  maintains  the  feeling  of  the 
sublime.    What  a  thought, 

Curses  God  and  would  fain  yet  deny  him  ! 
***** 

But  there  are  also  some  objects  entirely  de- 
void of  interest  in  themselves,  which  give  the 
artist  not  the  least  advantage  and  leave  it 
entirely  to  the  power  of  his  genius,  how  far 
they  shall  appear  sublime  to  us,  i.  e.,  how  far 
they  shall  excite  our  admiration.  An  example 
of  this  kind  is  the  passage  quoted  by  Longinus 
from  Demosthenes.  "  Will  ye  then — confess  to 
me  —  will  ye  then  run  back  and  forth  continu- 
ally and  ask  among  yourselves  what  is  there 
new?  What  can  be  more  new  than  that  one 
man  from  Macedonia  makes  war  upon  all 
Greece?  Is  Philip  dead?  No,  by  the  Gods! 
he  is  only  indisposed.  But  0 !  ye  Athenians, 
what  is  that  to  you  ?  Suppose,  that  which  is 
human  should  happen  to  him  ;  assuredly  you 
would  make  to  yourselves  another  Philip.'' 
What  is  there  great  in  this  passage  ?  What 
else  awakens  the  idea  of  the  immeasurable 
here,  but  the  wonderful  mind  of  the  orator  who 
knows  how  to  avail  himself  so  felicitously  of 
the  most  insignificant  circumstances,  in  order  to 
give  life,  emphasis,  and  inspiration  to  his  dis- 
course ? 

No  one  is  more  happy  in  taking  advantage 
of  the  commonest  circumstances  and  making 
them  sublime,  by  a  fortunate  turn,  than  Shak- 
speare.  The  effect  of  this  species  of  the 
sublime  must  necessarily  be  stronger,  the  more 
unexpectedly  it  surprises  us  and  the  less  pre- 
pared we  were  to  anticipate  such  weighty  and 
tragic  consequences  from  such  trivial  causes. 
I  will  give  one  or  two  examples  of  this,  out  of 
Hamlet.  The  king  institutes  public  entertain- 
ments in  order  to  dissipate  the  melancholy  of 
the  prince.  Plays  are  performed.  Hamlet  has 
seen  the  tragedy  of  Hecuba.  He  appears  to 
be  in  good  humour.  The  company  leaves  him  ; 
and  now  mark  with  astonishment  the  tragic 
consequence  which  Shakspeare  knows  how  to 
draw  from  these  trivial  common  circumstances. 
The  prince  soliloquizes, 

0 !  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit, 
That  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wanned  ; 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in 's  aspect, 
A  broken  voice  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit !  And  all  lor  nothing  ! 
For  Hecuba ! 

What 's  Hecuba  to  him  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?   What  would  he  do 
Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion 
That  1  have  ? 

What  a  master-trait !  Experience  teaches  that 
persons  afflicted  with  melancholy  find  unex- 
pectedly in  every  occasion,  even  in  entertain- 
ments, a  transition  to  the  prevailing  idea  of 
their  grief;  and  the  more  it  is  attempted  to 
divert  them  from  it,  the  more  suddenly  they  fall 
Dack.  This  experience  guided  the  genius  of 
p 


Shakspeare  wherever  he  had  to  depict  melan 
choly.  His  Hamlet  and  his  Lear  are  full  of 
these  unexpected  transitions  causing  terror  to 
the  spectator. 

In  the  third  act,  Guildenstern,  a  former  con- 
fidant of  Hamlet,  at  the  instigation  of  the  king 
endeavours  to  sound  him  and  to  ascertain  the 
secret  cause  of  his  melancholy.  The  prince 
detects  his  purpose  and  resents  it. 

Guild.  0,  my  lord  !  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my  love  is  too  un- 
mannerly. 

Ham.  I  do  not  well  understand  that.   Will  you  play  upon  this 

pipe? 

Guild.  My  lord,  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  pray  you. 

Gttil.  Believe  me  1  cannot. 

Ham.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Guil.  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Tis  as  easy  as  lying.  Govern  these  ventages  with  your 
finger  and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will 
discourse  most  eloquent  music.    Look  you,  these  are  the  stops. 

Guil.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance  of  har- 
mony ;  I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why.  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing  do  you  make 
of  rne  !  You  would  play  upon  me  ;  you  would  seem  to  know  my 
stops  ;  you  would  sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of 
my  compass :  and  there  is  much  music,  excellent  voice  in  this 
little  organ;  yet  cannot  you  make  it  speak.  'S blood!  do  you 
think  1  am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe !  Call  me  what 
instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  me  you  cannot  play 
upon  me. 

None  but  Shakspeare  must  venture  to  intro- 
duce such  common  matters  upon  the  stage,  for 
no  one  but  he  possesses  the  art  to  use  them. 
Must  not  the  spectator,  in  this  case,  be  as  much 
amazed  as  Guildenstern,  who  feels  the  superior 
address  of  the  prince,  and  withdraws,  covered 
with  shame  ? 

If  the  artist  wishes  to  give  us,  in  his  work,  a 
clear  and  sensible  proof  of  those  perfections 
which  he  possesses  in  the  highest  degree,  he 
must  direct  his  attention  to  the  highest  beauties 
which  can  animate  his  description.  The  little 
touches  of  the  pencil,  it  is  true,  attest  the 
finishing  hand  of  the  master,  his  diligence  and 
his  care  to  please.  But  it  is  not  in  them,  cer- 
tainly, that  we  are  to  look  for  the  sublime  which 
deserves  our  admiration.  Admiration  is  a 
tribute  which  we  owe  to  extraordinary  gifts  of 
mind.  These  are  what  we  call  genius  in  the 
strictest  sense.  Accordingly,  wherever,  in  a 
work  of  art,  there  are  found  sensible  marks  of 
genius,  there  we  are  ready  to  accord  to  the 
artist  the  admiration  which  is  his  due.  But  the 
unimportant  adjuncts,  the  last  finish — that 
which  belongs  indeed  to  the  picture,  but  does 
not  constitute  an  essential  part  of  the  picture — 
exhibits  too  plainly  the  diligence  and  the  care 
which  it  has  cost  the  artist;  and  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  deduct  so  much  from  genius  as  we 
ascribe  to  diligence. 

It  appears  then  that,  in  this  class  of  the  sub- 
lime, the  artist  is  free  to  use  the  whole  wealth 
of  his  art  in  order  to  place  in  their  true  light 
the  beauties  which  he  has  introduced  by  a 
happy  thought.  And  herein  this  kind  dis- 
tinguishes itself  from  the  former  in  which  the 
I  naive  and  inartificial  mode  of  treatment  is  pre- 
J  ferable.  Nevertheless,  even  here,  the  artist 
10* 


114 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


must  not  honour  with  too  much  care  and  labour 
those  little  beauties  which  perhaps  would  oc- 
cupy minds  of  a  lower  order  for  a  long  time ; 
and  he  may  only  then  not  reject  them,  when 
they  offer  themselves,  as  it  were,  unbidden. 

I  shall  content  myself  with  adducing  a  single 
example.  The  sacred  Psalmist  says  of  the  Sun, 
(Ps.  xix.  G.) 

"He  cometh  forth  like  a  bridegroom  out  of  his  chamber, 
And  rejoiceth  like  a  hero  to  run  a  race." 

Both  images  are  uncommonly  sublime  and  in 
the  last,  especially,  Hogarth  finds  a  similarity 
of  thought  to  the  celebrated  antique — the  Apollo 
— whom  the  artist  has  happily  characterized, 
as  the  God  of  day,  by  the  swiftness  with  which 
he  seems  to  step  forth  and  to  shoot  his  arrows ; 
—if  the  arrow  can  be  regarded  as  intended  to 
signify  the  rays  of  the  sun.  But  these  great 
beauties,  even  in  the  hands  of  so  great  a  master 
as  Rousseau,  if  not  entirely  dissipated,  are  at 
least  very  much  degraded  from  their  sublimity 
by  too  diligent  elaboration.  . 

Cet  astre  ouvre  sa  carritlre 
Comme  un  Epoux  glorieux, 
Qui  des  l'Aube  matinale 
De  sa  couche  nuptiale 
Sort  brillant  et  radieux 
L'  universe  a  sa  presence 
Semble  sortir  du  neant. 
II  prend  sa  course,  il  s'avance, 
Comme  un  superb  geant. 

Here  we  find  eight  words  of  the  original  text 
spread  out  into  nine  verses ;  but  how  have  they 
suffered  by  this  extension!      *       *  * 
******* 

For  the  rest,  it  is  evident  from  our  explana- 
tion, that  this  second  class  of  the  sublime  may 
consist  in  the  thoughts  as  well  as  the  expression; 
and — as  it  respects  the  thoughts — in  the  under- 
standing as  well  as  the  imagination,  in  the 
creative  power,  in  the  comparisons,  in  striking 
sentences,  sentiments,  descriptions  of  characters, 
passions,  the  manners  of  men  and  objects  in 
Nature  ; — and,  as  it  respects  the  expression — in 
the  use  of  ornate  diction,  in  the  choice  of  epithets 
designating  the  most  sensuous  qualities,  in  the 
arrangement  and  connection  of  words,  and  final- 
ly, in  the  euphony  and  harmony  of  the  periods. 
For  the  artist  may  display  his  extraordinary 
talents  by  all  these  beauties. 

It  will  not  be  necessary  to  remind  the  reader 
that  both  kinds  of  the  sublime  are  often  found 
united  in  works  of  art.  In  the  essay  on  the  first 
principles  of  art  it  has  been  already  observed, 
with  respect  to  imitation,  that  our  pleasure  in 
a  successful  likeness  of  imitative  art  is  far 
greater  than  our  pleasure  in  a  form  produced 
by  Nature  herself,  because  in  the  former  case, 
the  idea  of  the  artist  comes  in  and  heightens  the 
enjoyment.  Now  this  is  true  not  only  of  imita- 
tion, but  of  all  beauty,  as  it  was  also  there 
remarked.  They  please  far  more  when  they 
are  viewed,  at  the  same  time,  as  expressions  of 
the  perfections  of  the  artist  who  produced  them. 
Although  he  must  not  seek,  of  himself,  to  appear 
and  to  shine,  yet  there  will  always  remain  some 


footprints  of  genius  which  occasionally  betray 
him  and  indicate  the  giant  who  stamped  them 
there.  Therefore,  in  many  cases,  subjective 
sublimity  may  be  united  with  objective.  But 
the  expression  will  admit  of  more  or  less  orna- 
ment, according  as  our  admiration  is  directed 
rather  to  the  object  itself,  or  to  the  skill  of  the 
artist.  This  must  depend,  in  particular  cases, 
on  the  nature  of  the  subject  to  be  handled  and 
on  the  design  of  the  artist. 

It  would  be  superfluous,  moreover,  to  illustrate 
all  these  remarks  with  examples,  since  the 
treatise  of  Longinus,  who  seems  to  occupy  him- 
self singly  and  exclusively  with  the  second 
species  of  the  sublime,  is  in  every  one's  hands. 
My  design  was  merely  to  make  the  idea  of  the 
sublime,  which  is  often  talked  about  in  connec- 
tion with  works  of  the  fine  arts,  a  little  clearer ; 
and  I  am  satisfied  if  I  have  not  been  wholly 
unsuccessful  in  this  attempt.  I  shall  content 
myself  with  adding  one  or  two  remarks. 

Longinus  says,  in  the  seventh  division  of  his 
work,  "  You  may  be  assured,  in  general,  that  that 
is  really  beautiful  and  sublime  which  pleases 
always  and  all  men."  Perrault  is  not  satisfied 
with  this  proposition  of  Longinus,  and  says  of 
it,  in  his  answer  to  the  eleventh  observation  of 
Boileau  on  Longinus,  that,  according  to  this  pre- 
cept, the  sublime  would  be  extremely  rare,  since 
men  of  different  age,  different  education  and 
mode  of  life  conceive  the  same  thing  in  very 
different  ways.  It  seems  to  me  that  Perrault  is 
right,  so  far  as  the  sublime  of  the  second  class 
is  concerned.  It  requires  oftentimes  a  very 
deep  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  art,  to  be  able 
to  admire  the  talents  of  the  artist.  And  how 
small  is  the  number  of  the  noble  ones  who  pos- 
sess this  insight!  But  the  sublime  in  the  object, 
and,  especially,  the  sublime  in  sentiment,  surely 
move  men  of  all  classes,  as  soon  as  they  under- 
stand the  words  by  which  it  is  expressed. 

Nay,  men  of  ordinary  minds,  whose  feeling 
is  not  entirely  perverted,  must  admire  the  sub- 
lime in  sentiment  the  more,  the  more  it  exceeds 
their  way  of  thinking  and  the  less  they  had  sup- 
posed the  human  soul  to  possess  such  perfec- 
tions. It  is  objected  that  the  most  refined  critics 
have  disputed  with  regard  to  certain  passages, 
whether  they  are  to  be  classed  with  the  sublime. 
For  example,  the  passage  from  the  holy  scrip- 
tures, "  God  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there 
was  light,"  belongs  unquestionably  to  the  sub- 
lime of  the  first  class,  and  yet  its  sublimity  has 
been  doubted  by  many  discerning  minds.  Where 
then,  in  this  case,  is  the  agreement  which  we 
are  to  regard  as  a  criterion  of  the  sublime  of  the 
first  class?  But  let  it  be  considered  that  the  op- 
ponents of  Longinus  have  never  doubted  that 
the  fact  in  itself — "  God  said,  Let  there  be  light, 
and  there  was  light"  —  is  sublime.  Only  they 
have  refused  to  concede  that  it  was  the  inten- 
tion of  the  Lawgiver  to  say  something  sublime 
with  these  words  ;  that  is,  they  allowed  to  this 
passage  a  sublimity  of  the  first  class,  and  only 
doubted  whether  that  of  the  second  class  could 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


115 


be  ascribed  to  it.  One  sees  too,  with  wonder, 
in  the  controversies  respecting  this  passage,  how 
little  the  critics  have  been  willing  to  under- 
stand one  another.  The  one  party  appeals  con- 
tinually to  the  sublimity  of  the  act  and  the 
simplicity  of  the  language,  the  other  party  is 
silent  on  this  point  and  speaks  only  of  the  pur- 
pose of  the  Lawgiver,  who,  to  speak  after  the 
manner  of  men,  did  not  assuredly  mean  in  this 
passage,  to  tax  his  mental  faculties  to  say  some- 
thing sublime.  Had  they  explained  themselves, 
the  controversy  would  have  been  at  an  end. 

Longinus,  therefore,  is  not  only  right  in  saying 
that  what  pleases  always  and  all  men  is  really 
beautiful  and  sublime,  but,  so  far  as  the  sublime 
of  the  first  class  is  concerned,  we  may  invert 
the  proposition  and  say  that  the  sublime  must 
always  please  and  please  all  men.  The  words 
of  the  Greek  critic,  which  immediately  follow, 
prove  moreover  that  he  is  actually  speaking  of 
the  sublime  of  the  first  class,  when  he  says  that 
it  pleases  always  and  all  men,  although  he  has 
never  expressly  pointed  out  this  essential  dis- 
tinction. He  says:  "When  people  of  various 
tastes,  of  dissimilar  habits,  differing  in  know- 
ledge and  in  years,  have  been  moved  by  the 
same  thing,  the  consent  of  so  many  diversities 
affords  us  so  much  the  greater  certainty,  that 
what  is  so  admired  must  infallibly  possess  sub- 
limity." 

For  the  rest,  since  the  sublime  is  found  only 
in  connection  with  great  and  extraordinary 
powers  of  mind,  ordinary  wit  or  the  faculty  of 
seeing,  in  things  that  differ,  unimportant  resem- 
blances, is  justly  excluded,  as  well  from  the 
sublime  of  the  first,  as  of  the  second  class. 
Pointed  antitheses,  epigrammatic  conceits,  far- 
fetched and  artificial  wit,  may  amuse  and  en- 
tertain us  pleasantly  enough  for  a  time,  but  they 
can  never  excite  admiration.  They  may  even 
hinder  it,  inasmuch  as  they  are  marks  of  a  little 
mind  which  makes  an  insignificant  relation, 
discovered  by  it,  a  matter  of  importance.  The 
smallest  soul  has  something  more  important  to 
do,  in  a  moment  of  strong  emotion,  than  to  no- 
tice insignificant  allusions  and  relations  and  to 
dwell  upon  them.  Only  an  indifferent  mind 
can  be  so  oppressed  with  ennui  as  to  find  en- 
tertainment in  trifles. 

All  this,  however,  applies  only  to  common, 
hair  splitting  wit.  There  is  a  great  and  noble 
kind  founded  not  in  empty  likenesses  and  idle 
allusions  and  relations,  but  in  fruitful  truths  and 
often  in  worthy  sentiments.  This  higher  wit 
is  a  fruitful  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  ad- 
mirable in  the  fine  arts.  Even  the  most  vehe- 
ment passion  does  not  exclude  antitheses  which 
rest  on  some  important  truth  or  sentiment.  The 
good  writers  of  antiquity  knew  only  this  genuine 
species  of  wit,  which  entertains,  moves  and  in- 
structs at  the  same  time.  In  the  place  of  this, 
some  of  their  followers  introduced  an  empty 
shimmer,  which  rather  dazzles  than  illumines. 

The  following  are  examples  of  sublime 
thoughts  clothed  in  wit. 


The  answer  of  Alexander  when  Parmenio 
said  to  him  ;  "I  would  accept  the  offer  of  Da- 
rius if  I  were  Alexander;"  "So  would  I,"  re- 
plied the  prince,  "if  I  were  Parmenio." 

"He  who  would  fear  nothing,"  says  an  an- 
cient philosopher,  "let  him  learn  to  fear  God." 
From  this  probably  arose  the  sublime  verse  of 
Racine: 

Je  crains  Dieu,  cher  Abner,  et  n'ai  point  d 'autre  crainte. 

Athalie,  Act  t  Sc.  L 

Omnia  terrarum  subacta 

Prater  atrocem  animum  Catonis.—  Horat. 

Neque  Cato  post  libertatem  vixit  neque  libertas  post  Catonem. 

ScTiec. 

Tout  etait  Dieu  excepts  Dieu  meme ;  et  le  monde  que  Dieu 
avait  fait  pour  manife^ter  sa  puissance,  semblait  etre  devenu  un 
temple  d'idoles. — Bossuet.  Hist.  Univ. 

Fern  unter  ihnen  hat  ftis  menschliche  Geschlecht, 
Im  Himmel  und  im  Niclits,  ein  doppelt  Biirgerrecht. 
Aus  ungleich  festem  Stoffhat  Gott  es  auserlesen, 
Halb  zu  der  Ewigkeit,  halb  aber  zum  Verwesen. 
Zweideutig  Mittelding  von  Engeln  und  von  Vieh, 
Es  iiberlebt  sich  selbst  und  stirbt  und  stirbet  nie. 

Holler. 


Examples  of  pathetic  or  passion-moving  anti- 
theses : — 

How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary  that  was  full  of  people  !  The 
greatest  among  the  nations,  the  princess  of  the  provinces  is  be- 
come tributary  \—Jerem.  Lam.  c.  i,  v.  L 

Anibalem  pater  filio  meo  potui  placare.   Filium  Anibali  non 

possum.  Vultum  ipsius  Anibalis  quern  armati  exercitus  susti- 

nere  nequeunt,  quern  horret  populus  Romanus, — tu  sustinebis  ? 

 Deterreri  hie  sine  te  potius,  quam  illic  vinci.   Valeant  apud 

3,  sicut  pro  te  hodie  valuerunt.— Tit.  Liv.  I.  23. 


Leve  toi  triste  objet  d'horreur  et  de  tendresse ; 
Leve  toi  cher  appui  qu'esperait  ma  vieillesse  : 
Viens  embrasser  ton  pere  !   II  t'a  du  condamner, 
Mais  sril  n'etait  Brutus  il  t'allait  pardonner. 
Va,  ne  t'atteudris  point ;  sois  plusRomain  que  moi ; 
Et  que  Rome  t'admire  en  se  vengeant  de  toi. 

Brutus,  Act  V.  Sc.  7. 

The  sublime,  in  general,  and  especially  that 
of  the  first  class,  stands  in  such  close  connection 
with  the  naive  in  expression,  as  has  been  al- 
ready suggested  above,  that  it  may  not  be  un- 
suitable to  inquire  here  wherein  the  naive  con- 
sists, and  how  far  it  may  be  used  in  the  works 
of  the  fine  arts. 

We  have  no  German  word  to  denote  this  pro- 
perty. 'Natural,'  'artless,'  expresses  too  little. 
Men  often,  in  common  life,  express  themselves 
naturally  and  artlessly  without  being  naive. 
'Noble  simplicity,'  on  the  other  hand,  expresses 
too  much  and  denotes  only  a  certain  species  of 
the  naive.  We  often  say  of  certain  comical 
expressions,  that  they  are  naive,  although  they 
are  anything  but  noble.  We  must,  therefore, 
make  use  of  this  outlandish  word  ;  but  we  will 
endeavour  to  ascertain  the  idea  which  is  usually 
connected  with  it. 

Simplicity  is  unquestionably  a  necessary  in* 
gredient  of  naivete.  As  soon  as  an  expression 
becomes  profound,  vivid,  highly  ornate,  naivete 
must  be  altogether  denied  it ;  and,  so  far,  the 
sublime  in  expression  is  opposed  to  the  naive. 
But  mere  simplicity  is  not  enough.  Beneath 
this  simple  exterior  there  must  lie  a  beautiful 


116 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


thought,  an  important  truth,  a  nohle  sentiment 
or  passion,  which  utters  itself  in  an  inartificial 
manner.  A  merely  simple  expression  leaves 
us  unaffected,  but  when  a  beautiful  thought 
dwells,  like  a  lofty  soul,  in  this  unadorned  body, 
our  heart  is  touched  with  a  soft  emotion,  and 
we  exclaim  with  pleasure,  How  naive !  The 
country  manners  prevalent  in  our  times  are  ex- 
tremely simple ;  but  are  they  naive  like  the 
manners  of  the  Arcadian  shepherds  and  other 
citizens  of  the  golden  age,  which  probably  never 
existed  except  in  the  imagination  of  the  poet? 
And  what  other  reason  is  there  for  this  differ- 
ence, but  the  noble  sentiments  imputed  to  the 
latter,  in  addition  to  their  external  simplicity? 
Perhaps  then,  we  may  establish  the  following 
definition :  When  an  object  is  noble,  beautiful, 
or  is  associated  with  important  consequences, 
and  is  indicated  by  a  simple  sign,  we  call  the 
designation  naive. 

This  definition  would  be  perfectly  applicable 
to  all  those  cases  in  which  the  person,  into 
whose  mouth  the  naive  saying  is  put,  has  really 
beautiful,  noble  or  significant  thoughts,  and  only 
makes  use  of  simple  expressions.  For  example, 
Virgil  says  in  his  third  eclogue, 

Malo  me  Galatea  petit,  lasciva  puella, 
Et  l'ugit  ad  sahces,  et  se  cupit  ante  videri. 

This  is  uncommonly  naive.  The  hiding  of 
Galatea  appears  to  be  mere  innocent  sport;  but 
there  is  a  tender  affection  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
She  provokes  the  shepherd  by  this  agreeable 
play  to  pursue  her  behind  the  willows.  She 
could  not  more  happily  signify  to  him  her  secret 
passion. 

******* 

The  epigrammatic  inscription  on  ihe  brazen 
cow  of  Myron, 

Herdsman,  wherefore  hurriest  thou 

Back  so  far  for  me  ? 

Why  thy  goad  upliftest  now 

And  urgest  me  to  flee  ? 

J  am  the  artist  Myron's  cow 

And  cannot  go  with  thee, 

is  naive  for  the  same  reason  ;  because,  at  first 
sight,  it  seems  to  be  a  mere  narrative,  but,  in 
reality,  contains  a  very  flattering  compliment  to 
the  artist. 

Derision  also  sometimes  assumes  the  air  of 
innocent  narrative  in  order  to  conceal  its  design, 
and  thereby  to  make  the  satire  more  biting. 
Praise  and  blame  are  both  the  more  emphatic, 
the  less  designed  and  the  more  accidental  they 
appear. 

******* 

On  dit  que  l'Abbe  Roquette 

Preehe  les  sermons  d'autrui : 
Moi  qui  scais  qu'il  les  achete, 

Je  souiicus  qu'ils  sont  a  lui. 

Boileau. 

Huissiers,  qu'on  fasse  silence  1 
Dit  en  tenant  audience 
TJn  President  de,  Bauge  ; 
C'est  an  bruit  a  tete  fendre, 

Nous  avons  deja  juge 
Dix  causes  sans  les  entendre. 

J.  B.  Rousseau. 


Praise  sometimes  wears  the  mask  of  reproach, 
and  is  all  the  more  flattering  : 

Helas  qu'est  devenu  ce  terns,  cet  heureux  temps 
Ou  les  Rois  s'honoraient  du  nom  de  faineans! 

And  so,  inversely,  blame  sometimes  takes  the 
guise  of  eulogy,  whereby  the  irony  is  rendered 
more  severe. 

******* 

La  Fontaine  loses  his  benefactress,  Madame 
de  Lasabliere,  and  meets  his  friend,  M.  d'Her- 
vart.  "My  dear  La  Fontaine,"  said  his  honest 
friend,  "  1  have  heard  of  the  misfortune  which 
has  befallen  you.  You  resided  with  Madame 
de  Lasabliere ;  she  is  dead.  I  wished  to  pro- 
pose to  you  to  come  and  live  with  me."  "  I 
was  just  going  there,"  answered  La  Fontaine. 

Generally,  the  naive  in  moral  character  con- 
sists in  an  external  simplicity,  which  uninten- 
tionally discovers  internal  worth  ;  in  ignorance 
of  the  world's  ways;  in  unconcern  about  false 
interpretation,  in  that  confiding  manner  which 
is  not  founded  in  stupidity  and  want  of  ideas, 
but  in  magnanimity,  innocence,  goodness  of 
heart,  and  an  amiable  persuasion  that  others 
are  not  worse  disposed  toward  us,  than  we 
are  toward  them.  If,  therefore,  we  regard  the 
external  conduct  of  men  as  the  sign  of  their 
internal  character  and  worth,  the  naive,  here 
too,  will  require  simplicity  of  expression,  toge- 
ther with  dignity  and  significance  in  the  thing 
expressed. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  naive  in  the  human 
countenance,  which  is  so  essential  to  the  painter 
and  sculptor.  It  is  always  the  unstudied,  the 
artless  in  exterior,  undesignedly  evincing  inter- 
nal excellence.  Since  the  features,  the  airs  and 
gestures  of  men  are  signs  of  their  propensities 
and  sentiments ;  since  every  feature  in  the 
countenance  expresses  a  propensity,  and  every 
mien  an  emotion  corresponding  to  it,  a  naive 
character  is  ascribed  to  the  tout  ensemble  of  all 
the  features  and  gestures,  when,  as  it  were, 
without  design,  without  pretence,  without  self- 
consciousness,  they  discover  a  happy  and  harmo- 
nious combination  of  tendencies  and  sentiments. 
Hence  the  naive  in  the  character  of  a  child, 
when,  amidst  the  otherwise  monotonous  fea- 
tures of  a  childish  face,  tender  germs  of  meek- 
ness, love,  innocence  and  graeiousness  appear. 

Grace,  or  elevated  beauty  in  movement,  is 
also  connected  with  the  naive,  inasmuch  as  the 
movements  which  charm  us  are  natural,  have 
an  easy  flow,  and  slide  gently  one  into  another, 
and  unintentionally  and  unconsciously  indicate 
that  the  motive  forces  in  the  soul,  from  which 
these  voluntary  motions  flow,  sport  and  unfold 
themselves  in  the  same  unstudied,  harmonious, 
and  artless  manner.  Hence,  the  idea  of  inno- 
cence and  of  moral  simplicity  is  always  asso- 
ciated with  a  lofty  grace.  The  more  this  beauty 
of  motion  is  combined  with  consciousness  and 
appears  to  be  the  work  of  design,  the  more  it 
departs  from  the  naive  and  acquires  a  studied 
character;  and,  when  the  accompanying  inter- 
nal emotions  do  not  agree  with  it,  an  affected 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


117 


character.  Nothing  is  so  disgusting  as  insipid 
naivete,  or  an  outward  simplicity  which  ap- 
pears to  have  designs  and  makes  pretensions. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  simplicity  in  mo- 
tion betrays,  at  the  same  time,  want  of  thought 
and  want  of  feeling,  it  is  called  stupidity;  and 
when  inactivity  is  added,  we  have  the  niais. 
In  general,  then,  according  to  these  considera- 
tions, it  requires,  in  all  cases,  an  artless  external 
simplicity,  together  with  internal  worth  or  signi- 
ficance, to  constitute  the  naive. 

There  are  cases,  however,  where  he  who 
speaks  naively  has  really  nothing  more  in  his 
mind  than  the  words  he  makes  use  of  express, 
and  consequently  discovers,  on  his  part,  no 
more  of  internal  worth  than  appears  outwardly, 
but  where  the  hearers,  by  means  of  other  cir- 
cumstances, are  enabled  to  connect  a  good  deal 
more  with  those  words  which  seem  so  indif- 
ferent, or  to  draw  important  consequences  from 
them. 

******* 

The  well-known  passage  in  Gellert  :*— 

"  What  did  you  say,  Papa  ?  You  made  a  mistake ; 

You  said  I  was  only  fourteen  years  old." 
"No!  fourteen  years  and  seven  weeks," 

is  uncommonly  naive,  because  the  speaker, 
(Fiekchen),  without  perceiving  it,  betrays  the 
secret  wishes  of  her  heart.  She  means  to  set 
her  father  right,  to  show  him  that  he  has  mis- 
calculated by  seven  weeks,  and,  in  doing  so, 
shows  how  carefully  she  must  have  calculated 
herself.  Contrary  to  her  purpose,  therefore,  she 
says  more  than  she  meant  to  say ;  and  yet  we 
call  her  answer  naive. 

Thus  we  sometimes,  from  haste,  let  fall  a 
naive  word,  whereby  we  betray  an  important 
secret. 

******* 

When  this  takes  place  in  the  heat  of  passion, 
a  naive  betrayal  of  the  most  secret  thoughts 
may  have  a  very  tragic  effect.  There  is  a  trait 
of  this  kind  in  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  Herr 
Weisse.  The  Countess  Capulet,  who  is  far  from 
suspecting  that  her  Juliet  is  in  love  with  Romeo, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  has  reason  to  suppose  that 
she  hates  this  Montague,  as  all  her  family  hate 
and  prosecute  him,  because  he  has  killed  her 
cousin  Tybalt,  (on  account  of  whose  death  Juliet 
pretends  to  be  inconsolable,  while  the  absence 
of  Romeo  is  the  real  cause  of  her  grief)  —  this 
Countess  Capulet  comes  to  cheer  her  daughter, 
and  to  inform  her  that  the  Count  of  Lodrona 
has  applied  for  her  hand. 

Mad.  Capulet.  I  bring  you  joyful  news,  Juliet;  joyful  for  us 
all,  especially  joyful  for  you. 

Juliet  (quickly).  Has  Romeo  been  pardoned  ?  —  (Frightened). 
Alas  !  how  weak  my  head  is.   Is  Romeo  punished  t 

A  French  writer  (Diet.  Encycl.  Art.  Naivete) 
makes  a  distinction,  which  seems  to  be  war- 
ranted by  the  use  of  language,  between  naivete 
and  a  naivete.  A  naivete,  he  says,  is  the  name 
we  give  to  a  thought,  a  trait  of  the  imagination, 

*  Fabeln  und  Erzahlungen,  2  B.  s.  115. 


a  sentiment  which  escapes  us  against  our  will 
and  may  sometimes  injure  us ;  an  expression 
originating  in  vivacity,  carelessness,  inexperi- 
ence of  the  ways  of  the  world.  Of  this  de- 
scription is  the  answer  of  a  wife  to  her  dying 
husband,  who  was  designating  the  person 
whom  he  wished  her  to  marry  after  his  death: 
"Take  him,"  said  he,  "you  will  be  happy  with 
him!"  "  Ah,  yes,"  replied  she,  "I  have  often 
thought  of  it." 

Naivete,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  language 
of  fine  genius  and  of  discerning  simplicity.  It 
is  the  most  simple  picture  of  a  refined  and  in- 
genious idea;  a  masterpiece  of  art  in  him  in 
whom  it  is  not  natural. 

But,  since  both  kinds  of  the  naive  have  cer- 
tain marks  in  common,  it  will  be  necessary,  in 
order  not  to  exclude  any  of  them,  to  extend  our 
definition  of  the  naive  somewhat.  When,  by 
a  simple  expression,  something  is  understood 
to  be  designated,  which  is  important  in  itself 
or  may  have  important  consequences,  whether 
it  be  the  design  of  the  speaker  to  imply  more 
than  he  says,  or  whether  without  purpose,  and, 
sometimes,  against  his  purpose,  he  betrays  more 
than  he  says,  the  expression  is  called,  in  each 
of  these  cases,  naive. 

***** 

The  effects  of  the  naive  are,  first,  an  agree- 
able astonishment,  a  slight  degree  of  wonder 
at  the  unexpected  significance  which  lay  con- 
cealed beneath  an  outward  simplicity.  We 
love  to  fix  our  attention  on  an  object  which  re- 
veals to  us  more  and  more,  the  longer  we  dwell 
upon  it,  which  performs,  as  it  were,  more  than 
it  seemed  to  promise.  If  now,  this  interior 
significance  arises  from  a  high  degree  of  per- 
fection, there  ensues  the  feeling  of  awe  which 
accompanies  the  sublime ;  but  combined  with 
a  joyous  sensation  which  approaches  very 
nearly  to  laughter.  For  the  simplicity  of  the 
expression  forms  a  kind  of  contrast  with  the 
importance  of  the  thing  signified,  or  with  the 
consequences  flowing  from  it,  which  tempts  to 
laughter,  and  the  sense  of  this  contrast,  if  not 
suppressed  by  stronger  sentiments,  manifests  it- 
self in  actual  laughter.  When  overpowered  by 
the  sublime,  it  is  no  longer  laughter,  which  the 
contrast  produces,  but  the  trace  of  a  gracious 
smile  which  plays  about  the  lips  and  loses  itself 
in  lofty  admiration.  This  is  always  the  feeling 
which  we  have  when  surprised  by  the  naive  in 
moral  character.  The  man  devoid  of  sentiment, 
who  judges  according  to  appearance,  will  not 
witness  the  morally  naive  without  laughing; 
for  he  sees  nothing  more  than  the  contrast  with 
the  customs  of  the  world  which  he  knows 
better,  and  the  strangeness  of  that  too  cer^iin 
confidence  in  the  goodness  of  others,  which 
provokes  him  to  loud  laughter.  The  man  of 
sensitive  heart,  on  the  contrary,  sees  through  to 
the  inner  worth,  recognises  the  magnanimity 
from  which  that  indecision  and  seeming  strange- 
ness spring;  and  while  his  lips  move  them- 
selves to  laugh,  a  feeling  of  awe  comes  over  his 


118 


MOSES  MENDELSSOHN. 


heart  and  resolves  the  laugh  into  wondering 
meditation.  The  naive  in  the  features  of  the 
countenance  produces  a  similar  effect,  only  that 
the  inclination  to  laugh,  in  this  case,  will  mani- 
fest itself  with  much  weaker  indications,  be- 
cause the  contrast  here  is  not  so  obvious.  The 
man  devoid  of  sentiment  will  contemplate  it 
with  indifferent  eyes  because  the  air  and  the 
features  seem  to  him  unmeaning;  and,  with 
the  more  discerning,  the  contrast  produces  no 
other  effect  than  a  gentle  opening  of  the  lips 
and  an  almost  imperceptible  lengthening  of  the 
mouth,  which  is  rather  an  approval  than  a 
smile. 

If  the  essence  of  the  naive  is  an  evil, — not  a 
dangerous  one,  —  a  weakness,  an  error,  a  folly 
which  is  not  followed  by  any  perceptible  mis- 
fortune, the  naive  is  merely  ludicrous.  In  this 
case,  the  effect  will  differ  according  as  the  in- 
dividual, from  whom  it  comes,  intends  that 
more  should  be  understood  than  he  says,  or, 
unintentionally,  betrays  more  than  he  says.  In 
the  former  case,  he  makes  us  laugh  ;  in  the 
latter,  he  makes  himself  ridiculous.  Of  this 
examples  enough  have  been  given  above,  and 
the  application  is  so  easy  that  we  may  reason- 
ably leave  it  to  the  reader. 

But  when  the  essence  of  the  naive  consists 
in  actual  danger,  a  misfortune  which  befalls 
some  one  in  whose  fate  we  are  interested,  the 
naive  is  tragic,  and  when  the  danger  is  a 
dreaded  consequence  of  the  naive,  the  effect  is 
terrible  and  prostrates  every  feeling  of  the 
ludicrous.    An  example  of  this  is  the  above- 


mentioned  passage  from  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Another,  equally  striking,  is  the  too  ingenuous 
confession  of  Monime  in  the  Mithridates  of 
Racine ;  when  this  princess  suffers  herself  to 
be  betrayed  into  confidential  communications 
by  the  wily  Mithridates  and  confesses  to  him 
her  love-affairs,  but  perceives  with  terror,  during 
the  relation,  that  Mithridates  loses  colour  and 
begins  to  grow  pale  with  rage. 

But  when  the  dreaded  evil  is  not  a  conse- 
quence of  the  naivete,  but  is  connected  with  it 
in  some  other  way, —  as  sign  with  the  thing 
signified,  —  the  smile  which  the  perception  of 
the  contrast  provokes  may  consist  with  the  sad- 
dest emotions.  Andromache  smiles  at  the 
simple  fears  of  the  little  Astyanax,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  scalding  tears  roll  down  her  cheeks. 
The  whole  pit  laughs  at  the  innocence  of  the 
little  Arabella,*  without  detriment  to  the  tragic 
sensation.  Nay,  our  compassion  for  these  chil- 
dren is  the  more  lively,  the  more  they  show  by 
their  naive  conduct,  that  they  are  unconscious 
of  the  misfortune  in  which  they  are  most  nearly 
concerned.  Whence  it  is  evident,  how  un- 
founded is  the  opinion  of  some  critics,  who 
would  have  all  sentiments  which  contain  any 
touch  of  the  ludicrous,  banished  from  the  tragic 
stage. 

This  matter  deserves  further  discussion,  but 
it  does  not  belong  to  the  object  which  I  had 
proposed  to  myself. 


*  An  allusion  to  Lessing's  "Miss  Sarah  Sampson." 
Tr. 


* 


JOHANN  GEO 


KG  HAMANN. 


Born  1730. 

The  "Magus  of  the  North,"  as  he  was 
pleased  to  style  himself  in  his  contributions  to 
the  periodical  literature  of  his  time,  is  a  name 
little  celebrated  beyond  the  select  circle  of  his 
admirers,  but  greatly  honored  within  that  circle. 
Hamann  was  one  of  those  who  waken  an  in- 
tense interest  in  a  few,  and  none  at  all  in  the 
mass. 

A  native  of  Konigsberg,  in  compliance  with 
the  wishes  of  his  father,  he  studied  theology  at 
the  university  in  that  city.  But  an  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech  and  a  preference  for  criti- 
cism, philology  and  poetry,  induced  him  to 
devote  himself  principally  to  those  pursuits  and 
to  make  the  Law  his  nominal  profession.  In 
1752  he  entered  the  family  of  the  Baroness  of 
Budberg,  in  Kurland,  as  a  private  tutor;  after- 
ward that  of  General  von  Witten  in  the  same 
capacity,  and  in  1755  became  domesticated 
with  a  merchant  in  Riga  where  he  grew  so 
familiar  with  the  business  of  commerce,  that  he 
undertook  a  mercantile  expedition  to  Holland 
and  England.  The  ill  success  of  this  enter- 
prise occasioned  him  deep  chagrin,  and,  while 
in  London,  he  resolved  on  a  change  of  life.  He 
turned  his  attention  to  religion,  but  without 
resuming  theology  as  a  profession.  He  returned 
to  Riga  where  he  resided  a  few  years,  and  after- 
ward to  his  native  city;  devoting  himself  to 
literary  pursuits  and  particularly  to  ancient 
literature  and  the  Oriental  languages.  In  1764 
he  made  the  tour  of  Germany  and  Switzerland, 
and  went  to  Warsaw  in  the  capacity  of  tra- 
velling tutor  to  a  nobleman  from  Kurland.  In 
1777  he  received  an  appointment  under  the 
Prussian  Government  to  an  office  connected 
with  the  Customs-department,  in  Konigsberg. 
In  1784  a  pension  bestowed  by  a  kind  patron 
gave  him  a  pecuniary  independence  and  the 
means  of  devoting  himself  entirely  to  letters. 
But,  before  he  could  reap  the  full  benefit  of 
this  provision,  he  was  overtaken  by  death,  on  a 
journey  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  June  21st, 
1788. 

Hamann  is  indebted  for  his  reputation  to  the 


Died  1788. 

testimony  of  a  few  names  of  the  highest  mark, 
such  as  Herder,  Jacobi,  Goethe,  and  Jean  Paul, 
rather  than  to  any  great  popularity  which  his 
works  have  had  with  the  German  Public.  He 
belonged  to  that  class  of  writers  who  love  the 
shade  and  lose  more  by  obscurity  than  they 
gain  by  originality ;  —  who  repel,  by  the  un- 
couth shapes,  in  which  their  thoughts  are  dis- 
guised, more  readers  than  they  attract  by  the 
rarity  and  pickedness  of  the  thoughts  them- 
selves. He  is  a  humorist,  but  of  a  sombre 
complexion,  with  a  strong  dash  of  cynicism. 
At  the  same  time,  a  deep  religious  sentiment 
pervades  his  writings  which  show  him  to  be  an 
orthodox  believer,  according  to  the  letter,  like 
his  contemporary — in  all  else,  his  antipodes — 
Matthias  Claudius.  "  The  Kernel  of  his  works," 
says  Herder,  "  contains  many  seed-corns  of 
great  truths,  new  observations  and  the  results 
of  a  wonderfully  extensive  reading ;  the  shell 
is  a  laborious  texture  of  strong  expressions, 
allusions  and  word-flowers.  He  read  much  and 
with  taste  (multum  et  multa),  but  the  balsam- 
odors  from  the  ethereal  table  of  the  ancients, 
mixed  with  occasional  vapors  of  Gaul  and  the 
steam  of  British  humor,  formed  a  perfect  cloud 
around  him.  His  observations  often  combine 
a  whole  view  in  a  single  view-point;  but  let 
the  reader  stand  at  that  view-point,  otherwise 
he  will  see  everything  askew,  and  common 
mould  instead  of  microscopic  forests.  Every 
thought  of  his  is  an  unstrung  pearl ;  every 
thought  is  wrapped  in  the  very  word  without 
which  it  could  neither  have  been  thought  nor 
spoken." 

"  The  great  Hamann,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "  is 
a  deep  sky  full  of  telescopic  stars,  with  many 
a  nebula  which  no  eye  can  resolve."  And 
again,  "Hamann's  style  is  a  river  which  the 
storm  drives  back  toward  its  source,  making  it 
innavigable  for  Dutch  market-boats." 

But  the  best  account  of  Hamann  is  that  given 
by  Goethe  in  his  autobiography.* 

"  Since  I  was  tempted  to  the  Sibylline  cha- 
racter which  I  gave  to  these  leaves,  as  well  as 

*  "  Aus  meinem  Leben."   Zwolftes  Buch. 

(119) 


120 


HAM  ANN. 


to  the  publication  of  them,  by  Hamann,  this 
seems  to  me  a  proper  place  to  speak  of  that 
worthy  and  influential  man,  who  was  to  us 
then  as  great  a  mystery,  as  he  has  been  to  his 
country  ever  since.  His  "  Socratic  Memora- 
bilia" excited  attention  and  were  especially 
dear  to  those  who  could  not  adjust  themselves 
to  the  dazzling  spirit  of  the  times.  They 
seemed  to  reveal  a  deep-thinking,  thorough 
man,  who,  while  he  was  well  acquainted  with 
the  public  world  and  literature,  still  held  to 
something  secret  and  inscrutable,  and  expressed 
himself  in  a  very  peculiar  way  concerning  it. 
He  was  regarded  indeed,  by  those  who  ruled 
the  literature  of  the  day,  as  an  abstruse  enthu- 
siast ;  but  the  upstriving  youth  of  the  country 
yielded  itself  witiiout  resistance  to  his  attrac- 
tion. Even  "  the  silent  in  the  land,"  as — half 
in  jest  and  half  in  earnest — they  were  called; 
those  pious  souls,  who  without  confessing  to 
any  particular  communion,  formed  an  invisible 
church,  turned  their  attention  toward  him,  and 
to  my  Klettenberg,  as  well  as  to  her  friend 
Moser,  the  '  Magus  of  the  North,'  was  a  wel- 
come phenomenon.  One  inclined  the  rather 
to  come  into  relations  with  him,  since  it  was 
understood  that,  though  distressed  with  the 
narrowness  of  domestic  circumstances,  he  could 
still  maintain  this  beautiful  and  lofty  way  of 
thinking.  With  President  von  Moser's  great 
influence,  it  would  have  been  easy  to  provide 
a  tolerable  and  comfortable  existence  for  a 
man  of  such  simple  habits.  In  fact  an  opening 
was  made  and  the  mutual  understanding  and 
approximation  between  them  had  gone  so  far, 
that  Hamann  undertook  the  long  journey  from 
Konigsberg  to  Darmstadt.  But  the  president 
being  accidentally  absent,  that  strange  indivi- 
dual —  for  what  reason,  no  one  knew  —  imme- 
diately returned.  Notwithstanding,  a  friendly 
correspondence  was  still  maintained.  I  possess 
to  this  day  two  letters  of  the  Konigsberger  to 
his  patron,  which  bear  witness  to  the  wonder- 
ful greatness  and  intensity  of  their  author. 

"  But  so  good  an  understanding  was  not  long 
to  remain.  These  pious  persons  had  imagined 
him  pious  too,  after  their  fashion.  They  had 
regarded  him  with  reverence  as  the  'Magus 
of  the  North,'  and  supposed  that  he  would  al- 
ways continue  to  present  a  venerable  aspect. 
But  already  in  his  'Clouds,'  an  afterpiece  to 
the  '  Socratic  Memorabilia,'  he  had  given 
some  offence;  and  when,  after  that,  he  published 
the  'Crusades  of  a  Philologian,'  which  not 


only  exhibits  on  its  title-page  the  goats-profile 
of  a  horned  Pan,  but  on  one  of  the  first  leaves 
of  which,  also,  a  large  cock,  in  wood-engraving, 
beating  time  to  young  cockerels  who  stand 
before  him  with  notes  in  their  claws,  shows 
himself,  in  the  highest  degree,  ludicrous;  — 
whereby  certain  pieces  of  church-music,  not 
approved  by  the  author,  were  intended  to  be 
ridiculed  ; — then  arose,  among  the  well-mean- 
ing and  persons  of  delicate  feeling,  an  aversion 
which  the  author  was  soon  made  to  perceive, 
while  he,  on  his  part,  not  edified  thereby,  with- 
drew himself  from  a  nearer  connection  with 
them.  *  *  *  *  *  * 
*       *       *       *       *       *  * 

"  The  principle  to  which  the  various  declara- 
tions of  Hamann  may  be  reduced,  is  this :  'All 
that  man  undertakes,  whether  with  word  or 
deed,  or  however  performed,  should  be  the 
result  of  the  union  of  all  his  powers;  every 
partial  effort  is  to  be  condemned.'  A  glorious 
maxim  !  but  difficult  to  observe.  With  respect 
to  life  and  art  it  may  do  very  well.  But  in 
every  communication  by  word  which  is  not 
poetical,  there  is  great  difficulty  in  carrying  it 
out.  For  the  word,  in  order  to  express  any- 
thing, in  order  to  mean  anything,  must  detach 
itself,  must  individuate  itself.  Man,  when  he 
speaks,  must,  for  the  moment,  become  one- 
sided ;  there  can  be  no  communication,  no  doc- 
trine, without  separation.  But  as  Hamann, 
once  for  all,  resisted  this  separation  and  under- 
took to  speak  as  he  felt,  imagined,  thought, 
with  perfect  unity,  and  demanded  the  same  of 
others,  he  came  into  collision  with  his  own 
style  and  with  all  that  others  might  produce. 
In  order  to  perform  the  impossible,  he  grasps 
at  all  the  elements.  The  deepest,  mysterious 
intuitions,  where  Nature  and  Spirit  meet  in  se- 
cret, the  illuminating  flashes  of  the  understand- 
ing which  burst  forth  from  such  meeting,  the  sig- 
nificant images  that  hover  in  those  regions,  the 
sayings  of  sacred  and  profane  writers  crowding 
upon  him,  and  whatever  else  may  adjoin  itself, 
humoristically,  hereto, — all  this  forms  the  won- 
drous whole  of  his  style,  of  his  communications. 
Unable  to  associate  with  him  in  the  deeps,  to 
wander  with  him  on  the  heights,  to  make  our- 
selves masters  of  the  forms  which  float  before 
him,  to  discover  the  sense  of  a  passage,  which 
is  merely  indicated,  in  an  infinitely  extended 
literature ;  —  it  grows  ever  thicker  and  darker 
around  us,  the  more  we  study  him.  And  this 
darkness  will  increase  with  coming  years, 


HAMANN. 


because  his  allusions  are  directed  principally  to 
certain  peculiarities  dominant,  at  the  time,  in 
literature  and  life.  In  my  collection  there  are 
some  of  his  printed  sheets  in  which  he  has 
cited,  with  his  own  hand,  in  the  margin,  the 
passages  to  which  he  alludes.  On  turning  to 
those  passages,  one  is  met  again  by  an  equivo- 
cal double-light  which  is  in  the  highest  degree 
agreeable;  only  one  must  renounce  entirely 
what  is  usually  called  understanding.  Such 
leaves,  therefore,  deserve  to  be  called  Sibylline, 
because  one  cannot  contemplate  them  in  and 
for  themselves,  but  must  wait  for  an  opportunity 
to  recur  to  their  oracles.  Every  time  we  con- 
sult them,  we  think  to  find  something  new, 
because  the  indwelling  sense  of  each  passage 
touches  and  moves  us  in  manifold  ways. 

"Personally,  I  have  never  seen  him,  nor  come 
into  any  immediate  relation  to  him  through 
letters.  He  seems  to  me,  in  the  connections 
of  life  and  friendship,  to  have  been,  in  the 
highest  degree,  clear,  and  to  have  felt  very 
correctly  the  relations  of  men  to  each  other 
and  to  himself.  All  the  letters  that  I  have 
seen  of  him  were  admirable  and  much  more 
intelligible  than  his  other  writings,  because 


121 


here,  the  reference  to  time  and  circumstances, 
as  well  as  to  personal  relations,  was  much  more 
evident.  And  yet  I  thought  to  perceive  in 
them,  that,  feeling  with  the  greatest  naivete 
the  superiority  of  his  mental  gifts,  he  always 
thought  himself  a  little  wiser  and  more  know- 
ing than  his  correspondents,  whom  he  treated 
ironically  rather  than  heartily.  If  this  was 
true  of  particular  cases  only,  yet  those  cases 
constituted,  for  me,  the  majority,  and  a  reason 
for  not  wishing  to  come  any  nearer  to  him." 

The  principal  works  of  Hamann  are  the 
"Memorabilia  of  Socrates,"  "Golgotha  and 
Scheblimini,"  and  "  Sibylline  Leaves  by  the 
Magus  of  the  North."  The  specimen  given 
below  does  not  verify  the  peculiarities  men- 
tioned in  these  quotations.  It  was  a  youthful 
essay  which  the  author  was  hardly  willing  to 
publish  with  the  rest  of  his  works.  It  is 
given  not  as  a  characteristic,  but,  simply,  as 
the  most  intelligible  specimen  of  an  author 
whom,  on  account  of  his  peculiar  position  in 
German  Literature,  it  was  thought  best  to 
represent  in  this  Collection.  The  translation 
is  by  an  anonymous  friend  of  the  editor. 


THE  MERCHANT. 

FROM   HAMANN'S    SCHRIFTEN,  HERAUSGEGEBEN  VON  FRIEDRICH 
ROTH.    BERLIN.    BEY  G.  REIMER.    1821.    VOL.  L 

Supplement  to  a  translation  of  Dangeuil's  Remarques 
sur  les  Avantages  et  les  Desavantages  de  la  France  et  de 
la  Gr.  Bretagne,  par  Rapport  au  Commerce  et  aux  autres 
Sources  de  la  Puissance,  &x. 

There  are  virtues,  which  originate  like  colo- 
nies, as  others  seem  to  be  the  growth  of  the 
age.  Our  sensitiveness  to  what  we  now  name 
the  world,  or  honour,  would  be  as  incompre- 
hensible to  the  ancients,  as  it  is  difficult  to  the 
moderns  to  imagine  a  passionate  love  of  coun- 
try, or  to  feel  it  themselves. 

History  furnishes  most  indubitable  proofs  of 
special  care  taken  by  the  most  ancient  nations 
for  the  regulation  of  civil  society.  Their  policy 
extended  from  divine  service  to  the  theatre, 
dancing  and  music.  Everything  was  employed 
by  them  as  an  implement  of  the  government. 
One  spirit  united  families,  whose  activity  and 
exercise  were  promoted  even  by  domestic  dis- 
sensions. This  spirit  made  them  fruitful  in 
projects,  and  the  performance  corresponded. 

The  common  weal  seems  to  have  been  extin- 
guished since  the  period  when,  instead  of  citi- 
zens, there  were  vassals  who  assumed  to  be 
masters  of  their  own  actions  and  their  property, 
when  they  had  paid  homage  to  their  chief.  To 
Q 


this  chief  it  was,  in  part,  no  longer  possible,  in 
part  no  longer  necessary,  to  be  a  father  to  his 
country.  In  these  times,  the  prince  was  per 
haps  an  armed  Hobbes,  or  a  prototype  of  Ma- 
chiavel,  or  a  Vespasian,  ruling  by  tax-gatherers 
and  vampires;  or  the  slave  of  priests.  His  in- 
clinations, his  court,  and  certain  classes,  took  the 
place  of  the  public  welfare.  He  imitated  those 
philosophers  who  took  the  earth  for  the  centre 
of  the  universe. 

The  style  of  our  offices  has  likewise  served 
to  divert  the  mind  from  the  common  weal.  To 
seem  worthy  of  a  place  which  can  seldom  be 
the  object  of  the  wishes  of  a  rational  man,  we 
bring  ourselves  betimes  into,  I  know  not  what, 
entanglements.  How  many  submit  for  the  sake 
of  daily  bread,  and  from  the  fear  of  man,  to 
slavish  cringing,  and  to  perjury! 

******* 

Aiming  at  a  yearly  income  and  a  comfortable 
livelihood,  zeal  to  imitate  or  excel  others  in  a 
pageantry  of  trifles,  hence  arises  the  monopoly 
which  every  one  pursues  in  his  class.  The 
accumulations  of  prosperity  and  avarice  dissi- 
pate the  minds  of  our  youth  too  much  to  leave 
space  enough  for  great  passions  and  power  for 
great  undertakings.  How  many,  besides,  find 
their  fortune  already  complete,  having  thought 
as  little  of  building  it  up,  as  of  building  up 
themselves.    One  may  say,  in  truth,  of  places 


122  HAMANN. 


of  honour  and  estates,  that  to  despise  both,  we 
need  only  look  at  their  possessors. 

Witty  minds  have  not  failed  to  remark,  on 
the  derision  expressed  by  nature,  In  that  she 
appoints,  on  this  earth,  the  cattle  in  the  field  to 
be  more  learned  than  we,  and  the  bird  in  the 
heavens  more  wise.  But  has  it  not  been  her 
intention  that  man  should  owe  his  prerogatives 
to  the  social  affections ;  should  early  accustom 
himself  to  reciprocal  dependence ;  seeing  be- 
times the  impossibility  of  dispensing  with 
others  1  Wherefore  has  she  sought  to  compen- 
sate death,  not  by  a  cold  mechanism,  but  by  the 
soft  and  ardent  inclination  of  love  ?  Wherefore 
has  her  Author  provided  by  laws,  that  marriage 
should  spread,  and  that  families,  by  ingrafting 
with  families,  should  form  new  bonds  of  friend- 
ship'? Wherefore  are  his  goods  so  differently 
appointed  to  the  earth  and  its  dwellers,  but  to 
render  them  social?  The  fellowship  and  ine- 
quality of  men  are  also  nowise  among  the  pro- 
jects of  our  wit.  They  are  no  inventions  of 
policy,  but  designs  of  Providence,  which,  like 
all  other  laws  of  nature,  man  has  partly  misun- 
derstood, and  partly  abused. 

Nothing  reminds  us  more  impressively  of  the 
advantages  of  union  than  the  benefits  which 
flow  from  commerce  in  human  society.  Through 
this  it  is,  that  that  is  everywhere,  which  is  any- 
where. It  satisfies  our  wants,  it  prevents  satiety 
by  new  desires,  and  these  it  allays  too.  It 
maintains  peace  among  nations,  and  is  their 
horn  of  plenty.  It  furnishes  them  with  arms, 
and  decides  their  doubtful  fortune.  Men  labour 
for  it,  and  it  rewards  their  diligence  with  trea- 
sures. It  enlarges  their  intercourse,  develops 
their  powers,  makes  itself  not  only  their  wea- 
pon, but  employs  their  genius,  their  courage, 
their  virtues,  their  vices.  Every  harbour,  every 
canal,  every  bridge,  every  floating  palace  and 
army,  are  its  works.  Through  its  influence,  the 
arts  are  awakened  and  extended.  Our  side- 
boards and  the  toilets  of  the  ladies  are  adorned 
with  its  gifts.  The  poisons  of  our  kitchens,  and 
the  antidotes  of  our  physicians  pass  through  its 
hands.  It  atones  for  frugality  by  profusion.  Its 
exercise  consists  in  exact  integrity,  and  from  its 
gains  the  patriot  distributes  prizes,  and  performs 
his  vows. 

What  happy  changes  may  not  the  world  pro- 
mise itself  from  the  commercial  spirit,  now 
beginning  to  prevail,  if  it  should  be  purified  by 
insight  and  noble  impulses?  Perhaps  we  may 
not  vainly  flatter  ourselves  with  the  hope  that, 
through  its  influence,  the  love  of  the  public 
good  will  be  re-established,  and  the  virtues  of 
the  citizen  raised  from  their  ashes  to  their 
original  splendour. 

The  demand  of  commerce  for  liberty  pro- 
mises to  hasten  the  happy  return  of  that  blessing 
to  man.  The  unrestrained  energy,  the  unim- 
peded skill  of  each  individual,  and  all  that  each 
undertakes  not  at  variance  with  the  common 
good,  will  gradually  banish  that  unbridled  auda- 
city with  which  every  one  in  our  times  allows 


himself  in  everything,  and  aims  to  make  possi- 
ble whatever  he  considers  useful  to  himself 
alone. 

Inestimable  good!  without  which  men  can 
neither  think  nor  act,  whose  loss  robs  him  of 
every  privilege!  By  thee,  trade  blooms,  and 
extends  through  all  ranks !  Each  resumes  his 
ancient  and  natural  rights,  which  we  had  re- 
nounced from  servile  passions  and  prejudices  ! 

Holland  has,  to  the  advantage  of  her  trade, 
abolished  tyrannical  persecution  for  conscience' 
sake,  and  adopted  among  her  fundamental  laws 
that  freedom  of  opinion  which  is  as  reasonable 
as  it  is  beneficial.  Why  should  it  not  tend  to 
the  renown  of  the  Roman  tax-gatherers,  that 
they  were  the  first  who  concerned  themselves 
to  relieve  their  countrymen  from  the  blindness 
of  superstition  ?* 

The  spirit  of  trade  may  perhaps  abolish  in 
time  the  inequality  of  ranks,  and  level  those 
heights,  those  hills,  which  vanity  and  avarice 
have  thrown  up,  in  order  not  only  to  receive 
sacrifices  thereon,  but  to  control  with  more  ad- 
vantage the  course  of  nature.  The  incapacity 
of  the  idle  ceases  to  be  a  mark  of  distinction 
gratifying  to  his  pride,  where  the  effort,  and 
labour,  and  sweat  of  contemporaries  make  their 
life  costly,  and  alone  claim  consideration  and 
favour.  The  laurels  wither  with  the  decay  of 
the  fathers.  Their  rest  on  the  bed  of  honour 
has  become  to  us  more  indifferent  than  to  their 
useless  posterity,  who  enjoy  the  same  repose  on 
the  cushions  of  prosperity  and  tedium.  These 
dead  are  here,  to  bury  completely  the  glory  of 
their  dead.  Trade  is,  at  the  same  time,  the 
shovel  which  stirs  the  heaped-up  gold,  like  the 
corn,  and  preserves  it  either  for  the  bosom  of 
the  earth,  or  for  the  enjoyment  of  her  children. 
Through  it,  gold  is  not  only  increased  and  made 
fruitful,  but  also  useful,  and  a  medium  of  life 
for  man.  But  where  it  stands  highest,  the  citi- 
zen must  be  most  moderate  in  his  gains,  since, 
were  all  the  world  to  have  enough,  none  would 
have  too  much  or  too  little. 

Men  knew  formerly  very  little  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  trade.  It  was  pursued  rudely,  and 
was  so  much  contemned,  as  to  be  left  almost 
entirely  to  the  Jews.  Now,  on  the  other  hand, 
men  have  with  much  sagacity  aimed  to  make 
a  science  of  commerce.  Although  its  objects 
and  ideas  are  in  part  arbitrary,  and  depend  on 
the  imagination ;  yet  men  have  attempted  to 
unite  the  theory  of  trade,  and  its  exercise  with 
as  much  exactness  as  the  astronomers  to  found 
their  reckonings  on  imaginary  lines  and  hypo- 
theses. How  much  weighty  insight,  have  not 
the  prince  and  the  people  gained  besides,  by  a 
thorough  examination  of  the  sources  of  trade  ? 

*  Cicero  says,  De  Nat.  Deor.  III.  19,  that  they  were  the 
first  who  considered  it  absurd  to  believe  those  gods  who 
had  been  men.  Self-interest  led  them  to  this  rational 
conclusion,  because  the  lands  consecrated  to  the  Immor- 
tals were  exempt  from  taxes.  Whether  we  have  profited 
more  from  distempered  and  false,  or  suffered  more  from 
great  and  noble  views,  may  be  a  problem. 


HAMANN.  123 

That  instructive  satire  on  monarchs,  which 
the  inventor  of  chess,  according  to  the  fancy  of 
a  distinguished  poet*  had  in  mind,  is  no  longer 
a  picture  of  our  kings.  They  have  better  learned 
to  appreciate  the  worth  of  their  subjects.  They 
now  know  that  the  state  becomes  great,  only 
when  they  promote  population  by  abundant 
sustenance,  regard  idleness  as  an  injury  to  their 
violated  majesty,  punish  it  with  contempt  and 
hunger,  consider  it  the  masterpiece  of  their 
wisdom,  to  multiply  the  hands  of  diligence,  as 
well  as  to  lighten  its  labour,  and  watch  over 
the  education  of  orphans  and  foundlings. 

The  subject  has  learnt  better  to  understand 
and  to  employ  the  fruits  of  the  soil  and  his  own 
sweat.  Philosophy  is  no  longer  sculpture. 
The  scholar  is  called  back  from  the  Spanish 
castles  of  the  intellectual  world,  and  from  the 
shades  of  the  library,  to  the  great  theatre  of 
nature  and  her  doings,  to  living  art,  and  her 
implements,  to  social  employments,  and  their 
moving  springs.  He  is  an  attentive  spectator, 
a  scholar,  an  intimate  of  the  peasant,  the  arti- 
san, the  merchant,  and  through  universal  ob- 
servation and  research,  becomes  the  helper  and 
teacher  of  all.f 

When  even  the  common  man  becomes  an 
object  of  importance  to  the  state,  because  its 
strength  flows  from  his  preservation,  industry, 
and  increase,  then  the  interest,  which  the  com- 
monwealth takes  in  the  industry  of  every  day- 
labourer,  is  sure  to  instil  into  him,  in  time,  nobler 
sentiments.  "If  those  artisans  had  known," 
says  Plutarch,  "  that  through  their  labour, 
Amphion  would  surround  a  city  with  walls, 
or  Thales  still  a  tumult  of  the  people,  with 
what  ambition,  what  delight,  had  they  carved 
the  lyres  of  these  men 

Trade  has  served  for  a  demonstration  of  all 

*  No  prince  this  game  invented,  that  will  I  dare  to  say, 
Too  plainly,  his  own  image  before  him,  it  doth  lay, 
For  idly  while  he  sitteth,  the  monarch  little  knows, 
The  peasant,  whom  he  vexeth,  defendeth  his  repose. 
The  sovereign  is  the  queen,  to  raise  and  to  depress, 
And  the  inglorious  king,  to  all  men  valueless, 
To  the  high  place,  he  dozing  fills,  doth  owe 
The  crown,  that  decks  in  state  his  empty  brow. 

Regnier  lends  the  last  touch  to  this  picture,  in  his  four- 
teenth satire. 

"  Les  fous  sont  aux  echecs  les  plus  proches  des  Rois." 

1 1  appeal  merely  to  that  great  monument,  that  has 
been  raised  by  two  philosophers  in  France  to  the  glory 
of  their  native  land.  One  cannot  refuse  admiration  to 
the  Encyclopedia,  to  which  I  here  refer,  on  the  score  of 
the  mechanic  arts.  This  gigantic  work,  which  appears 
to  need  a  Briareus  (I  know  not  whether  my  memory 
for  Dishes  me  with  the  right  name  of  the  heaven-stormer 
with  the  hundred  hands),  could  fall  to  no  more  capable 
and  enterprising  undertaker,  than  M.  Diderot.  Besides 
his  articles,  which  do  honour  to  him  and  the  work,  I  am 
delighted  to  refer  to  the  essay  of  Boulanger  on  the  com- 
pulsory labourers,  on  the  dams  and  bridges,  under  the 
title  Corvee.  (Ponto  et  Chaussees.) 

t  In  his  Essay  on  the  Duty  of  Philosophers  to  asso- 
ciate with  Public  Men. 

these   truths,  and  the  pursuit  of  it  has  con- 
firmed their  force.    When,  therefore,  the  de- 
ceitful, lying,  avaricious  disposition  of  an  an- 
cient nation*  is  ascribed  to  their  calling,  when 
reference  is  made  to  a  modern  country,  ren- 
dered habitable  by  skilful  industry,  and  pow- 
erful by  trade,  where  the  moral  virtues,  and 
the  smallest  offices  of  human  love  are  re- 
garded as  wares;  when  it  is  said  that  with  the 
art  of  calculation  that  resoluteness  cannot  ex- 
ist, by  which  the  renunciation  of  selfishness, 
and  magnanimous  sentiments  are  attained,  that 
attention  to  trifles  limits  the  circle  of  mental 
vision,  and  reduces  elevation  of  thought,  it  is 
certainly  the  duty  of  the  merchant  to  refute 
these  charges. 

Was  it  the  fault  of  religion,  that  in  those  dark 
times  of  superstition,  the  spiritual  order  adopted 
a  sort  of  assie?ito-contract,-\  that  the  priest  car- 
ried on  a  most  lucrative  stock-jobbing,  derived 
premiums  from  the  fear  of  hell,  sold  the  church- 
soil  to  the  dead,  taxed  the  early  days  of  mar- 
riage, and  made  a  profit  on  sins,  which  he  for 
the  most  part  invented  himself? 

We  laugh  at  the  wise  Montaigne,  who  was 
anxious,  lest  the  introduction  of  powder  and 
shot  should  annihilate  bravery.    Let  us  feel  a 
more  earnest  anxiety  for  the  moral  results  of 
trade.    Much  pains  have  been  taken  certainly 
to  perfect  the  science,  but  perhaps  too  little 
thought  has  been  given  to  forming  the  mer- 
chant.   The  spirit  of  trade  should  be  the  spirit 
of  traders,  and  their  morals,  the  groundwork 
of  its  reputation.    Both  should  be  better  en- 
couraged by  rewards,  supported  by  laws,  and 
upheld  by  examples. 

"  The  occupation  most  useful  to  society,"  says 
an  ancient  writer.J  "should  assuredly  be  fol- 
lowed with  emulation,  I  mean  agriculture, 
which  would  prosper  greatly,  if  rewards  were 
offered,  giving  it  the  preference.    The  com- 
monwealth would  hereby  gain  infinite  advan- 
tage, the  public  revenues  be  increased,  and 
sobriety  be  associated  with  improved  industry. 
The  more  assiduous  the  citizens  became  in 
their  occupations,  the  less  would  extravagance 
prevail.    Is  a  republic  favourably  situated  for 
commerce,  honours  shown  to  trade  would  multi- 
ply merchants  and  commodities.    If  on  any 
one  who  discovered  a  new  source  of  gain,  with- 
out detriment  to  the  commonwealth,  a  mark  of 
honour  should  be  conferred,  public  spirit  would 
never  be  extinguished.    In  short,  were  every 
one  convinced,  that  rewards  would  accompany 
whatever  was  done  to  promote  the  public  good, 
this  would  be  a  great  impulse  to  discover  some- 
thing valuable.    But  the  more  men  have  at 
heart  the  general  welfare,  the  more  will  be 

*  The  Carthaginians,  Cicero's  second  oration  against 
Rullus. 

f  A  contract  between  the  King  of  Spain  and  other 
powers  for  introducing  negro-slaves  into  the  Spanish 
colonies. 

X  Xenophon,  in  the  Conversation  between  Hiero  and 
Simonides. 

124 


HAM  ANN. 


devised  and  undertaken  for  its  sake."  This 
rich  passage  exhausts  almost  all  I  could  say, 
or  could  wish  to  say.  My  readers  will  there- 
fore be  content  with  the  gleaning  only  of  a  few 
remarks. 

Our  merchants  should  above  all  be  stimulated 
by  these  considerations,  to  make  their  calling, 
not  merely  a  gainful  trade,  but  a  respected 
rank.  I  remember  to  have  read,  that  in  Guinea, 
the  merchant  is  the  nobleman,  and  that  he 
pursues  trade  by  virtue  of  his  dignity,  and 
royal  privileges.  On  his  elevation  to  that  rank, 
the  king  forbids  the  waves  to  injure  the  new 
nobleman,  or  merchant.  This  monarch  doubt- 
less prizes  his  merchants  highly,  because  from 
them  comes  his  greatness,  and  wonders  per- 
haps that  our  kings  grant  nobility  only  to 
soldiers  and  courtiers,  or  even  drive  a  trade 
with  it,  and  sell  it  for  ready  money. 

The  nobility  of  the  merchant  must  not  be 
confounded  with  military  nobility.  The  pre- 
rogatives of  the  latter  are  founded  on  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  times  when  it  arose.  Na- 
tions plundered  one  another,  remained  nowhere 
at  home,  lived  like  robbers,  or  had  to  defend 
themselves  against  robbers.  Kings  believed 
they  could  immortalize  themselves  only  by 
conquests.  These  required  blood  and  noble 
blood.  The  military  order  had  consequently 
the  highest  rank,  and  whoever  distinguished 
himself  in  this,  was  ennobled.  The  preten- 
sions of  these  heroes  were  allowed  to  descend 
to  their  children,  that,  inflamed  by  the  deeds 
of  their  ancestors,  they  might  make  it  their 
glory,  like  them,  to  die.  This  was  an  artifice, 
to  transmit  a  certain  spirit  to  the  children,  and 
to  elevate  the  military  class,  which  at  that  time 
was  the  only  privileged  one.  This  being  the 
origin  and  the  purpose  of  their  nobility,  those 
are  the  genuine  knights,  who,  born  in  the 
counting-rooms  of  acquisitiveness  instead  of 
the  tent,  are  trained  to  be  voluptuaries  and 
cowardly  prodigals.  They  might  make  use  of 
their  weapons,  like  the  discarded  patron  of 
Venice.* 

Our  times  are  no  longer  warlike  and  the 
deeds  of  the  most  renowned  heroes, 

"  From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede," 

will  appear  to  us  soon  like  the  adventures  of 
Don  Quixote.  The  nation,  which  distinguished 
itself  by  the  sword  to  the  last,  has  become 
much  more  honourable  and  mighty  through  the 
plough.  Men  no  longer  desolate  other  lands  by 
conquests,  but  conquer  their  own  by  trade.  If 
war  is  still  carried  on,  it  is  as  a  defence  against 
jealous  rivals,  or  to  establish  the  balance  of 
power.  We  prepare,  not  now  for  triumphs, 
but  to  enjoy  peace ;  and  the  time  is  perhaps 

*  St.  Theodore,  whose  statue  is  in  St.  Mark's  place, 
holding  a  shield  in  the  right  hand,  and  a  lance  in  the 
left.  The  Venitians,  instead  of  this  martial  saint,  have 
taken  St.  Mark  for  their  patron  since  his  bones  were 
brought  to  the  city,  by  their  merchants.— Amelot  de  la 
Houssage. 


near,  when  the  peasant  and  citizen  will  en- 
noble their  class. 

The  merchant  has  thus,  as  it  were,  taken  the 
place  of  the  soldier.  Does  not  his  rank,  conse- 
quently, deserve  to  be  elevated  by  like  respect, 
and  like  means?  The  profession  of  arms  has 
become  great  through  the  nobility.  Commerce 
must  become  great  through  merchants,  that  is, 
such  merchants,  as  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
gain  honour  by  purchased  privileges  merely, 
but  place  their  dignity  in  the  prosperity  of 
trade,  and  hold  those  gains  unworthy,  which 
would  poison  its  sources.  To  devastate,  to  de- 
stroy, to  become  rich,  this  is  the  only  thing,  in 
which  the  military  spirit  of  the  nobility  shows 
itself  in  the  mercantile  profession. 

The  rewards,  marks  of  honour,  and  privileges 
of  the  merchant  must  give  him  in  the  eyes 
of  his  countrymen  a  visible  distinction,  that 
continually  admonishes  him  to  uphold'  the  flou- 
rishing prosperity  of  the  country,  which  the 
soldier  must  devastate  against  his  own  will, 
with  the  same  courage,  ambition,  and  elevation 
of  mind. 

Thanks  be  to  the  age  in  which  we  live  !  our 
merchants  need  as  little  to  be  cheats,  as  our 
nobility  ignoramuses.  If  there  are  yet  among 
Christians,  persons,  whose  whole  soul  is  made 
up  of  avarice,  who  aim  to  enrich  themselves  by 
usury  and  deceit,  they  must  not  be  ennobled. 
Besides,  what  avail  them  those  certificates  of 
liberality,  for  which  ancestors  are  assigned  them, 
but  to  make  them  exhibit  a  ridiculous  resem- 
blance to  that  species  of  mouse  whose  wings 
render  his  rank  among  animals  ambiguous? 

I  come  to  the  morals  of  the  mercantile  class, 
on  which  depends  the  pursuit,  as  well  as  the 
prosperity  of  trade.  Good  faith,  honesty,  love 
of  the  commonwealth,  must  be  here  the  moving 
springs,  like  diligence  in  manufactures,  work- 
shops, and  agriculture  ; — double  objects  of  equal 
elevation,  which  claim  all  the  care  and  thought 
of  the  government,  because  from  their  union 
springs  the  good  of  the  whole  nation. 

If  the  merchants  were  regarded  as  mediators 
between  the  different  members  of  the  State,* 
with  how  much  right  would  their  avocations 
become  more  public  and  solemn !  The  com- 
mon weal,  as  it  were,  compensates  them.  On 
its  preservation  depend  their  rank  and  occu- 
pation. It  must  therefore  take  more  interest 
in  their  condition;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the 
merchant  should  be  more  mindful  of  the  obliga- 
tions they  are  under  to  the  public,  and  the  con- 
sideration they  owe  it  on  this  account. 

Public  credit  is  the  soul  of  trade;  it  rests  on 
the  confidence,  which  individual  citizens  ac- 
quire through  honourable  dealing.  This  sum 
of  the  private  credit  of  numerous  citizens  of  the 
same  place,  taken  together,  is  a  deposit,  which 
should  be  sacred  to  all  the  members  of  the  com- 
munity, because  it  involves  in  itself  the  imme- 
diate interest  of  each  member,  to  support  ac- 


*  Hume's  Essays. 


HAM  ANN.  125 


cording  to  his  means,  the  credit  of  the  rest,  and 
to  protect  it  from  all  adulteration  and  diminution. 
Whoever  brings  the  public  faith  under  suspicion, 
deserves  severer  punishment  than  the  man  who 
robs  the  public  coffer  entrusted  to  him. 

Readiness  to  pay  is  a  result  of  the  moral  cha- 
racter of  the  debtor,  which  speaks  well  to  the 
creditor  for  his  wisdom  and  honesty.  This 
readiness  furnishes  not  only  the  best  security 
for  the  gold  committed  to  strange  hands,  but 
serves  as  a  pledge  against  possible  misfortunes. 
The  virtue  of  a  merchant  should  thus  bear  the 
same  relation  to  his  good  name,  as  the  ware  to 
the  coin. 

But  chiefly  the  merchant  presupposes  the  up- 
right citizen,  because  the  welfare  of  trade  must 
be  often  in  opposition  tolas  own  private  advan- 
tage. To  maintain  the  former,  demands  there- 
fore sacrifices  from  the  disinterestedness  and 
self-denial  of  the  latter.  Mere  rapacity  renders 
the  merchant  sharp-sighted  to  the  greatness  of 
the  advantage,  without  his  picturing  to  himself 
the  consequences  to  his  fellow-citizens,  and  to 
commerce.  He  swallows  down  each  bit,  and 
considers  neither  the  wants  of  the  future  nor 
the  bones  with  which  he  will  be  choked.  The 
present  and  the  certain  prevent  his  discerning 
a  greater  good,  which  might  compel  an  expendi- 
ture of  time,  or  which  he  must  share  with  others. 
Thus  he  disregards  for  the  sake  of  his  own  ad- 
vantage, not  only  the  public  revenue,  but  even 
the  interests  of  his  own  posterity.  The  stream 
may  fail,  the  harbour  be  destroyed — nothing  but 
his  own  loss  is  of  importance  in  his  eyes,  and 
the  profits  of  a  year  will  be  preferred,  without  a 
scruple  of  conscience,  to  the  gain  of  a  century. 

Plato*  describes  both  the  riches  and  the  po- 
verty of  the  artisan  as  the  ruin  of  his  profes- 
sion. "  Is  he  rich,"  says  he,  "  think  you  he  will 
be  anxious  about  his  work?  No,  he  and  his 
art  will  be  ruined  by  indolence  and  neglect. 
Is  he  needy,  how  can  he  procure  suitable  im- 
plements? He  is  clumsy,  and  leaves  behind 
him,  in  his  children  and  apprentices  only  bun- 
glers." Let  us  be  assured,  that  the  merchant's 
love  of  gain  is  far  more  detrimental  to  the  im- 
provement of  trade.  And  does  not  experience 
teach  us  that  the  very  vices,  whereby  property 
has  been  or  can  be  acquired,  at  the  same  time 
destroy  its  value?  The  counting-room  is  a  school 
of  deceit  and  avarice  ;  what  wonder  ?  when  the 
household  is  a  temple  of  disorder  and  waste! 
The  exchange  is  ashamed  of  these  freebooters, 
and  the  city  of  their  memory.  Trade  execrates 
their  oppressions,  and  the  public  their  profession. 

The  merchant,  on  the  other  hand,  who  loves 
his  country,  its  present  and  future  welfare, 
plants  trees  that  may  give  shade  to  his  posterity. 
He  abhors  as  a  theft  all  gain  which  is  contrary 
to  the  general  good  of  commerce.  He  seeks  by 
wise  undertakings,  to  attract  to  the  country  new 
branches  of  trade.  He  supports  and  upholds 
the  old,  which,  if  they  do  not  immediately  bring 


*  Republic.  B.  IV. 


him  fruit  a  hundred  fold,  yet  employ  the  hands 
of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  with  the  ruin  of  which, 
numerous  other  lateral  branches  would  be  de- 
stroyed. This  merchant  is  no  phantom.  I 
myself  know  merchants  who  have  greatness 
of  soul  enough  to  make  the  expansion  of  trade, 
and  not  private  gain,  their  ultimate  object,  who 
think  not  only  of  its  arithmetic,  but  also  of  its 
morals  and  its  utility.  Holland  should  bore 
through  her  dams,  if  she  had  not  merchants, 
who  out*)f  love  to  her  soil,  can  employ  their 
millions  in  a  trade  which  now  yields  little,  or 
is  indeed  the  occasion  of  loss,  like  the  whale- 
fishery.  The  merchant  is  therefore  capable  of 
great  sentiments.  To  encourage  them  is  worth 
the  pains. 

The  green  cap,  the  broken  bench  formerly 
terrified  the  cheat.  Wherein  does  he  now  find 
his  security,  but  in  the  defence,  which  he  durst 
not  stoop  to  himself,  but  which  is  offered  him, 
and  in  the  ruin  of  better  citizens.  Hope  and 
compassion,  which  are  left  him,  inspire  bold- 
ness, while  the  final  disgrace  renders  fear  and 
repentance  inactive. 

An  ancient  nation  is  spoken  of,*  where  the 
taste  for  beauty  cost  lovers  dear.  From  their 
contributions  a  bridal  treasure  was  collected  for' 
those  daughters  of  the  land  whom  nature  had 
refused  to  furnish  with  recommendations.  How 
near  does  not  this  come  to  the  use,  made  at  pre- 
sent, of  the  virtue  of  an  honourable  man? 

If  a  city  contains  not  more  than  one  upright 
citizen,  it  is  on  his  account  the  laws  were  made, 
and  on  his  account  the  magistracy  instituted. 
Not  to  accommodate  those  offenders,  who  are 
studious  only  to  infringe  and  corrupt  justice,  are 
the  laws  entrusted  to  you,  fathers  of  the  city! 
but  to  support  this  honest  man,  that  he  may 
not  be  wearied  out,  terrified,  or  impeded,  that 
unhindered,  he  may  do  all  the  good  his  patriotic 
soul  devises  and  his  magnanimous  heart  sug- 
gests for  the  benefit  of  the  commonwealth. 
Then  will  his  zeal,  in  gratitude  for  your  support, 
find  fresh  nutriment,  and  his  example  become 
the  pattern  and  inheritance  of  his  house. 

Let  us  argue  from  single  individuals  to  whole 
families.  They  are  the  elements  of  civil  soci- 
ety ;  consequently,  their  social  influence  is  in- 
disputably greater  than  men  seem  to  recognise. 
The  welfare  of  the  community  is  bound  up  with 
the  virtues  and  vices,  the  flourishing  and  decay  of 
certain  families.  A  single  family  has  often  been 
sufficient  to  corrupt  the  morals  of  a  whole  State, 
to  impress  its  own  form  on  the  mass,  or  to  fix 
it  there  ;  to  bring  certain  principles  and  customs, 
on  which  business  depends,  into  favour  or  con- 
tempt. Mahomet  was  first  the  prophet  of  his 
own  family,  and  afterwards  of  a  great  people. 
Ought  not  the  cares  of  the  magistracy  to  extend 
to  the  fostering  of  some  families,  and  the  de- 
pression of  others  ? 

If  it  is  justifiable  policy,  in  opening  the  view 
of  a  building,  that  adorns  a  certain  part  of  the 


*  Herodotus.  I.  96. 
11* 


12G 


HAM  ANN. 


city,  to  remove  a  few  miserable  hovels,  if  it  is 
a  duty  to  transfer  to  the  mouth  of  the  stream 
such  trades  as  taint  the  purity  of  its  waters, 
and  to  remove  them  from  the  place  where  it 
enters  their  walls,  there  is  a  far  more  urgent 
call  on  the  magistracy,  to  protect  families  whose 
integrity  is  exposed  to  the  vexations  of  envy, 
and  the  rage  of  wickedness,  to  uphold  them  as 
the  keystone  of  the  laws,  and  on  the  other  hand,  to 
watch  those  whose  views  spread  secret  poison 
among  their  fellow-citizens. 

The  family  mania,  whose  mere  name  excites 
suspicions  of  an  infectious  disease,  is  in  our  days 
greater  than  ever.  The  selfishness,  which  unites 
whole  families  in  extorting  from  the  community 
the  same  assistance  that  relations  are  obliged 
to  lend  each  other,  has  extended  a  detrimental 
indulgence  to  the  children  of  great  families,  to 
whom  men,  in  spite  of  stupidity  and  worthless- 
ness,  hardly  venture  to  refuse  preferences  and 
offices  any  longer,  and  who,  through  the  base- 
ness of  their  intercessors  and  patrons,  are  some- 
times placed  in  a  position  to  justify  themselves 
again,  by  the  choice  of  others.  Hence  those 
conspiracies  to  put  down  merit,  the  rewards  of 
which  they  seek  to  marry  with  their  like,  in  case 
of  need  to  disarm  the  laws,  or  give  their  ex- 
pounders cunning.  Hence  those  nurseries  of 
old  customs,  to  whose  service  certain  houses  are 
more  devoted,  than  the  corporations  at  Ephesus 
to  their  Diana.  To  this  prevailing  evil  there 
could  not  be  a  more  forcible  check,  than  through 
the  family  spirit  itself,  whose  application  as 
much  to  the  public  good  generally,  as  to  com- 
merce in  particular,  I  would  here  recommend. 

The  family  spirit,  of  which  I  speak,  deserves 
at  least  more  attention,  than  the  author  of  the 
Fable  of  the  Bees  claims  for  a  certain  portion 
of  ignorance,  which  he  holds  must  be  main- 
tained, in  every  well-constituted  community. 
This  spirit  consists  in  a  remarkable  strength  of 
certain  natural  gifts  or  propensities,  which 
through  the  impression  of  domestic  example, 
and  the  consequent  training,  becomes  hereditary 
and  is  transmitted.  I  premise  here  particularly 
a  certain  amount  of  social  tendencies,  and  the 
seeds  of  citizen-like  virtues,  (for  why  should  not 
these  be  capable  of  imitation  and  degeneracy, 
like  other  tendencies  and  dispositions?)  an 
amount  which  would  enable  us  to  forget  our 
private  good  in  the  public  approbation  and  wel- 
fare, to  prefer  the  honour  of  the  order,  to  which 
we  devote  ourselves,  and  its  social  advantages, 
above  self-preservation  and  individual  advan- 
tage. 

It  is  this  family  spirit  which  has  built  cities, 
and  through  which  they  subsist.  It  was  doubtless 
most  active  when  their  foundations  were  laid 
and  the  walks  first  marked  out.  None  of  those 
small  communities  thought  of  anything  else  but 
the  city;  even  when  his  own  house  began  to 
occupy  him,  the  thoughts  of  the  individual  were 
far  from  being  directed  from  the  public  works  to 
his  own  building,  but  this  latter  was  always  sub- 
ordinate to  the  former.  The  city  was  completed, 


yet  was  still  a  subject  of  discourse  ;  each  was  still 
occupied  in  the  work  undertaken  ;  one  still  inquir- 
ed of  another,  what  was  to  be  supplied  and  added  ? 
Children  and  children's  children  carried  out  and 
improved  the  plan  which  the  first  founder  had 
devised.  The  more  distant  the  times,  the  more 
obscure  was  the  tradition  of  the  value,  the  na- 
ture and  the  circumstances  of  an  inheritance, 
which  had  cost  many  generations,  and  for  the 
rent  of  which  the  care  and  management  should 
be  undertaken  by  us.  The  peril  of  capital  in 
hands,  which  have  not  earned  it,  is  great.  The 
zeal,  the  blessings,  the  wishes,  wherewith  the 
first  founders  of  our  dwelling-places  bequeath 
them  to  their  latest  possessors  in  spite  of  their 
ingratitude,  kindles  yet  perhaps  some  sparks  in 
the  souls  of  a  few  families,  who  make  known 
and  reveal  to  us  the  spirit  of  the  first  benefac- 
tors. It  is  these  patriots  to  whose  families 
every  city  should  offer  the  right  and  honour 
of  representing  those  by  whom  it  was  built  and 
founded. 

If  there  are  besides,  families  which  have  in- 
herited from  their  ancestors  the  true  principles 
of  trade,  and  a  genuine  love  of  it,  these  are  the 
lifeguardsmen,  from  whose  services  commerce 
receives  warmth  and  splendour.  They  are  to 
be  regarded  as  the  dam,  which  gives  security  to 
its  course,  as  the  lighthouse,  by  which  the  wan- 
dering mariner  directs  his  path,  and  at  whose 
sight  the  stranger  rejoices.  Such  families  should 
not  be  allowed  to  go  to  decay,  but  rather  be 
encouraged,  distinguished,  preferred,  so  that  the 
spirit  which  animates  them  may  be  immortal ; 
for  with  them  trade  rises  and  falls,  and  under 
its  ruins  they  must  be  buried. 

These  thoughts  have  not  entered  into  my 
mind  by  mere  accident.  They  are  founded  in 
some  degree  on  a  stray  paper,  which  I  had 
partly  in  view,  and  of  which  in  part  this  seems 
to  be  written  in  continuation.  The  author 
would  not  be  injured  by  a  publicity  to  which 
every  thing  that  is  found,  is  exposed.  For  the 
rest,  I  am  as  little  inclined  to  gratify  the  curiosity 
of  readers  by  an  account  of  the  accident,  which 
threw  this  paper  into  my  hands,  as  to  trouble 
myself  about  their  conjectures.  My  view  in  the 
communication  of  this  fragment  will  be  in  part 

justified  by  its  perusal. 

*         #         *         $        *       .  4  4s 

"  This  family  from  the  grandfather  down- 
ward, has  closely  interwoven  its  own  conse- 
quence with  the  good  of  the  community.  The 
grandfather  died  and  left  behind,  by  will,  to 
his  numerous  heirs,  some  hundred  thousands, 
which  for  the  extension  of  commerce,  and  to 
draw  the  Polish  merchandise  to  Miza,  he  had 
lent  to  the  Poles,  according  to  the  wishes  of 
their  kings.  The  war  ruined  this  scheme.  The 
son  received  nothing  but  the  debts  of  his  father, 
and  carried  on  likewise  an  extensive  trade. 
This  man  did  every  thing,  although  the  result 
was  unfortunate.  How  much  would  he  not 
have  undertaken  in  better  circumstances !  In 
his  civil  offices  he  concerned  himself,  merely, 


HAM 


for  the  improvement  of  general  commerce,  and 
his  views  were  far  from  being  limited  td  his 
own  especial  benefit.  The  former,  and  not  the 
latter,  he  regarded  as  the  inheritance  of  his 
family.  Careless  in  his  domestic  economy,  he 
was  the  more  zealous  to  frame  for  the  good 
of  the  city  new  plans  and  institutions,  which 
are  yet  in  existence.  He  always  appealed  to  the 
old  laws,  and  was  urgent  to  be  judged  thereby. 
The  word  public  he  uttered  with  reverence. 
He  loved  the  Pole,  in  spite  of  all  his  folly  and 
levity,  because  he  furnished  commodities  for 
trade,  and  hated  the  Englishman,  so  respectable 
as  he  is  otherwise,  because  he  employed  his 
countrymen  as  beasts  of  burden,  as  carriers  to 
his  customers.  He  sighed  over  the  existing 
decay;  and  zeal  for  the  public  good  at  last 
destroyed  him.  He  lived  like  a  Roman  with 
his  great  deeds,  eating  roots,  and  he  was  proud 
to  be  a  citizen.  He  was  called  obstinate,  but 
none  presumed  to  perpetrate  any  baseness  be- 
fore his  eyes.  Whoever  knows  men,  under- 
stands their  language.  An  obstinate  man  means 
a  man,  who  can  be  brought  to  no  conclusion 
without  reflection,  who  does  not  lay  aside  and 
alter  the  plan,  by  which  he  wishes  to  proceed, 
according  to  the  fancy  of  every  one,  but  con- 
tinues true  to  the  precepts  of  sound  reason  and 
conscience,  and  is  far  above  the  judgments  of 
complaisant,  frivolous  people.  The  children  of 
this  citizen  inherited  the  spirit  and  the  principles 
of  their  father,  which  perhaps  are  no  longer 
suitable  to  our  times.  Love  for  the  public  good 
is  their  passion ;  it  gives  them  penetration  and 
courage,  whereby  they  are  an  offence  to  those, 


ANN.  127 


who  ride  in  gilt  coaches,  and  adorn  themselves 
with  the  spoils  of  trade.  They  resist  the  seduc- 
tions of  strangers,  who  come  to  us  as  to  savages, 
to  carry  on  our  commerce.  If  this  family  wish 
to  assert  the  principles  of  their  father,  against 
their  competitors,  they  are  compelled  to  resolve 
on  their  own  ruin.  Their  plans  were  well  laid, 
and  aimed  likewise  at  the  extension  of  the 
commerce  of  Poland  and  Curland,  to  Holland 
and  France,  for  which  a  good  friend  sacrificed 
himself.  Nevertheless,  they  failed  through  rivals, 
with  whom  all  methods  are  good,  whereby  they 
can  cut  rushes  for  their  own  roofs,  through  the 
dishonesty  of  agents,  corrupted  by  the  impunity, 
— as  things  go  now, — of  acting  against  the  laws, 
and  the  shallow  ambition  of  making  a  fortune 
without  a  good  name.  Men  admire  Marius, 
sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  the  greatest  of 
commercial  cities,  and  amidst  its  fallen  heaps 
raising  himself  above  the  vicissitudes  of  his 
own  destiny.  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  the  words 
of  a  dying  son  of  this  house,  with  which  he  con- 
soled his  brother,  by  whom  he  was  honoured 
as  a  second  father.  They  merit  to  be  preserved, 
"  Who  knows,  my  brother,  whether  the  ruin  of 
a  house  like  ours  may  not  conduce  to  general 
progress?  Men  will  thereby  come  to  the  know- 
ledge, how  much  is  due  to  honourable  citizens, 
and  be  warned,  not  to  be  so  hard  with  others.1' 
This  man  felt  himself  stronger  perhaps  in  cold 
blood,  than  Glover  in  the  midst  of  his  inspira- 
tion, when  he  conceived  the  noble  sentiment, 
with  which  his  hero  devoted  himself  and  his 
handful,  exclaiming,  "Freedom  and  rny  coun- 
try !" 


CHRISTOPH  MARTIN  WIELAND. 

Born  1733.   Died  1813. 


Wieland  was  a  native  of  Suabia.  His 
father,  a  Lutheran  divine,  who,  at  the  birth  of 
this  son,  resided  in  Oberholzheim,  removed  soon 
after  to  Biberach,  where  Wieland  spent  his 
childish  years. 

His  early  education  was  superintended  by 
his  father  in  person.  At  the  age  of  seven  he 
read  Latin.  At  twelve  he  gave  indications  of 
his  poetic  genius  in  German  and  Latin  verse. 
At  fourteen  he  was  put  to  school  at  Klosterber- 
gen,  near  Magdeburg,  where  he  remained  two 
years,  and  then  continued  his  studies  under 
private  instruction  at  Erfurt.  In  1750,  he  en- 
tered the  University  of  Tubingen  as  a  student 
of  law,  but  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  literary 
pursuits.  Thence  he  sent  the  first  cantos  of 
an  epic  poem  to  Bodmer  at  Zurich,  who  was 
so  much  struck  with  this  juvenile  performance, 
that  he  invited  the  young  poet  to  reside  with 
him.  He  remained  in  Switzerland  eight  years, 
writing  and  publishing  several  minor  works. 
At  the  end  of  this  period  he  returned  to  Bibe- 
rach, where  he  was  made  a  member  of  the 
Council,  and  appointed  Director  of  Chancery, 
and  where  he  married,  in  1765.  In  1769,  he 
was  elected  Professor  of  Philosophy  at  Erfurt, 
an  office  which  he  retained  but  three  years,  and 
then  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  Duchess 
Amalia,  of  Weimar,  to  superintend  the  educa- 
tion of  her  sons.  Wieland  had  already  become 
distinguished  as  an  author.  His  Agathon,  his 
Musarion,  his  Don  Silvio  de  Rosalva,  had 
placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  national  litera- 
ture of  that  day.  His  translation  of  Shakspeare, 
the  first  in  the  German  language,  had  also 
been  published  some  time  before.  With  the 
leisure  of  his  new  office  and  the  security  of  a 
pension  for  life,  he  now  devoted  himself  with 
increased  zeal  to  literary  pursuits.  Amidst  his 
numerous  engagements  and  a  constant  series 
of  publications,  original  and  translated,  prose 
and  verse,  he  undertook  the  German  Mercury, 
a  monthly  periodical,  which  he  edited  during 
the  rest  of  his  life.  In  1798,  he  purchased  with 
the  proceeds  of  his  literary  labors  an  estate  at 
Osmansstadt,  near  Weimar,  where  he  intended 
to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days;  but,  after 


the  death  of  his  wife,  at  the  solicitation  of  the 
Duchess,  he  returned  to  Weimar,  and  there 
resided  until  his  death,  which  occurred  January 
20th,  1813. 

In  Wieland  we  notice  first  his  singular  fer- 
tility. The  industry  of  the  man  is  amazing, 
and  enlarges  our  idea  of  the  capabilities  of  a 
human  life.  His  translations  from  Shakspeare, 
Horace,  Lucian,  Cicero,  would  alone  be  suffi- 
cient to  establish  his  reputation  for  literary 
diligence.  When  we  add  to  these  some  fifty 
volumes  of  original  productions,  and  consider, 
moreover,  how  much  of  his  time  was  spent  in 
editorial  labors  and  official  duties,  we  have  an 
example  of  productiveness  which  has  few  pa- 
rallels in  the  history  of  letters,  and  which 
places  Wieland  on  a  level,  in  this  particular, 
with  Lope  de  Vega,  Voltaire,  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

As  to  quality,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Wie- 
land's  excellence  lies  rather  in  the  manner  than 
in  the  matter.  He  is  more  graceful  than  ener- 
getic, more  agreeable  than  impressive,  more 
sportive  than  profound.  '  Words  that  burn'  are 
not  found  on  his  page,  nor  thoughts  that  make 
one  close  the  book  and  ponder,  and  rise  up  in- 
tellectually new-born  from  the  reading.  But 
then  he  has  charms  of  manner  that  lure  the 
reader  on  and  hold  him  fast.  And  when  we 
speak  of  him  as  not  profound,  we  speak  in  rela- 
tion to  German  standards.  Unlike  the  gener- 
ality of  his  countrymen,  he  occupied  himself 
with  the  show  of  things  rather  than  their  sub- 
stance ;  with  phenomena  rather  than  laws.  He 
loved  to  discourse  pleasantly,  rather  than  to 
investigate  conscientiously,  or  to  settle  accu- 
rately. What  Goethe  says  of  him  is  very  cha- 
racteristic ;  that  in  all  he  did  he  cared  less 
for  a  firm  footing  than  for  a  clever  debate." 

As  a  poet,  he  has  been  accused  of  licentious- 
ness. Voluptuousness  would  be  a  more  proper 
designation.  His  poetry  is  certainly  liable  to 
objection  on  that  score.  At  the  same  time,  it 
is  free  from  coarseness  and  from  all  that  —  in 
his  own  phrase  —  'offends  against  the  Graces.' 
It  should  be  observed  too,  that  Wieland's  life 
was  pure  and  exemplary  in  all  respects.  Whe- 

(128) 


WIEL 


ther  prose  or  poetry,  his  writings  are  distin- 
guished by  elegance  of  style  and  perfect  finish. 
He  elaborated  all  that  he  wrote  with  great 
care,  and  declared  that  he  spent  one-sixth  part 
of  his  time  in  copying. 

His  intellectual  life  is  divided  into  two  periods 
distinctly  marked  in  his  works.  He  began  his 
literary  career  a  zealous  enthusiast.  His  first 
productions  are  strongly  tinctured  with  reli- 
gion, and  treat,  in  part,  of  religious  subjects. 
He  afterward  became  an  Epicurean  (theoreti- 
cally) in  morals;  a  materialist,  or  common- 
sense  man,  in  philosophy;  placed  experience 
above  faith ;  believed  in  no  ideas  but  those 
which  are  derived  through  the  senses;  and  good- 
humorcdly  satirized  all  lofty  aspiration,  and 
everything  which  leaned,  as  he  thought,  to 
spiritual  excess.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find 
another  author  whose  earlier  and  later  produc- 
tions exhibit  such  a  contrast  as  those  of  Wie- 
land. 

Bouterwek,  in  his  "  History  of  German  Po- 
etry and  Eloquence,"  thus  characterizes  him : 
"  The  names  of  Klopstock  and  Wieland  denote 
opposite  extremes.  While  Klopstock  carried 
the  poetry  of  the  supersensual,  in  its  most  so- 
lemn earnestness,  to  excess,  Wieland  laugh- 
ingly turned  his  back  on  supersensual  things, 
and  declared  war  against  all  extravagance. 
His  poetry  was  not  meant  to  be  trifling,  any 
more  than  his  character  was  trifling;  but  he 
would  have  it  subordinate  to  a  philosophy  which 
he  had  learned,  in  the  French  school,  to  regard 
as  the  only  sound  one.  In  this  way,  Wieland 
became  a  philosophical  poet  of  sensualism,  such 
as  Germany  had  never  seen  before.  But  far 
from  advocating  a  sensualism  which  degrades 
man  to  a  beast,  he  wished  to  establish  that 
form  of  virtue  which,  according  to  the  doctrine 
of  Shaftesbury,  he  held  to  be  of  the  same 
origin  with  the  love  of  the  beautiful,  as  the 
only  true  one,  in  opposition  to  all  which  seemed 
to  him  extravagant  and  fantastic.  Conscious 
of  the  strictest  purity  in  his  own  morals,  he 
never  doubted  that  a  poet,  especially  in  the 
capacity  of  satirist,  might,  without  scruple, 
paint  the  most  voluptuous  charms  of  sense  as 
seductively  as  was  consistent  with  the  laws  of 
beauty.  Only  what  offended  the  Graces— ac- 
cording to  his  principles  —  was  to  be  strictly 
excluded  from  the  domain  of  poetry.  This 
sesthetic  morality  which  Wieland  introduced 
into  German  literature,  operated  beneficially  as 

R 


AND.  129 


a  counterpoise  to  the  false  rigorism  by  which 
criticism  in  Germany  was  oppressed.''  "  Satire 
has  never  contended  with  such  polished  wea- 
pons, as  in  Wieland's  writings,  against  that 
enthusiasm  to  which  no  modern  nation  is  so 
much  inclined  as  the  German."  "  With  all  his 
faults  and  defects,  and  whatever  a  one-sided 
criticism  may  bring  forward  to  his  disparage- 
ment, he  is  still  one  of  the  great  poets  who  are 
the  pride  of  German  literature."  "He  had 
imbibed  so  much  of  the  taste  of  the  French, 
along  with  their  philosophy,  that  he  bore  the 
name  of  the  '  German  Voltaire'  in  Germany 
and  out  of  Germany.  But  in  all  that  Voltaire 
has  written  there  is  not  a  trace  to  be  found  of 
Wieland's  ideal  of  moral  loveliness.  Among 
Italian  poets,  Ariosto  is  the  one  whose  humor 
agrees  best  with  Wieland's  manner."  "His 
Muse  rather  smiled  than  laughed."  "  This 
inextinguishable  cheerfulness,  united  with  such 
knowledge  of  mankind,  such  refinement  of  wit 
and  taste,  such  fulness  of  imagination,  with  so 
soft,  so  luxurious,  so  apparently  careless,  and 
yet  so  cultivated  a  style,  is  found  in  no  other 
poet." 

The  following  extract  from  Goethe's  Eulogy 
of  Wieland  is  taken  from  Mrs.  Austin's  "Cha- 
racteristics of  Goethe." 

"The  effect  of  Wieland's  writings  on  the 
public  was  uninterrupted  and  lasting.  He  edu- 
cated his  age,  and  gave  a  decided  impulse  to 
the  taste  and  to  the  judgment  of  his  contempo- 
raries. And  whence  proceeded  this  great  in- 
fluence which  he  exercised  over  the  Germans? 
It  was  the  consequence  of  the  vigor  and  frank- 
ness of  his  character.  Man  and  author  were, 
in  him,  completely  blended;  his  poetry  was 
life,  his  life  poetry.  Whether  in  verse  or  in 
prose,  he  never  concealed  what  was  his  predo- 
minant feeling  at  the  moment,  nor  what  was 
his  general  frame  of  mind.  From  the  fertility 
of  his  mind  flowed  the  fertility  of  his  pen.  I 
use  the  word  pen  not  as  a  rhetorical  phrase ;  it 
has  here  a  peculiar  appropriateness;  and  if 
pious  reverence  ever  hallowed  the  quill  with 
which  an  author  wrote  his  works,  assuredly 
that  which  Wieland  used  was  worthy  of  this 
distinction.  He  wrote  everything  with  his  own 
hand,  and  very  beautifully  ;  at  once  freely  and 
carefully.  He  kept  what  he  had  written  ever 
before  his  eyes,  examined,  altered,  improved 
it ;  unweariedly  cast  and  recast ;  nay,  had  the 
patience,  repeatedly,  to  transcribe  whole  works 
]  of  considerable  extent.    And  this  gave  his  pro- 


WIELAND. 


130 


ductions  the  delicacy,  the  elegance,  clearness, 
the  natural  grace  which  cannot  be  attained  by 
mere  drudgery,  but  by  cheerful,  genial  atten- 
tion to  a  work  already  completed. 

"  Our  friend  was  capable  of  the  highest  en- 
thusiasm, and,  in  youth,  gave  himself  completely 
up  to  it.  Those  glad  bright  regions  of  the 
golden  time,  that  paradise  of  innocence,  he 
dwelt  in  longer  than  others.  His  natal  roof, 
hallowed  by  the  presence  of  his  father,  a  learn- 
ed pastor;  the  ancient  cloister  of  Bergen  be- 
neath its  shade  of  antique  times  on  the  shores 
of  the  Elbe,  where  his  pious  teacher  lived  in 
patriarchal  simplicity;  the  still  monastic  Tubin- 
gen; the  simple  dwellings  of  Switzerland,  sur- 
rounded by  gushing  brooks,  washed  by  clear 
lakes  hemmed  in  by  rocks  ;  in  all  he  found  his 
Delphi;  in  all,  the  groves  and  thickets  in  which, 
even  when  arrived  at  manhood,  he  still  revelled. 
Amid  such  scenes  he  felt  the  mighty  attraction 
of  the  movements  which  the  manly  innocence 
of  the  Greeks  has  bequeathed  to  us.  He  lived 
in  the  lofty  presence  of  Cyrus,  Araspes  and 
Panthea.  He  felt  the  Platonic  spirit  move 
within  him.  *****  jjut  precisely 
because  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  linger  so 
long  in  these  higher  regions,  because  he  was 
permitted  so  long  to  regard  all  that  he  thought, 
felt,  imagined  and  dreamed,  as  the  most  abso- 
lute reality,  was  the  fruit,  which  he  was  at  last 
compelled  to  pluck  from  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
the  more  bitter  to  him.  Who  may  escape  the 
conflict  with  the  outer  world  ]  Our  friend,  like 
the  rest,  was  drawn  into  the  strife ;  reluctantly 
he  submitted  to  be  contradicted  by  life  and  ex- 
perience. And  as,  after  long  struggling,  he 
could  not  succeed  in  combining  these  noble 
images  with  the  ordinary  world,  these  high 


intents  with  the  necessities  of  the  day,  he  deter- 
mined to  accept  the  actual,  as  necessary ;  and 
declared  what  had  hitherto  appeared  to  him 
truth,  to  be  fantastic  visions.  *  *  *  * 
He  declared  war  on  all  that  cannot  be  shown 
to  exist  in  reality ;  first  on  Platonic  love  ;  then 
on  all  dogmatizing  philosophy,  especially  the 
two  extremes  —  the  Stoic  and  the  Pythago- 
rean.        *       *       *      *       *  * 

"It  has  been  acutely  remarked  by  some 
foreigners  that  German  authors  take  less  heed 
of  the  public  than  those  of  other  nations ;  and 
that,  therefore,  it  is  easy  to  discern,  in  their 
writings,  the  man  educating  himself,  the  man 
who  wants  to  owe  something  to  himself;  and 
consequently,  to  read  his  character.  This  was 
peculiarly  true  of  Wieland,  and  it  would  be  the 
more  interesting  to  follow  his  writings  and  his 
life  with  this  view,  since  suspicions  have  been 
cast  upon  his  character,  drawn  from  these  very 
writings.  Many  men  still  misunderstand  him, 
because  they  imagine  the  many-sided  must  be 
indifferent,  the  mobile  must  be  infirm  and  in- 
consistent. They  do  not  reflect  that  character 
regards  the  practical  alone.  Only  in  what  a 
man  does,  in  what  he  continues  to  do  and  per- 
sists in  doing,  can  he  show  character ;  and  in 
this  sense,  there  never  was  a  firmer,  more  con- 
sistent man  than  Wieland.  When  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  variety  of  his  sensations,  to 
the  mobility  of  his  thoughts,  and  permitted  no 
single  impression  to  obtain  dominion  over  him, 
he  showed,  by  that  very  process,  the  firmness 
and  certainty  of  his  mind.  He  loved  to  play 
with  his  conceptions,  but  never — I  take  all  his 
contemporaries  to  witness  —  never  with  his 
opinions.  And  thus  he  won  and  retained  numer- 
ous friends." 


PHILOSOPHY  CONSIDERED  AS  THE  ART 
OF  LIFE  AND  HEALING  ART  OF  THE 
SOUL. 

Men"  had  lived,  and  perhaps  lived  many 
thousand  years,  before  one  of  them  hit  upon  the 
thought  that  life  could  be  an  art ;  and,  in  all 
probability,  every  other  art,  from  the  arts  of 
Tubalcain  to  the  art  of  catching  flies, — which 
Shah  Baham,  a  peritus  in  arte,  assures  us,  is  not 
so  easy  a  matter  as  some  people  imagine, — had 
long  been  invented,  when,  at  last,  the  sagacious 
Greeks,  along  with  other  fine  arts  and  sciences, 
invented  also  this  famous  art  of  life,  called  Phi- 
losophy :  or,  if  they  did  not  altogether  invent  it, 


first  reduced  it  to  the  form  of  art,  and  carried  it 
to  a  high  degree  of  refinement. 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  children  of  men 
never  dreamed  that  there  was  such  an  art. 
People  lived  without  knowing  how  they  did  it, 
very  much  as  Mons.  Jourdain  in  Moliere's 
"  Citizen  Gentleman,'"  had  talked  prose  all  his 
life,  or  as  we  all  draw  breath,  digest,  perform 
various  motions,  grow  and  thrive,  without  one 
in  a  thousand  knowing  or  desiring  to  know  by 
what  mechanical  laws  or  by  what  combination 
of  causes  all  these  things  are  done.  And  in 
this  thick  fog  of  ignorance  innumerable  nations 
in  Asia,  Africa,  America,  and  the  Islands  of  the 
South  Sea,  white  and  olive,  yellow-black  and 


WIE  LAND. 


131 


pitch-black,  bearded  and  unbearded,  circum- 
cised and  uncircumcised,  tattooed  and  untat- 
tooed,  with  and  without  rings  through  the  nose, 
from  the  giants  in  Patagonia  to  the  dwarfs  on 
Hudson's  Bay,  &c.  &c,  live  to  this  hour.  And 
not  only  so,  but  even  of  the  greatest  portion  of 

I  the  inhabitants  of  our  enlightened  Europe,  it 
may  be  maintained  with  truth,  that  they  know 
as  little  about  said  art  of  life  and  that  they  care 
as  little  about  it  as  the  careless  people  of  Ota- 
heite  or  the  half- frozen  inhabitants  of  Terra  del 
Fuego,  who  are  scarcely  more  than  sea-calves. 

The  strangest  part  of  this  business  is,  that  all 
these  people,  who,  according  to  a  very  moderate 
calculation,  constitute  nearly  the  whole  human 
race, — like  their  ancestors  as  far  back  as  Adam 
and  Eve,  who  also  knew  nothing  of  the  afore- 
said fine  art, — notwithstanding  their  ignorance, 
live  away  as  courageously  as  if  they  were 
finished  masters  of  it.  Nay  more,  the  greater 
part  of  these  bunglers  get  on  so  well,  as  it  re- 
spects all  the  most  essential  and  important  func- 
tions of  human  life,  that  scarcely  one  of  the 
hired  masters  and  professors  of  the  art  can  hold 
a  candle  to  them. 

Cicero  says  somewhere,  "  Nature  is  the  best 
guide  of  life,"  which  probably  means,  that  Na- 
ture shows  us  best  how  we  may  help  ourselves 
through  this  earthly  state.  Further,  he  says, 
"No  one  can  fail  who  suffers  himself  to  be 
guided  by  her."  On  this  guidance,  therefore,  it 
would  seem  that  men  must  always  have  relied. 
This  same  Nature,  they  thought,  which  teaches 
us  to  breathe,  eat,  drink,  to  move  hands  and 
feet,  &c,  teaches  us  also  how  to  use  our  senses, 
our  memory,  our  understanding,  and  all  our 
other  powers;  teaches  us  what  is  fitting  and 
what  is  not  fitting.  It  requires  only  so  much 
attention  as  every  object  enforces  of  itself,  to  see 
and  feel  whether  it  is  friendly  or  hostile.  Our 
nose  and  our  tongue  teach  us,  without  any  other 
instruction,  what  fruits,  herbs  and  roots,  &c,  are 
good  to  eat.  At  a  pinch,  hunger  teaches  the 
same,  without  much  circumstance.  Nature  has 
provided  for  all  pressing  necessities.  Either 
the  thing  which  we  require  exists  already ; — 
and  then  we  have  whatever  is  needed  to  seize 
and  enjoy  it ; — or,  at  least,  the  materials  of  it  ex- 
ist ;  and  then  we  have  just  so  much  understand- 
ing, power,  and  natural  dexterity  in  our  mem- 
bers, as  is  necessary  to  form  those  materials  to 
our  use  and  purpose.  What  does  not  succeed 
the  first  time,  will  succeed  the  tenth  or  the 
twentieth.  If  two  arms  are  not  sufficient,  four, 
six,  eight  will  accomplish  it.  Every  new  trial 
adds  something  to  our  knowledge  of  the  thing, 
and  to  our  faculty.    We  learn  by  errors  and 

j  failures,  and  become  masters  by  practice,  with- 
out perceiving  how  it  has  come  about.  And 
this  same  Nature  which  carries  us  so  far,  always 
conceals  from  us  what  lies  too  far  to  be  reached 
from  the  place  assigned  us;  makes  us  happy 
by  ignorance,  and  has  given  us  this  beneficent 
sluggishness,  of  which  the  world-reformers  make 
so  much  complaint,  for  no  other  purpose  but 


that  the  everlasting  desire  to  improve  our  con- 
dition may  not  cause  us  to  fall  from  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire,  and  that  we  may  not  fare  like 
that  man  who,  in  order  to  feel  better,  physicked 
himself  to  death,  and  had  for  his  epitaph :  Per 
star  meglio  sto  qui. 

So  Nature  teaches  all  men  how  to  live,  who 
have  not  run  away  from  the  instruction  and 
discipline  of  the  good  Mother.  And,  in  all 
this,  as  you  perceive,  there  is  no  art.  It  is  Na- 
ture herself,  bodily.  The  celebrated  Quam 
multis  non  ego!  of  the  ancient  philosopher  is  the 
native  philosophy  of  all  Samoyedes,  Laplanders, 
Esquimaux,  &c.  —  a  philosophy  in  which  the 
New  Hollanders  or  the  New  Walesmen,  as  the 
honest  people  must  suffer  themselves  to  be 
called,  according  to  the  arbitrary  pleasure  of 
the  gentlemen  with  the  firelocks,  who  have  the 
command,  appear  to  have  made  the  greatest 
progress.  Let  no  man  come  and  say  that  such 
a  life  is  an  oyster-life.  Call  it,  if  you  please,  a 
continual  childhood ;  but  honour  Nature  who 
conducts  these  her  children,  by  the  shortest 
route,  to  the  beate  vivere  at  which  we  enlight- 
ened people  seldom  or  never  arrive,  merely  on 
account  of  the  great  multitude  of  roads  which 
lead  to  it. 

The  wise  Theophrastus  (not  Paracelsus,  but 
the  scholar  and  successor  of  the  divine  Aristotle) 
lived  ninety  years,  and  when  he  came  to  die, 
he  complained  against  Nature  because  "  she  has 
given  man  so  little  time  to  live,  and  because  an 
honest  fellow  must  die  at  the  very  moment 
when  he  has  begun  to  comprehend  a  little  the 
art  of  life."  When  did  ever  a  New  Hollander 
make  so  unreasonable  a  complaint?  When  he 
has  come  to  be  an  hundred  years  old  (which  is 
nothing  rare  with  them),  he  has  lived  just  one 
hundred  years,  and  rises  satisfied  from  the  ban- 
quet of  Nature ; — and  truly,  a  banquet  that,  in 
which  Nature  furnishes  such  poor  entertain- 
ment, that  the  strictest  candidate  for  canoniza- 
tion need  not  scruple  to  share  it. 

But — let  me  remark  in  passing — I  am  very 
far  from  believing  that  Theophrastus  made  the 
foolish  speech  which  is  imputed  to  him.  The 
people  around  his  bed  did  not  exactly  under- 
stand what  he  said,  and  then  some  schoolmaster 
came  along,  a  good  while  after,  and  tried  to 
make  sense  of  it,  and  made  nonsense.  I  would 
bet  that  Theophrastus  meant  neither  more  nor 
less  than  this  ;  that  he  regretted  he  had  not  been 
wise  enough,  sixty  or  seventy  years  before,  to  see 
that  he  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble 
of  studying,  as  art  and  science,  what  Nature 
would  have  taught  him  far  better  and  more 
surely,  without  study,  if  he  had  had  the  sim- 
plicity of  mind  to  heed  her  instruction.  It  was 
not  innocent  Nature  but  his  own  folly  that  he 
blamed,  as  most  men  are  wont  to  do  in  his  case  ; 
although  they  might  as  well  let  it  alone;  for 
what  is  the  use  of  repentance  when  one  has  no 
time  left  for  amendment'? 

Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said,  it  is 
by  no  means  my  intention  to  dispute  the  value, 


132 


W  I E  L  A  N  D. 


whatever  it  may  be,  of  the  above-mentioned  art 
of  life. 

It  has  somewhere  been  said,  that  art  is,  at 
bottom,  nothing  else  than  Nature  herself,  who, 
by  means  of  man,  as  her  most  perfect  instru- 
ment, unfolds  and  brings  to  perfection  under  a 
different  name,  what  before  she  had  merely 
sketched,  as  it  were,  or  hastily  begun.  If  art 
is  that,  and  so  far  as  it  is  that,  it  is  worthy  of 
all  honour. 

Yes,  even  then,  when  it  merely  comes  in  aid 
of  enfeebled  or  corrupted  Nature,  it  is,  like  the 
art  of  medicine,  sometimes  beneficial,  although 
often  just  as  uncertain  and  just  as  ineffectual  as 
that.  When  Nature  no  longer  suffices  for  the 
support  of  life,  then,  to  be  sure,  art  must  patch 
and  prop,  and  plaster  and  doctor  as  well  as  it 
can.  Or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  even  in  this 
case,  the  good,  universal  Mother  has  provided 
for  her  darling  child.  She  has  remedies  in  her 
store-chamber  for  every  wound  or  disease  of 
the  outward  or  the  inward  man,  so  that  art 
has  nothing  to  do  but  to  observe  and  to  exhibit. 
The  simpler  then  the  remedies  are,  the  less  they 
have  been  tampered  with,  the  better  for  the 
sufferer.  And  still,  the  successful  issue  must  be 
expected  from  Nature  alone.  If  she  has  strength 
enough  left  to  raise  herself  up  by  the  hand  of 
art,  well  and  good;  —  if  not,  then,  for  art  too, 
nothing  remains,  but  to  let  the  sick  man  die  and 
to  embalm  the  dead.  Art  cannot  supply  the 
power  of  life  where  it  is  wanting. 

It  was  long  ago  that  philosophy,  on  account 
of  this  resemblance  to  the  healing  art,  received 
the  name  of  "  medicine  for  the  soul."  And 
truly,  this  qualification  seems  better  adapted  to 
secure  its  acceptance,  than  when  it  claims  to 
teach  us  to  live  according  to  the  rules  of  art. 
For  who  that  has  the  free  use  of  his  natural 
powers  does  not  feel  that  he  can  live  without 
it?  On  the  other  hand,  when  it  presents  itself 
only  as  physician,  then  the  well  know  that  they 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

The  Indians  in  the  islands  of  the  South  sea, 
it  seems,  are  unacquainted  with  medicines. 
With  them  slight  wounds  or  illnesses  heal  them- 
selves; and  of  great  ones  they  die  —  as  we  do. 
And  as  they  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  no  idea 
of  a  soul  in  and  of  itself  as  a  man  in  their  ap- 
prehension is  always  a  man,  made  out  of  one 
piece,  so  they  know  nothing  of  particular  dis- 
eases of  the  soul ;  or  if  ever  they  experience 
an  attack  of  this  kind,  the  hunger-cure,  for 
which  they  have  but  too  frequent  opportunity, 
is  generally  the  most  effectual  remedy. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  progress  of 
refinement  in  a  nation  has  gone  so  far,  that 
body  and  soul,  instead  of  being  as  they  should 
be  one  person,  are  treated  as  two  powers  with 
different  interests,  each  having  its  separate 
establishment,  like  naughty  husbands  and  wives; 
what  is  more  natural  than,  that  bad  conse- 
quences should  result  from  such  an  ill-starred 
union1?  Man  is  then  no  longer  that  noble  being 
in  whom  all  is  sense  and  power  and  soul, 


in  whom,  so  to  speak,  everything  corporeal  is 
spiritual,  and  everything  spiritual,  corporeal. 
He  is  an  unnatural,  Centaur-like  compound  of 
animal  and  spirit,  in  which  the  one  lives  at  the 
other's  expense,  in  which  the  animal  creates 
for  itself  necessities,  the  spirit  passions,  projects 
and  aims  of  which  the  natural  man  knows 
nothing.  Each  oppresses,  drags,  worries  and 
exhausts  the  other  as  much  as  it  can,  and  a 
vast  number  of  bodily  and  mental  diseases  are 
the  ultimate  fruit  of  this  putting  asunder  what 
God  had  joined  together.  In  such  cases,  when 
the  evil  has  reached  its  height,  that  "  medical 
art  for  the  soul"  may  offer  its  aid  with  some 
degree  of  success;  and  either  relieve  the  patient 
by  purging,  bleeding  and  clysters  ;  or,  at  least, 
by  means  of  agreeable  opiates,  procure  for  him 
a  delusive  rest. 

But  this  art  has  never  yet  been  found  able  to 
effect  a  radical  cure;  and  we  may  boldly  main- 
tain, that  when  a  nation  has  once  fajlen  into 
the  hands  of  the  two  Goddesses  of  Healing,  it  is 
irrecoverably  lost ;  not  because  one  must  needs 
burst  with  their  medicines,  but  because  when- 
ever they  are  resorted  to,  the  evil  has  already 
proceeded  too  far  to  admit  of  entire  restoration. 

I  said  Philosophy  might  the  rather  maintain 
its  place,  as  healing  art  for  the  soul,  because 
then,  the  well  would  know  that  they  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  it.  But  as  all  arts  love  to 
make  themselves  more  important  than  they 
are,  so  this  art  too  has  found  means  to  impose 
itself  upon  all  the  world  as  indispensable.  Like 
its  sister  art,  which  ministers  to  the  body,  it 
will  not  allow  any  one  to  be  entirely  well.  Ac- 
cording to  its  doctrine  and  its  ideal  of  health, 
the  whole  earth  is  one  great  lazar-house  of 
bodily  and  mental  diseases,  and  there  is  no 
man  well  enough  to  dispense  with  its  prescrip- 
tions. Happily,  this  assumption  is  not  conceded 
to  either  of  these  arts.  Nature  knows  nothing 
of  ideals.  As  long  as  a  man  feels  himself 
sound,  he  has  a  right  to  think  himself  sound  ; 
and,  without  troubling  himself  whether  others 
object  to  that  view  or  not,  he  lives  straight  for- 
ward as  a  healthy  man;  and  (like  Voltaire's 
Zadig)  reads  not  a  letter  of  all  the  learned  dis- 
sertations, in  which  gentlemen  undertake  to 
prove  it  impossible  that  he  should  be  well. 
There  are  cases,  it  is  true,  in  which  a  sick  man 
is  only  the  more  dangerously  sick,  because  un- 
conscious of  his  malady.  But  these  cases  are 
rare,  and  cannot  deprive  the  great  mass  of  those 
who  feel  well,  of  their  traditional  right  to  that 
feeling. 


LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  POET. 

Well  then,  my  young  friend  !  No  man  can 
escape  his  destiny;  and  if  you  too  are  destined 
to  the  laurel-wreath  and  the  dark  cell  of  the 
divine  Tasso,  or  to  the  spital  and  the  postumous 
fame  of  the  Portuguese  Camoens,  can  I,  weak 
mortal,  prevent  it? 


WIEL  AND. 


133 


I  have  heard  your  confession  and  have  pon- 
dered well  the  whole  case.  Your  inward  voca- 
tion seems  indeed  to  admit  of  no  douht. 

Such  tension  of  the  inner  and  the  outer 
senses!  All  so  sharply  tuned  that  the  softest 
breath  of  Nature  causes  the  entire  organ  of  the 
soul  to  vibrate  harmoniously  like  an  iEolian 
harp;  and  every  sensation  gives  back,  with 
heightened  beauty  and  the  purest  accord,  like 
a  perfect  echo,  the  melody  of  the  object,  and 
grows  ever  sweeter  as  it  gradually  dies  away. 

A  memory  in  which  nothing  is  lost,  but  every- 
thing imperceptibly  coalesces  into  that  fine, 
plastic,  half  spiritual  substance  from  which 
Fancy  breathes  forth  its  own  new  and  magical 
creations. 

An  imagination  which,  by  an  involuntary, 
inward  impulse,  idealizes  each  individual  ob- 
ject, clothes  everything  abstract  in  determinate 
forms,  to  the  simple  sign  supplies  impercepti- 
bly ever  the  thing  itself  or  an  image  resembling 
it,  in  short,  which  embodies  all  that  is  spiritual 
and  purifies  and  ennobles  into  spirituality  all 
that  is  material. 

A  warm  and  tender  soul  which  kindles  with 
every  breath,  all  nerve,  sensation  and  sym- 
pathy; which  can  imagine  nothing  dead,  no- 
thing unfeeling  in  Nature,  but  is  ever  ready  to 
impart  its  own  excess  of  life,  feeling,  passion  to 
all  things  about  it,  ever  with  the  greatest  ease 
and  rapidity  to  metamorphose  others  into  itself 
and  itself  into  others. 

A  passionate  love  for  the  wonderful,  the 
beautiful  and  the  sublime  in  the  material  and 
the  moral  world,  a  love  avowed  from  earliest 
youth  and  never  false  to  itself. 

A  heart  which  beats  high  at  every  noble  deed 
and  revolts  with  horror  from  every  bad,  coward- 
ly and  unfeeling  one. 

Add  to  all  this,  together  with  the  most  cheer- 
ful temperament  and  quick  circulation,  an  in- 
born propensity  to  reflect,  to  search  within,  to 
pursue  your  own  thoughts,  to  rove  in  a  world 
of  ideas,  and,  together  with  the  most  social  dis- 
position and  the  most  delicate  vivacity  of  sym- 
pathetic inclinations,  an  ever  predominant  love 
for  solitude,  for  the  silence  of  the  forest,  for 
all  that  promotes  the  quiet  of  the  senses,  all 
that  disengages  the  soul  from  the  burdens  by 
which  it  is  hampered  in  its  free  and  peculiar 
flight,  or  that  rescues  it  from  the  distractions 
which  interrupt  its  inward  occupations. 

To  be  sure,  if  all  this  does  not  constitute 
native  endowment  for  a  poet  to  he,  if  it  is  not 
sufficient  to  assure  a  youth  that — to  speak  with 
the  philosopher  among  the  poets  —  it  is  the 
Muses  themselves  that  have  sent  him  this 
beautiful  phrenzy,  which  he  can  no  more  shake 
off  than  Virgil's  Cumsean  Sibyl  can  shake  off 
the  prophetic  god — * 

Be  easy,  my  friend !  I  recognise  and  reve- 
rence the  indelible  character  by  which  Nature 

*  Wieland,  of  all  writers,  indulges  most  frequently  in 
that  very  convenient  figure  called  aposiopesis  by  the 
rhetoricians,  of  which  the  above  is  a  specimen.  Tr. 


has  consecrated  you  to  the  priesthood  of  the 
Muses,  and  since,  according  to  the  divine  Plato, 
it  is  only  necessary  that  the  Muses'  fury,  in 
order  to  produce  the  finest  effects,  should  seize 
a  tender  and  uncoloured  soul,  I  must  be  greatly 
deceived  or  you  will  do  honour  to  the  theory 
of  our  philosopher. 

I  do  not  consider  it  exactly  an  infallible 
diagnostic  of  a  genuine  inward  vocation, — ne- 
vertheless it  is  generally  at  least  the  case, — that 
an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  the  art  in 
which  they  are  destined  to  excel  manifests 
itself  in  future  virtuosi,  in  poets,  painters,  &c, 
from  their  earliest  youth.  And  this  sign  of 
election,  my  young  friend,  is  also  found  in 
you. 

You  say,  "  As  far  as  I  can  look  back  into  the 
first  years  of  my  life,  I  cannot  remember  the 
time  when  I  did  not  make  verses.  The  inborn 
sensibility  of  my  ear  to  the  music  of  fine  verse, 
the  rapture  which  dissolved  me,  when,  even 
in  my  boyhood,  I  declaimed  certain  passages 
in  which  the  versification  was  particularly 
good  from  ancient  or  modern  poets,  especially 
from  the  .^Eneid  and  Horace's  Odes,  the  often 
repetition  and  dwelling  on  those  lines,  on 
which,  even  when  I  read  them  to  myself,  I 
know  not  what  internal,  spiritual  ear  feasted, 
as  on  the  dying  echo  of  the  song  of  the  Muses, 
— all  this,  with  me,  preceded  instruction.  And 
so  it  came  to  pass,  that  I  made  all  kinds  of 
verses  and  observed  a  number  of  rules  before 
I  had  the  least  idea  —  in  the  way  of  learned 
knowledge — of  prosody,  rhythm,  poetic  num- 
bers, imitative  harmony,  and  the  like.  Nothing 
could  equal  my  love  for  the  poets,  except  the 
ease  with  which  I  understood  them,  the  inter- 
est they  inspired  in  me,  and  the  almost  ecstatic 
rapture  in  which  I  continued  for  hours  in  the 
enjoyment  of  some  particularly  beautiful  pas- 
sage, and  the  visions  which  it  conjured  up  in 
my  soul.  With  Virgil,  Haller,  Milton,  and  the 
five  first  cantos  of  Klopstock,  I  forgot  eating 
and  drinking,  play,  sleep,  myself  and  the 
world.  I  experienced,  indeed,  from  my  early 
youth,  the  same  opposition  from  those  who  had 
charge  of  my  education, — whether  as  a  natural 
or  a  hired  duty, — which  Ovid,  Ariosto,  Tasso, 
and  so  many  other  celebrated  poets  had  to  con- 
tend with.  But  strong  nature  prevailed,  and 
the  Genius,  or  the  evil  Spirit,  as  you  would 
rather  call  it,  that  possessed  me,  was  not  to 
be  expelled,  neither  by  fair  means  nor  foul. 
Even  when  I  made  no  verses,  my  guardians, 
the  enemies  of  the  Muse,  gained  nothing.  All 
the  ideas  and  knowledges  with  which  they 
endeavoured  to  stuff  my  mind,  either  fell 
through  or  were  transmuted  into  poetic  matter. 
Whatever  I  studied,  physics,  metaphysics, 
ethics,  history,  politics, — everything,  with  me, 
was  converted  into  epopee  and  drama.  And 
while  the  teacher,  with  the  air  of  a  mystagogue, 
was  explaining  the  monadology  of  Leibnitz, 
my  imagination  was  developing  the  plan  of  a 
poem  on  the  origin  of  Venus  from  the  foam  of 


134 


WIEL  AND. 


the  sea;  or  I  was  making  the  statue  of  Pyg- 
malion start  into  life  before  my  eyes,  or  I  was 
explaining  to  myself  how  the  great  principle 
of  the  Orphic  cosmogony,  Love,  like  the  lyre 
of  Amphion,  could  unite  the  elements  into  a 
world  by  its  attractive  energy." 

What  can  I  answer,  my  dear  friend,  to  facts 
of  such  potency?  I  seem  to  hear  my  own  his- 
tory. All  this,  word  by  word,  was  my  own 
case,  five  and  thirty  years  ago :  and  if,  not- 
withstanding these  plain  indications  of  Nature, 
I  would  still  keep  you  on  this  side  of  the  dan- 
gerous Rubicon,  I  have  at  least  quite  other  rea- 
sons for  so  doing  than  distrust  of  your  talent 
and  ability. 

The  very  first  flowers  of  the  fertile  soil 
which  has  fallen  to  your  lot,  notwithstanding 
you  think  so  modestly  of  them  yourself,  would 
be  sufficient  to  inspire  me  with  the  fairest  hopes 
respecting  you,  and  the  rather,  precisely  be- 
cause, with  so  decided  a  natural  vocation  and 
so  much  preparatory  discipline  and  years  of 
study,  you  are  still  so  little  satisfied  with  your 
own  productions,  and  are  almost  as  much 
offended  by  praise  which  you  cannot  persuade 
yourself  that  you  have  merited,  as  others  would 
be  by  the  most  merited  censure.  I  know  no 
more  decided  criterion  of  true  talent,  than  this 
difficulty  of  satisfying  one's  self,  this  unwearied 
striving  after  something  higher,  this  unaffected 
contempt  of  present  attainments,  compared 
with  what  one  trusts  hereafter  to  be,  and  this 
delicate  feeling  of  the  beauties  in  the  works  of 
other  men,  and  of  the  deficiencies  in  one's  own  ; 
qualities  which  I  have  so  often  had  occasion 
to  notice  in  you,  and  which  are  so  seldom 
found  in  poets,  young  or  old. 

Wonder  at  me  as  much  as  you  please,  my 
dear  friend !  But  it  is  precisely  my  well- 
grounded  conviction  that  Mother  Nature  really 
designed  to  make  a  poet  of  you,  and  that,  if 
you  should  give  yourself  up  to  your  inclination, 
you  would  become  wholly  a  poet  and  therefore 
lost  for  all  other  modes  of  life, — it  is  even  tins 
that  makes  me  tremble  for  you.  Unhappily, 
the  good  mother  has  thought  of  everything  else 
except  the  one  important  point,  that  she  ought 
to  have  brought  over  Plutus  to  her  plan.  How 
could  she  forget  that  poets,  no  more  than  birds 
of  Paradise,  can  live  on  flower-odours;  and 
that  the  very  man  who  has  all  the  elementary 
Spirits  at  his  command,  and  whom  it  costs  but 
a  stroke  of  the  pen  to  summon  the  most  splen- 
did magic  banquet-table  out  of  the  ground,  is, 
of  all  men  in  the  world,  the  nearest  to  starva- 
tion, unless  by  chance  some  compassionate 
Genius  (who,  however,  is  not  to  be  counted  on) 
has  provided  better  for  him  than  Nature,  the 
Muses,  or  he  himself. 

It  would  be  a  very  different  affair,  indeed, 
if  you  intended  to  follow  the  wise  counsel 
which  Hcrr  Klinggut  gives  his  friend,  to  pursue 
poetry,  which  he  deems  to  be  in  every  point 
of  view  a  very  uncertain  business,  only  as  a 
collateral  employment  by  the  side  of  some 


lucrative  office  or  other  honest  subsistence  in 
the  learned  or  civil  line.  *  •  ■ 

*  *  *  *  ♦ 

But  the  verses,  which  in  that  case,  are  sent 
"to  Dessau  to  the  press,"  are  of  a  quality  con- 
forming; and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
poets  of  narrower  income,  have,  generally, 
very  different  views  in  regard  to  this  matter. 
He  who  makes  verses  only  then  when  he 
knows  of  nothing  else  in  God's  world  to  do, 
will  be  just  such  a  kind  of  poet  as  one,  who 
attends  to  painting  only  in  lost  hours,  will  be  a 
Raffael. 

What  I  now  say  is  between  ourselves.  The 
Graces  forbid  that  I  should  deprive  the  gentle- 
men, who  know  how  to  spend  their  waste 
hours  to  so  good  advantage,  of  their  pastime! 
Suffice  it  that  you,  my  young  friend,  happily 
or  unhappily  for  yourself,  are  not  of  this  cat- 
egory. Your  love  for  the  Muse  is  a  serious 
passion  which  must  decide  the  fate  of  your 
life. 

Yon  will  be  everywhere — in  all  the  events, 
relations,  employments,  business,  sorrows  and 
joys  of  your  earthly  pilgrimage — a  poet.  You 
will  always  think,  feel,  speak,  act  as  only  a 
poet  thinks,  feels,  speaks,  acts ;  and  though,  for 
ten  years  in  succession,  you  should  not  have 
made  a  single  verse,  yet  all  that  you  had  seen, 
heard,  tried,  done,  and  suffered  in  those  ten 
years,  would  either  have  been  poetry  or  have 
been  turned  to  poetry;  and  at  the  end  of  this — 
to  the  Muses,  apparently,  lost — period  of  your 
life,  there  would  lie  more  germs  and  embryos 
of  poems  of  all  kinds  in  your  soul,  than  you 
would  have  time  to  unfold,  though  you  should 
reach  the  age  of  Bodmer  or  of  Nestor. 

But  alas!  this  is  not  all.  You  will  also  com- 
mit follies  which  only  a  poet  can  be  guilty  of. 
With  the  most  fortunate  head  and  the  best  of 
hearts,  you  will  stand,  every  moment,  in  a  false 
light  before  the  world;  you  wi  11  always  hear 
complaints  and  reproaches,  and  still  you  will 
always  injure  only  yourself;  and  whatever  pains 
you  may  take  to  persuade  men  that  you  are  a 
harmless,  innocent,  well-meaning  being,  men 
will  stare  at  you  as  a  strange  animal,  will  not 
know  what  to  make  of  your  way  of  thinking 
and  being,  and  will  entertain,  every  minute, 
serious  doubts  of  your  understanding  and  your 
heart. 

All  this,  my  beloved,  diffuses  very  unpleasant 
consequences  over  the  life  of  the  individual 
who  is  endowed  with  this  admired  and  des- 
pised, envied  and  hated,  flattered  and  almost 
always  badly  rewarded  talent,  which  gives  him 
such  singular  advantages  over  ordinary  men, — 
so  much  power  over  their  imagination,  and  such 
inexhaustible  means  of  helping  himself, — in  his 
own. 

The  golden  fcc&e  jSiaxroft  the  unnoticed,  narrow 
path  through  life — the  eternal  wish  of  all  souls 
which  are  made  for  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  Na- 
ture and  for  living  with  their  own  ideas — will 
become  for  you  a  tree  of  Tantalus.    A  hateful 


W I  E  L  A  N  D. 


135 


celebrity,  which  you  will  find  it  impossible  to 
escape,  will  poison  your  rest  and  inundate  you 
with  an  inexhaustible  flood  of  thousand  -  fold, 
worthless,  but  all  the  more  troublesome,  petty 
annoyances,  which  will  not  even  leave  you  the 
poor  illusion  of  being  at  least  rewarded  with 
love  for  the  pleasure  you  have  conferred  upon 
the  world. 

A  love  for  the  Muses,  like  yours,  generally 
terminates  like  the  passion  of  an  inexperienced 
p#air  of  turtle-dove  souls,  who,  in  the  place  of  all 
other  dower,  bring  to  each  other  an  unbounded 
treasure  of  fondness,  and  have  forgotten  all  pro- 
vision for  the  necessities  of  life  in  the  sweet 
delusion  that  love  will  always  be  meat  and 
drink  to  them.  The  enchanted  lover  by  the 
side  of  his  beloved,  is  perfectly  assured  that  a 
straw-built  shed,  is  a  fairy  palace  ;  that,  with  her 
beaming  eyes,  he  needs  no  light ;  in  her  warm 
bosom,  no  firing ;  in  short,  that,  in  the  ocean  of 
bliss  in  which  his  intoxicated  soul  is  rioting, 
like  the  gods  in  heaven,  be  needs  nothing  ex- 
cept— that  the  sweet  illusion  should  last  forever. 
But  this  is  the  very  point  in  which  he  has  reck- 
oned without  his  host. 

It  has  not  been  considered  that  hours,  days, 
months,  perhaps  whole  years  will  come,  in 
which  fancy,  deprived  of  its  magic  power,  will 
deliver  us  up  to  the  disagreeable  feeling  of  the 
present ;  and  that,  with  its  deceitful  nature,  it 
magnifies  the  evils  which  oppress  us  as  much, 
as,  in  happy  hours,  it  enhances  what  is  pleasant 
in  our  condition.  It  has  not  been  taken  into  the 
account,  that  even  if  it  were  according  to  na- 
ture, never  to  wake  of  ourselves  from  the  beau- 
tiful Endymion-dream  in  which  we  have  been 
lapped,  yet  the  sober  people  about  us  would 
certainly  not  fail,  either  from  good  will  or  ill 
will  to  shake  and  shove  us  until  they  had  played 
us  the  evil  trick  which  the  Corinthian  experi- 
enced at  the  hands  of  his  relatives,  who  drugged 
him  with  hellebore  until  all  the  splendid  trage- 
dies disappeared,  which  he  thought  he  saw  on 
the  empty  boards. 

This  circumstance  alone  would  be  sufficient 
to  justify  all  my  solicitude  regarding  the  way 
of  life  on  which  you  are  about  to  enter.  The 
true  poet,  however  rare — according  to  the  afore- 
said Herr  Klinggut  —  the  louisd'or  and  the 
sugarplums  may  be  with  him,  yet  finds  himself 
in  about  the  same  situation  in  which  a  possessor 
of  the  philosopher's  stone  might  be.  Both  per- 
haps— the  one  with  his  talisman  in  his  head 
and  heart,  the  other  with  his  powder  in  his 
pocket — might  be  happy,  if  it  were  only  possible 
to  conceal  their  secret  from  all  the  world.  But 
since  this  is  out  of  the  question,  they  may  both 
be  sure  that  means  enow  will  be  found  to  make 
them  pay  dearly  for  the  advantage  which  they 
possess  over  other  honest  people. 

When,  my  friend,  I  indulge  these  fears  for 
your  future  happiness,  the  louisd'or  and  the 
sugarplums  are  the  least  that  I  am  thinking  of. 
The  latter,  with  all  things  thereto  pertaining, 
confectionary  and  wines, — all,  except  the  order- 


insignia,  you  will  come  to  taste,  it  may  be,  but 
too  often;  and  so  much  money  as  a  poet  needs 
who  lays  no  claims  to  a  villa  like  Boileau's  and 
Pope's,  or  even  to  a  Ferney,  may  also  be  found. 
Horace  dined  as  often  as  he  pleased,  at  the  ta- 
bles of  the  great  at  Rome,  resided  as  often  and 
as  long  as  he  pleased,  in  the  splendid  house  of 
Maecenas  or  in  his  elegant  villa  at  Tibur,  had 
his  own  little  Sabinum,  —  knew  scarcely  any 
other  plague  than  those  which  he  had  to  endure 
from  authors,  from  the  Public,  from  his  own 
celebrity,  through  the  misfortune  of  being  the 
first  lyric  poet  of  Rome ;  and  yet  he  was  often 
so  hard  pressed  with  all  this,  that,  notwithstand- 
ing his  love  for  the  Muses,  he  swore  he  would 
be  hanged  if  he  had  not  rather  sleep  away  his 
time  than  to  make  verses. 

Read  what  this  amiable  poet — a  refined  man 
of  the  world,  as  well  as  a  man  of  genius  and 
distinguished  acquirements — says  in  many  parts 
of  his  letters,  especially  in  the  nineteenth,  to 
Maecenas,  and  in  the  second  of  the  second  book, 
to  Julius  Florus,  of  the  discomforts  and  plagues 
of  the  poet's  calling.  And  read  also,  if  you 
please,  the  notes  of  his  newest  commentator,* 
who  appears  to  have  understood  the  author 
more  clearly  and  intimately  than  many  others, 
for  the  simple  reason,  that  he  had  had  very 
much  the  same  experience  himself.  Since  we 
must  once  for  all  fulfil  our  destiny,  it  is  well 
at  least  to  know  what  we  have  to  expect,  and 
how  much  or  how  little  we  can  build  on  those 
receipts  which  are  considered  the  surest. 

Among  all  the  beautiful  visions  which  cheer 
and  animate  a  young  poet,  when  he  enters  on 
the  long  and  painful  career  whose  goal  so  few 
of  the  thousands  that  run  in  it  ever  reach,  the 
most  delightful  perhaps  is  this  :  1  the  hope  that 
something  more  than  applause,  —  the  empty 
digito  monstrari  et  dicier  hie  est — that  the  love  of 
the  nation  for  which  he  labours,  will  be  the 
prize  of  his  unwearied  efforts.'  Do  not,  my 
friend,  flatter  yourself  with  so  vain  a  hope.  The 
highest  on  which  you  can  count  are  moments 
of  favour,  brief  effervescences  occasioned  by  the 
pleasure  which  you  have  conferred  upon  us  in 
these  moments,  and  for  which  it  is  thought  that 
you  are  abundantly  recompensed  by  the  conde- 
scension which  permits  itself  to  be  entertained 
by  you.  From  the  moment  that  we  perceive 
or  imagine  that  you  are  striving  for  our  appro- 
bation, we  look  upon  you  with  the  same  eyes 
with  which  we  regard  all  other  pretenders  to 
the  character  of  virtuosi  in  the  entertaining  arts, 
and  you  stand,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  on 
the  same  level  with  jugglers,  rope-dancers,  and 
histrionic  performers.  All  your  exertions  to  at- 
tain a  high  degree  of  perfection  we  regard  as 
simply  your  duty,  and  wo  unto  you,  if  you  do 
not  always  surpass  yourself,  or  ever  hold  your- 
self at  liberty  to  sleep  upon  your  laurels! 

You  will  not  find  this  thought  very  encourag- 
ing; but  I  have  not  yet  told  you  the  worst. 


*  Wieland  here  refers  to  himself.  Tr. 


136 


W I E  L  A  N  D. 


Your  relation  to  the  Public,  as  poet,  is  much  less 
advantageous  than  if  you  had  the  honour  to  be 
a  great  Kadenzen-macher  or  the  Parisian  Grand- 
Diable.  For  these  arts,  every  man  possesses  a 
standard  of  perfection,  and  can  judge,  with 
more  or  less  correctness,  how  much  is  required 
to  perform  this  or  that  miracle.  But  with  the 
poetic  art  the  contrary  is  the  case.  Among  a 
thousand  readers,  scarcely  one  has  a  clear  and 
definite  idea  of  the  difficulties  and  of  the  highest 
in  art.  The  readers  or  hearers  know  whether 
the  poet  interests  them  or  makes  them  gape. 
But  that  is  all.  And,  since  a  very  indifferent 
and  a  very  careless  work  may  have  something 
interesting  as  well  as  a  masterpiece,  you  may 
expect  that  when  your  work  has  ceased  to  be 
the  curiosity  of  the  fair,*  the  first  novel  which 
is  new,  which  has  a  little  wit,  here  and  there 
an  astonishment,  a  pathetic  passage,  or  a  slip- 
pery picture,  will  seize  the  attention  of  the  read- 
ing world  and  displace  your  work  though  all 
the  nine  Muses  had  helped  you  produce  it.  Do 
not  hope,  by  any  strain  of  your  faculties,  by  any 
ideal  perfection  for  which  you  have  striven 
with  all  the  powers  of  your  mind,  to  obtain 
what,  according  to  your  ideas  of  art,  and  with 
a  full  consciousness  of  what  you  have  accom- 
plished, seems  to  you  but  simple  justice.  That 
you  will  never  obtain  ;  not  because  men  intend 
to  deny  you  justice,  but  because  they  have  no 
conception  of  all  that  which  it  is  necessary  to 
know,  in  order  to  render  it. 

When  a  poetical  work,  in  addition  to  all  other 
essential  qualities  of  a  good  poem,  is  what  Ho- 
race calls  totum  teres  atque  rotundum,  when,  to- 
gether with  the  finest  polish,  it  possesses  the 
greatest  ease,  when  the  language  is  uniformly 
pure,  the  expression  always  adequate,  the 
rhythm  always  music,  when  the  rhyme  always 
comes  of  itself  in  its  proper  place  without  be- 
ing foreseen,  when  the  whole  stands  forth  as 
if  cast  at  one  casting  or  blown  with  one  breath, 
and  nowhere  shows  a  trace  of  labour  or  effort, 
it  may  be  set.  down  as  certain  that  such  a  pro- 
duction has  cost  the  poet,  whatever  his  talent, 
infinite  pains.  That  lies  in  the  nature  of  the 
case ;  and  since  perhaps  there  is  no  European 
language  in  which  it  is  more  difficult  to  com- 
pose beautiful  verses  than  in  ours,  the  labour 
and  the  effort  required  to  arrive  at  any  degree 
of  perfection  in  such  a  language  must  be  pro- 
portionally greater. 

But  do  not  fancy,  if  ever  you  should  succeed 
in  producing  such  a  work,  that  the  reader  will 
give  you  the  least  credit  for  that  which  you 
have  performed  over  and  above  what  was  re- 
quired. He  would  have  been  quite  satisfied, 
as  daily  experience  shows,  with  less.  Nay, 
what  is  worst  of  all,  this  very  ease,  this  smooth- 
ness, this  roundness  which  has  cost  you  so 
much,  and  which  the  occasional  but  rare  con- 
noisseur acknowledges  with  becoming  coolness, 


*  New  publications  in  Germany  are  generally  brought 
out  at  the  semi-annual  fair  of  Leipsic.  Tr. 


will  only  injure  your  work  with  the  great  mass. 
"  I  suppose  it  does  not  cost  you  the  least  trouble 
to  write  such  verses,"  is  the  compliment  which 
will  greet  you  on  every  side.  And  as  men  are 
accustomed  to  estimate  a  work  in  proportion  to 
the  apparent  difficulty  of  producing  it,  so  yours 
will  incur  a  kind  of  contempt  on  account  of  that 
very  thing  on  which  you  have  most  congratu- 
lated yourself.  It  will  be  read  perhaps  with 
more  pleasure  than  many  other  works  of  the 
same  season.  But  because  men  think  that  no 
thing  is  easier  than  for  you  to  manufacture  such 
things,  you  will  scarcely  have  finished  one  be- 
fore people  will  expect  of  you  another  like  it, 
as  if  you  had  done  nothing  as  yet.  And  if  you 
are  so  disobliging  or  lazy  or  unfruitful,  as  not 
to  fulfil  the  expectation  of  your  patrons  with  all 
speed,  some  new  fabrication  which  contains 
something  to  laugh  at  or  to  weep  at,  will  take 
the  attention  of  the  leisure  world  and  the  work 
on  which  your  whole  soul  has  impressed  itself, 
the  work  of  your  love,  of  your  night  watches, 
the  work  for  which  you  have  summoned  all  your 
powers,  on  which  you  have  expended  all  your 
talent,  all  your  knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of 
art,  will  be  confounded  with  the  mushrooms 
which  spring  up  in  a  single  night,  will  be  thrown 
into  a  corner,  and,  in  a  short  time,  be  as  clean 
forgotten  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

All  this,  my  friend,  is  something  so  natural, 
such  an  everyday  affair,  it  has  been  from  the 
same  causes  so  universal  in  all  nations,  at  least 
in  certain  periods,  that  it  would  be  ridiculous 
to  complain  of  it.  True,  it  is  not  very  pleasant 
to  be  surprised  with  experiences  of  this  kind; 
and,  at  the  moment  when  this  shall  happen  to 
you,  you  will  be  more  than  once  tempted  to 
envy  the  happiness  of  every  honest  Boeotian 
who,  with  just  that  portion  of  human  sense 
which  he  brought  with  him,  eats  his  bread  in 
the  sweat  of  his  face,  and,  for  want  of  the 
doubtful  advantage  of  having  ten  thousand  peo- 
ple whom  he  never  saw  mentioning  his  name 
and  undertaking  to  pass  judgment  on  him  and 
his  merits  or  demerits,  is  richly  indemnified  by 
the  enjoyment  of  a  life  which  glides  unknown 
but  peacefully  down  the  stream  of  time. 

I  should  never  have  done  if  I  were  to  reckon 
up  to  you  all  the  varieties  of  vexation  and  dis- 
comfort which  await  you  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Aganippe,  which  is  the  perilous  Rubicon  for 
you.  I  doubt  not  that,  as  to  many  of  them.  I 
should  tell  you  nothing  but  what  you  knew  be- 
fore. But  do  not  forget  to  take  into  the  account 
the  delicate  sensibility  and  irritability  of  a  poetic 
organization.  A  thousand  things  which  will  em- 
bitter your  life  are  trifles  in  themselves  consi- 
dered ;  but  for  the  nervous  system,  for  the 
imagination,  for  the  heart  of  a  poet,  they  will 
be  heavy  sorrows.  A  single  perverse  or  mali- 
cious criticism,  one  stupid  look  of  a  hearer  at  a 
passage  which  ought  to  have  given  him  an 
electric  shock,  or  the  question :  "  What  was 
your  meaning  in  that  passage?"  at  some  deli- 
cate stroke  of  irony,  will  render  you  insensible 


137 


to  the  approbation  of  thousands  ;  and  for  the 
sake  of  one  such  citation  as  you  have  seen  of 
some  quite  virginal  stanza  of  a  favourite  poem 
in  a  book  where  you  certainly  did  not  expect  it, 
a  citation  or  rather  adulteration  by  some  harm- 
less academic  philosopher,  who  wished  to  honour 
the  poet,  you  will  wish  that  you  could  annihi- 
late your  best  work. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  treatment  you  have  to 
expect  from  others,  brothers  in  art,  connoisseurs, 
critics,  reviewers,  &c.  You  will,  if  I  am  not 
greatly  deceived  in  you,  adopt  Horace's  method 
in  regard  to  all  gentlemen  of  this  description. 
Expect  then  also  Horace's  fate ;  that  is,  to  be 
read  with  pleasure  in  secret,  to  be  deluged  with 
praise  to  your  face,  and  publicly  to  be  honoured 
on  every  occasion  with  critical  shrugging  of  the 
shoulders,  or  at  best  with  silence.  A  common 
soldier  who  by  mere  dint  of  talent  and  merit 
should  rise  to  the  office  of  field-marshal,  would 
be  a  great  rarity.  But  an  author  who,  without 
belonging  to  a  clique,  without  having  made  dis- 
ciples, without  having  let  his  reputation  to  the 
potentates  of  the  Republic  of  Letters  for  the 
time  being,  without  having  adopted  young  au- 
thors in  clientele,  and  so  created  for  himself  a 
sturdy  band  of  followers  who  shall  be  always 
ready  to  attack  with  foot  and  fist  all  who  may 
have  incurred  the  disfavour  of  their  patron :  an 
author,  I  say,  who,  without  all  these  aids,  and, 
what  must  not  be  forgotten,  without  being  pro- 
tected by  the  segis  of  golden  mediocrity,  should 
arrive  merely  by  his  own  merits  at  the  quiet 
possession  of  an  undisputed  property  in  fame 
and  authority  with  his  contemporaries,  would 
be  a  still  greater  rarity.  Strange  things  some- 
times happen  in  this  world,  and  some  one  may 
win  the  golden  prize;  but  who  can  calculate 
that  he  shall  be  that  one? 

On  the  whole,  if  an  extended  and  decided 
fame,  and  the  advantages  connected  therewith 
are  the  goal  for  which  you  run,  you  may  pre- 
pare yourself  betimes  to  find  every  conceivable 
hindrance  in  your  way,  and  at  last  perhaps  to 
see  people  arrive  there  before  you.  who,  instead 
of  running  in  the  prescribed  path,  jump  the 
barriers,  cut  across  the  field,  and  by  a  happy 
impudence  appropriate  the  prize  which  they 
never  could  have  won  in  the  ordinary  course. 
"The  race  is  not  to  the  swift,"  says  Solomon, 
"nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  but  time  and 
chance  happeneth  to  all." 

You  know,  my  dear  friend,  how  many  reasons 
I  have  for  feeling  the  liveliest  interest  in  your 
affairs.  I  see  you  entering  on  a  path  which 
probably  will  not  lead  you  to  the  temple  of  For- 
tune ;  and  yet  I  have  not  the  heart  to  keep  you 
back.  I  myself  love  the  art,  to  which  you  are 
about  to  devote  yourself  with  such  decided 
capacity,  too  well  not  to  experience  a  kind  of 
inward  rebuke  when  seeking  to  deter  you  from 
it.  And  how  can  I  help  foreseeing  the  answer 
with  which  you  will  beat  to  the  ground  at 
once  all  that  I  can  oppose  to  your  resolution  ? 
Nor  is  it  my  design  to  deter  you ;  I  would  only 
s 


compel  you,  before  you  choose  your  part  for 
ever,  to  consider  the  dangers  and  discomforts 
of  the  path  which  seems  to  you  so  charming. 

In  Horace's  day,  poetry  chanced  to  be  the 
way  in  which  a  kind  of  fortune  could  be  made. 
He  says  it  was  necessity,  which  dares  every- 
thing, that  impelled  him  to  make  verses. 

Ibit  eo  quo  vis,  qui  zonam  perdidit. 

With  us,  I  fear,  it  is  just  the  reverse.  The  nar- 
row path  across  the  Helicon  is  generally  the 
direct  road  into  the  arms  of  the  beggarly  god- 
dess whom  Horace  wished  to  escape.  Perhaps 
you  may  live  to  witness  a  happier  day  for  the 
German  Muses.  Perhaps  some  other  prince  is 
destined  to  realize  the  glory  which  was  despised 
by  the  great  king,*  who,  after  forty  years  laden 
with  every  other  kind  of  fame,  in  which  he  had 
done  nothing  for  our  literature,  and  was  en- 
tirely unacquainted  with  it,  finally  contented 
himself  with  the  merit  of  publicly  upbraiding 
us  with  its  barrenness  and  defects.  Perhaps — 
but  no ! — these  hopeful  perhapses  are  after  all 
very  uncertain,  and  in  fact  far  more  improba- 
ble than  many  now  dream.  Rather  therefore 
picture  to  yourself  the  worst;  and  since,  in  any 
case,  you  have  no  great  talent  for  the  philosophy 
of  Aristippus,  and  are  not  strongly  disposed, 
whatever  the  advantages  to  be  gained  by  it,  to 
expend  much  incense  on  the  gods  of  this  world, 
or  on  those  who  dispense  their  favours,  exa- 
mine yourself  carefully,  whether  in  the  lap  of 
your  beloved  Muse  you  can  be  happy  with  a 
meal  of  potatoes  and  cold  water? 

And  if  then,  my  friend,  all  things  considered, 
you  are  resolved  to  venture,  promise  me  with 
hand  and  mouth  (since  I  have  told  you  before- 
hand the  worst  that  can  happen)  never  in  your 
life,  however  it  may  fare  with  you,  to  complain 
of  the  envy  of  your  rivals  and  guild-brethren, 
of  the  indifference  of  the  great,  and  the  ingrati- 
tude of  the  Public. 

Nothing  is  at  once  more  unjust  and  more 
foolish  than  to  whine  because  things  are  as  they 
have  always  been,  and  because  the  world,  in- 
stead of  revolving  around  our  own  dear  little 
self,  in  its  eternal  on-rush  takes  us  along  with 
it,  like  imperceptible  atoms,  without  being  aware 
of  it. 

Mankind  around  us,  from  the  greatest  to  the 
least,  have  so  much  to  do  with  themselves  and 
their  own  necessities,  so  much  with  their  own 
plans,  wants,  passions  and  the  momentary  sug- 
gestions of  the  good  or  evil  Demon,  which  every 
one,  will  he  or  nill  he,  must  bear  on  his  shoul- 
ders, that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  if  they  do 
not  trouble  themselves  much  about  our  affairs. 
And  yet,  if  you  help  a  man  in  his  need  or  con- 
fer a  pleasure  upon  him  when,  where,  and  as 
he  desires,  he  will  thank  you  for  it  sincerely  at 
the  moment.  But  how  can  we  demand  of  him 
that  he  should  thank  us  also  for  unasked  and 
unavailing  services,  or  that  he  shall  feel  obliged 


*  Frederic  II.  Tr. 
12* 


138 


W  I  EL  AND. 


to  us  when  we  have  sung  his  ears  full  at  the 
wrong  time?  How  can  we  demand  that  other 
men,  amid  the  pressure  of  their  business,  cares, 
dissipations,  entertainments,  shall  attach  the 
same  importance  that  we  do  to  the  art  which 
we  pursue,  the  objects  with  which  our  soul  is 
filled,  the  work  with  which  we  are  occupied 
and  with  which  they  perhaps  do  not  know 
what  in  God's  world  to  do.  How  can  we 
reasonably  demand  that  they  should  have  as 
practised  an  ear  for  the  music  of  our  verses, 
that  they  should  notice  the  finer  beauties  of  a 
poetic  picture  as  accurately  or  estimate  them  as 
highly  as  if  they  had  made  such  matters  a 
special  study  for  many  years? 

It  lies  in  the  nature  of  things  that  much  in 
works  of  wit,  of  taste,  of  art,  must  be  lost  to  the 
mere  amateur.  But  the  Public  are  not  therefore 
unjust  toward  writers  of  distinguished  merit  nor 
without  a  feeling  of  the  value  of  the  master- 
pieces of  the  poetic  art.  See  how  well  every 
day  manufactures,  sine  pondere  et  arte,  are  re- 
ceived, where  there  is  anything  in  them  that 
can  please.  The  reading  world  wishes  to  be 
entertained  and  amused  in  a  great  variety  of 
ways,  and  it  loves  variety  so  much,  that  an 
author  must  be  altogether  insipid  who  does  not 
succeed  in  attracting  notice,  and  in  being  for  a 
time  at  least  distinguished  among  the  daily  in- 
creasing crowd  of  competitors.  Even  in  the 
easiest  and  most  artless  kind, — that  which  has 
scarcely  anything  of  poetry,  except  vividness  of 
expression  and  rhyme  —  wit  or  humour  or  the 
felicitous  ejaculation  of  a  momentary  feeling  is 
enough  to  make  an  author  beloved  and  esteemed 
by  a  nation.  Let  not  the  fault  therefore  be  in 
yourself,  my  young  friend.  Deserve  public  ap- 
probation, and  it  will  not  be  denied  you.  Spread 
all  your  saiis,  and,  not  content  with  ordinary 
prizes,  enrich  our  literature  with  works  which, 
instead  of  entertaining  for  the  moment  only, 
shall  possess  themselves  of  the  entire  soul  of 
the  reader,  bring  all  his  organs  of  sensation  into 
play,  warm  and  enchant  his  imagination  with 
an  unbroken  illusion,  afford  nourishment  to  his 
mind,  and  to  his  heart  the  sweet  enjoyment  of 
its  best  feelings, — its  moral  sense,  its  interest  in 
others'  joys  and  sorrows,  its  admiration  of  all 
that  is  beautiful  and  great  in  Humanity.  And, 
depend  upon  it,  the  Public  will  feel  all  the  gra- 
titude for  such  a  work,  which  you  can  reason- 
ably desire. 

I  add  this  clause,  because  it  would  be  mad- 
ness to  expect  more  of  men  than  they  can  give. 
And  by  what  right  do  authors  alone  demand 
from  their  nation  more  justice,  more  gratitude, 
more  equality  and  constancy  than  any  other 
man  of  merit — in  whatever  category  he  may  be 
—can  expect  from  it? 

I  have  thought  this  little  digression  necessary, 
that  you  may  not  consider  that,  which  I  have 
now  stated  merely  as  fact  respecting  the  dis- 
agreeable circumstances  in  the  life  of  a  poet,  as 
a  lamentation  wrung  from  me  by  the  feeling  or 
the  memory  of  my  own  experiences.    In  every 


conceivable  mode  of  life  and  in  all  conceivable 
circumstances,  the  life  of  man  is  compassed 
about  with  manifold  actual,  imaginary,  natural 
and  self-made  plagues  ;  and  in  the  surprise  of 
the  moment,  a  very  small  pain  may  sometimes 
extort  from  us  a  loud  cry.  But  who  would  be 
in  despair  at  unavoidable,  universal  and  there- 
fore very  endurable  ills?  Quisque  suos  patimur 
manes.  It  needed  no  reference  to  my  own  case, 
in  order  to  speak  to  you  of  universal  experiences, 
common  to  all  times  and  to  all  nations  where 
literature  has  flourished. 

You,  my  friend,  know  me  well  enough  to 
know  that  I  am  satisfied  with  my  lot  in  every 
point  of  view.  From  my  youth  up,  I  have  loved 
art  more  than  what  is  called  fame  and  success; 
and  always  the  unadulterated  feeling  of  a  few 
noble  souls,  the  unexpected  kind-hearted  thanks 
of  some  brave,  upright  man,  who  could  have  no 
private  purposes  in  praising  me,  have  been 
more  to  me  than  the  calm  approbation  of  the 
connoisseur  or  the  loud  applause  of  the  multi- 
tude; although,  in  a  career  of  more  than  thirty 
years,  these  too  have  not  been  wanting.  But  I 
should  arrogate  to  myself  a  merit  to  which  I 
have  no  claim,  were  I  to  deny  that,  after 
spending  the  greater  part  of  my  life  in  the 
service  of  the  Muses,  I  have  done  more  for  my- 
self than  for  others.  It  was  the  pure  truth— 
and  will  probably  remain  true  to  the  end  of  my 
days — that  I  said  to  my  Muse,  from  the  fulness 
of  my  heart,  more  than  fifteen  years  ago,  when 
living  at  the  farthest  extreme  of  South  Germany, 
entirely  secluded  from  our  Parnassus  and  with- 
out any  literary  connexions, 

If  thou  pleasest  not,  if  world  and  connoisseur  agree 

To  disparage  thy  merit, 

Let  thy  consolation  be,  in  this  calamity, 

That  with  sweet  pains  thou  hast  conferred  much  joy  on  me. 

Thou  art  still,  O  Muse !  the  happiness  of  my  life, 

And  if  no  one  listens  to  thee,  thou  singest  to  me  alone. 

I  am  greatly  mistaken  if,  in  the  course  of 
your  life,  this  sentiment  does  not  become  your 
sentiment  also.  And  so,  whichever  way  your 
fate  may  lead  you,  I  have  still  this  consolation 
always,  that  a  fountain  of  happiness  is  spring- 
ing up  within  you,  which  can  sweeten  every 
care  of  life  and  double  the  enjoyment  of  its 
highest  pleasures,  and  which,  even  when  it 
begins  to  fail,  will  still  have  a  few  nectar-drops 
left  for  your  solace,  in  the  days  in  which  we 
have  no  pleasure. 


ON  THE  RELATION  OF  THE  AGREE- 
ABLE AND  THE  BEAUTIFUL  TO  THE 
USEFUL. 

Balzac,  whose  "  Letters,"  once  so  admired, 
would  furnish  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  anti- 
theses, concetti  and  other  witticisms  for  epi- 
grammatists by  profession,  was  often  in  the 
predicament  of  saying  something  very  flat  when 
he  imagined  that  he  had  said  something  very 
ingenious.    Nevertheless,  he  sometimes  made 


WIEL 


a  good  hit,  as  one  who  spends  his  whole  life 
in  chasing  after  thoughts  necessarily  must. 

In  the  following  passage  I  am  pleased  with 
the  concluding  thought,  notwithstanding  its  epi- 
grammatic turn,  on  account  of  the  simplicity 
and  luminous  truth  of  the  image  in  which  it  is 
clothed.  "We  must  have  books,''  he  says,  "for 
recreation  and  entertainment,  as  well  as  books 
for  instruction  and  for  business.  The  former 
are  agreeable,  the  latter  useful ;  and  the  human 
mind  requires  both.  The  Canon-law  and  the 
codes  of  Justinian  shall  have  due  honour,  and 
reign  at  the  universities,  but  Homer  and  Virgil 
need  not  therefore  be  banished.  We  will  cul- 
tivate the  olive  and  the  vine,  but  without  era- 
dicating the  myrtle  and  the  rose." 

I  have  two  remarks  to  make,  however,  re- 
specting this  passage.  In  the  first  place,  Balzac 
concedes  too  much  to  those  pedants,  who  turn 
up  their  noses  at  the  favourites  of  the  Muses 
and  their  works,  when  he  reckons  the  Homers 
and  the  Virgils  among  the  merely  agreeable 
writers.  Antiquity,  more  wise  in  this  respect, 
thought  differently  ;  and  Horace  maintains  with 
good  reason,  that  there  is  more  practical  phi- 
losophy to  be  learned  from  Homer  than  from 
Crantor  and  Chrysippus. 

In  the  next  place,  it  seems  to  me  on  the 
whole  to  indicate  rather  a  mercantile  than  a 
philosophical  way  of  thinking,  when  people 
place  the  agreeable  and  the  useful  in  opposition 
to  each  other,  and  look  upon  the  former  with  a 
kind  of  contempt  in  comparison  with  the  latter. 

Presuming  that  what  we  understand  by  the 
agreeable  is  something  that  violates  neither 
law  nor  duty  nor  sound  moral  sentiment,  I 
say  that  the  useful,  as  opposed  to  the  agreeable 
and  the  beautiful,  is  common  to  us  with  the 
lowest  brute ;  and  that  when  we  love  and 
honour  that  which  is  useful  in  this  sense,  we 
do  only  what  the  ox  and  the  ass  do  likewise. 
The  value  of  such  utility  depends  on  the  greater 
or  less  degree  of  indispensableness  which  at- 
taches to  it.  So  far  therefore  as  a  thing  is 
necessary  to  the  preservation  of  the  human 
species  and  of  civil  society,  so  far  it  is  good 
indeed,  but  not  on  that  account  excellent.  Ac- 
cordingly, we  desire  the  useful,  not  on  its  own 
account,  but  only  on  account  of  certain  advan- 
tages which  we  derive  from  it.  The  beautiful 
on  the  other  hand  we  love  by  virtue  of  an  in- 
trinsic superiority  of  our  nature  over  the  merely 
animal.  For  man  alone  of  all  animals  is 
endowed  with  a  delicate  feeling  for  order  and 
beauty  and  grace.  Hence,  he  is  so  much  the 
more  perfect,  so  much  the  more  a  man,  the 
more  extended  and  intense  his  love  for  the 
beautiful,  and  the  greater  the  refinement  and 
accuracy  with  which,  by  mere  sensation,  he 
can  distinguish  different  degrees  and  kinds  of 
beauty.  And  therefore,  moreover,  it  is  only 
the  beautiful  in  art  as  well  as  in  the  mode  of 
life  and  in  morals,  that  distinguishes  social, 
developed,  refined  man  from  savages  and  bar- 
barians.   Nay,  all  the  arts  without  exception, 


AND.  139 


and  the  sciences  too,  owe  their  growth  almost 
exclusively  to  this  love  for  the  beautiful  and 
the  perfect,  inherent  in  man,  and  would  still 
be  infinitely  removed  from  that  degree  of  per- 
fection to  which  they  have  risen  in  Europe,  if 
men  had  attempted  to  confine  them  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  the  necessary  and  the  useful, 
in  the  common  acceptation  of  those  words. 

Socrates  did  so,  and  if  ever  he  was  mistaken 
in  anything,  it  was  in  this.  Keppler  and 
Newton  would  never  have  discovered  the  laws 
of  the  mundane  system, —  the  noblest  product 
of  human  thought, —  if,  in  conformity  with  his 
precepts,  they  had  confined  geometry  to  mere 
mensuration,  and  astronomy  to  the  mere  neces- 
sities of  travel  by  land  and  sea,  and  to  the 
making  of  almanacs. 

Socrates  exhorted  painters  and  sculptors  to 
combine  the  agreeable  and  the  beautiful  with 
the  useful ;  just  as  he  urged  mimic  dancers  to 
ennoble  the  pleasure  which  their  art  was 
capable  of  yielding,  and  to  entertain  the  heart 
together  with  the  senses.  According  to  the 
same  principle,  he  behoved  to  admonish  those 
labourers  who  occupy  themselves  with  things 
essential,  to  combine  the  useful  as  far  as  pos- 
sible with  the  beautiful.  But  to  deny  the  name 
of  beautiful  lo  everything  that  is  not  useful  is 
to  confound  ideas. 

It  is  true,  Nature  herself  has  established  a 
relation  between  the  useful,  and  the  beautiful 
and  graceful.  But  these  are  not  desirable  be- 
cause they  are  useful,  but  because  it  is  the 
nature  of  man  to  enjoy  a  pure  satisfaction  in 
the  contemplation  of  them,  a  satisfaction 
altogether  similar  to  that  which  we  derive 
from  the  contemplation  of  moral  excellence, 
and  as  much  a  want  of  rational  beings  as 
food,  clothing,  shelter,  are  wants  of  the  animal 
man. 

I  say  of  the  animal  man  because  they  are 
common  to  him  with  all  other,  or  at  least,  with 
most  other  animals.  But  neither  these  animal 
necessities,  nor  the  power  and  the  effort  to 
satisfy  them,  constitute  him  a  man.  In  pro- 
viding food,  in  building  his  nest,  in  choosing  a 
mate,  in  training  his  young,  in  battling  with 
others  who  would  deprive  him  of  his  food,  or 
take  possession  of  his  dwelling, — in  all  this  he 
acts,  materially  considered,  as  an  animal.  It 
is  the  way  and  manner  in  which  man — unless 
reduced  to  the  condition  of  a  brute,  and  kept 
therein  by  cogent,  external  circumstances — per- 
forms these  animal  functions,  that  distinguishes 
him  from  and  raises  him  above  all  other  orders 
of  animals,  and  characterizes  his  humanity. 
For  this  animal  that  calls  itself  man,  and  this 
only,  possesses  an  inborn  feeling  for  beauty  and 
order,  possesses  a  heart  disposed  to  communi- 
cation of  itself,  to  sympathy  with  sorrow  and 
with  joy,  and  to  an  infinite  diversity  of  agree- 
able and  beautiful  sentiments.  Only  this  ani- 
mal possesses  a  strong  propensity  to  imitate 
and  to  create,  and  labours  unceasingly  to  im- 
prove what  he  has  invented  and  made. 


140 


WIEL  AND, 


All  these  qualities  together  distinguish  him 
essentially  from  other  animals,  make  him  their 
lord  and  master,  subject  land  and  sea  to  his 
dominion,  and  lead  him  from  step  to  step  so 
far,  that,  by  the  almost  unlimited  extension  of 
his  artistic  powers,  he  is  enabled  to  transform 
Nature  herself,  and,  from  the  materials  which 
she  furnishes,  to  create  for  himself  a  new 
world,  more  perfectly  adapted  to  his  particular 
ends. 

The  first  thing,  in  which  man  displays  this 
his  superiority,  is  the  refinement  and  ennobling 
of  all  those  wants,  impulses  and  functions 
which  he  has  in  common  with  other  animals. 
The  time  which  he  requires  for  this  purpose  is 
not  to  be  considered.  Enough  that  he  finally 
arrives  at  that  point  where  he  is  no  longer 
necessitated  to- beg  his  sustenance  from  mere 
chance,  and  where  the  greater  certainty  of  a 
richer  and  better  support  allows  him  leisure  to 
think  also  of  perfecting  the  other  necessities  of 
life.  He  invents  one  art  after  another,  and 
each  increases  the  security  or  the  pleasure  of 
his  existence.  And  so  he  ascends  continually 
from  the  indispensable  to  the  convenient,  from 
the  convenient  to  the  beautiful. 

The  natural  society  into  which  he  is  born, 
combined  with  the  necessity  of  securing  him- 
self against  the  injurious  consequences  of  a  too 
great  extension  of  the  human  species,  leads  him 
at  last  to  civil  society  and  civilized  modes  of  life. 

But  here  too,  no  sooner  has  he  provided  for 
the  necessary,  for  the  means  of  internal  and 
external  security,  than  we  find  him  occupied, 
in  thousand-fold  ways,  with  beautifying  this 
his  new  condition.  Imperceptibly  small  vil- 
lages are  transformed  into  large  cities,  the 
abodes  of  the  arts  and  of  commerce,  and  points 
of  union  for  the  different  nations  of  the  earth. 
Man  spreads  himself  ever  farther  in  all  senses 
and  in  all  directions.  Navigation  and  traffic 
multiply  relations  and  pursuits  by  multiplying 
the  wants  and  the  goods  of  life.  Wealth  and 
luxury  refine  every  art  whose  mother  was  want 
and  necessity;  leisure,  ambition,  and  public 
encouragement  promote  the  growth  of  the 
sciences,  which,  by  the  light  they  diffuse  over 
all  the  objects  of  human  life,  become  rich 
sources  of  new  advantages  and  enjoyments. 

But  in  the  same  proportion  in  which  man 
adorns  and  improves  his  external  condition, 
his  feeling  for  the  morally  beautiful  is  also  un- 
folded. He  renounces  the  rude  and  inhuman 
uses  of  the  savage  state,  he  learns  to  abhor  all 
violent  conduct  toward  his  kind,  and  accustoms 
himself  to  laws  of  justice  and  propriety.  The 
manifold  relations  of  the  social  condition  un- 
fold and  determine  the  ideas  of  politeness  and 
etiquette,  and  the  desire  of  pleasing  others  and 
of  gaining  their  esteem  teaches  him  to  restrain 
his  passions,  to  conceal  his  faults,  to  turn  his 
best  side  out,  and  to  perform  whatsoever  he 
does,  in  a  decent  manner.  In  a  word,  his 
manners  improve  with  the  rest  of  his  con- 
dition. 


Through  all  these  gradations  he  raises  him- 
self at  last  to  the  highest  perfection  of  mind, 
possible  in  this  present  life,  to  the  great  idea 
of  the  whole  of  which  he  is  a  part,  to  the  ideal 
of  the  fair  and  good,  to  wisdom  and  virtue,  and 
to  the  worship  of  the  inscrutable,  original 
Power  of  Nature,  the  universal  Father  of 
Spirits,  to  know  whose  laws  and  to  do  them  is 
his  greatest  privilege,  his  first  duty  and  his  purest 
pleasure. 

All  this  we  denominate,  with  one  word,  the 
progress  of  Humanity.  And  now  let  every  one 
answer  for  himself  the  question,  whether  man 
would  have  made  this  progress  if  that  inborn 
feeling  of  the  beautiful  and  the  graceful  had  re- 
mained inactive  in  him?  Take  from  him  this, 
and  all  the  results  of  his  dormant  power,  all  the 
monuments  of  his  greatness,  all  the  riches  of 
Nature  and  Art  of  which  he  has  possessed  him- 
self, disappear;  he  relapses  into  the  brutal  con- 
dition of  the  inhabitants  of  New  Holland  ;  and, 
with  him,  Nature  herself  relapses  into  savage 
and  formless  chaos. 

What  are  all  these  steps  by  which  man  gra- 
dually approaches  perfection  but  successive 
embellishments,  embellishments  of  his  neces- 
sities, his  mode  of  living,  his  habitation,  his 
apparel,  his  implements,  embellishments  of  his 
mind  and  heart,  his  sentiments  and  passions, 
his  language,  manners,  customs,  pleasures? 

What  a  distance  from  the  earliest  hovel  to  a 
building  of  Palladio  !  From  the  canoe  of  a  Ca- 
rib  to  a  ship  of  the  line  !  From  the  three  blocks 
by  which,  in  the  remotest  ages,  the  Boeotians 
represented  the  three  Graces,  to  the  Graces  of 
Praxiteles!  From  a  village  of  Hottentots  or 
wild  Indians  to  a  city  like  London!  From  the 
ornaments  of  a  woman  of  New  Zealand  to  the 
state-dress  of  a  sultana !  From  the  dialect  of 
the  natives  of  Otaheite  to  the  languages  of  Ho- 
mer, of  Virgil,  Tasso,  Milton  and  Voltaire! 

What  innumerable  gradations  of  embellish- 
ment must  men  and  human  things  have  passed 
through  before  they  could  overcome  this  almost 
measureless  interval! 

The  desire  to  beautify  and  refine,  and  the 
dissatisfaction  with  the  lower  grade  as  soon  as 
a  higher  was  known,  are  the  true,  the  only,  and 
the  very  simple  forces  by  which  man  has  been 
urged  onward  to  the  point  at  which  we  find 
him.  All  nations  which  have  perfected  them- 
selves are  a  proof  of  this  proposition.  And  if 
there  are  any  to  be  found  which,  without  any 
special  impediment,  physical  or  moral,  have 
always  remained  stationary  in  the  same  degree 
of  imperfection,  or  which  betray  an  entire  want 
of  those  motives  to  progress,  which  have  been 
mentioned,  we  should  have  reason  to  regard 
them  rather  as  a  particular  species  of  man-like 
animals  than  as  actual  men  of  our  own  race 
and  kind. 

If  now,  as  no  one  will  deny,  everything 
which  tends  to  perfect  man  and  his  condition 
deserves  the  name  of  useful,  where  is  there  any 
ground  for  this  hateful  antithesis  which  certain 


WIELAND. 


Ostrogoths  still  make  between  the  useful  and 
the  beautiful?  Probably  these  people  have 
never  thought  what  the  consequences  would 
be,  if  a  nation,  which  has  reached  a  high  degree 
of  refinement,  should  banish  or  let  starve  its 
musicians,  its  actors,  its  poets,  its  painters,  and 
other  artists  ;  in  a  word,  all  who  minister  in  the 
kingdom  of  the  Muses  and  the  Graces;  —  or, 
what  would  be  quite  as  bad,  if  it  should  lose  its 
taste  in  all  these  arts. 

The  loss  of  things  which  are  incomparably- 
less  important  would  make  a  great  gap  in  its 
prosperity.  If  one  should  reckon  up  to  you 
what  the  consequences  would  be  to  the  French, 
if  only  the  two  little  articles,  fans  and  snuff- 
boxes, were  stricken  out  from  the  number  of 
European  necessities,  and  if  you  were  to  con- 
sider that  these  are  but  two  little  twigs  of  the 
countless  branches  of  that  industry  elicited  by 
the  love  for  playthings  and  trinkets,  wherewith 
all  the  large  children  in  trowsers  and  long  coats 
around  us  are  affected,  and  if  you  were  to  cal- 
culate how  useful  to  the  world  even  these  use- 
less things  are,  and  were  to  reflect  that  the  de- 
partments of  the  beautiful  and  the  useful  are 
not  exclusive  departments,  but  are  so  manifoldly 
intertwined  with  each  other  that  it  is  impossible 
ever  to  define  with  certainty  and  precision  then- 
respective  boundaries,  in  short,  that  there  exists 
such  an  intimate  relation  between  them  that 
almost  all  that  is  useful  is  or  may  be  made  beau- 
tiful, and  all  that  is  beautiful  useful; — if  you 
were  to  consider  all  this,  you  would — 

But  there  are  some  people  who,  like  the  Ab- 
derites,  grow  no  wiser  by  considering.  He 
whose  head  has,  once  for  all,  a  crook  in  it,  will 
never,  in  his  life,  be  brought  to  see  things  as 
they  are  seen  by  all  the  rest  of  the  world  who 
look  straight  before  them. 

And  then  there  is  still  another  class  of  incor- 
rigible people  who  have  always  been  avowed 
contemners  of  the  beautiful,  not  because  their 
head  is  placed  awry,  but  because  they  call  no- 
thing useful  that  does  not  fill  their  purse.  Now, 
the  trade  of  a  sycophant,,  a  quack,  a  dealer  in 
charms,  a  clipper  of  ducats,  a  pimp,  a  Tartuffe, 
is  certainly  not  beautiful ;  it  is  therefore  per- 
fectly natural  that  this  gentry  should  manifest 
on  every  occasion  a  profound  contempt  for  that 
kind  of  beauty  which  yields  them  nothing.  Be- 
sides, to  how  many  a  blockhead  is  stupidity 
useful !  How  many  would  lose  their  whole 
authority,  if  those  among  whom  they  had  won 
or  stolen  it,  had  taste  enough  to  distinguish  the 
genuine  from  the  false,  the  beautiful  from  the 
ugly !  Such  persons,  to  be  sure,  have  weighty, 
personal  reasons  to  be  enemies  of  wit  and  taste. 
They  are  in  the  condition  of  the  honest  fellow 
who  had  married  his  homely  daughter  to  a  blind 
man,  and  was  unwilling  that  his  son-in-law 
I    should  be  couched. 

But  the  rest  of  us,  who  can  only  gain  by  being 
made  wiser, — what  Abderites  we  should  be  if 
we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  persuaded  by  these 
gentlemen  who  are  interested  in  the  matter,  to 


141 


become  blind  or  to  remain  blind,  in  order  that 
the  ugliness  of  their  daughters  may  not  come  to 
light ! 


FROM  THE  DIALOGUES  OF  THE  GODS* 

DIALOGUE  VI. 
Mercury  brings  to  the  banqueting  Gods  the  informa- 
tion that  they  iiave  been  formally  deposed  in  the  Roman 
Senate  —  under  the  government  of  the  Emperor  Theodo- 
sius  the  great  —  Jupiter  discusses  this  event  with  great 
moderation,  and  reveals  to  the  Gods  consoling  glimpses 
of  the  Future. 

SPEAKERS. 

JUPITER,  JUNO,  APOLLO,  MINERVA,  VENUS,  BAC- 
CHUS, VESTA,  CERES,  VICTORIA,  Q.UIRINUS, 
SERAPIS,  MOMUS   AND  MERCURY. 

Jupiter  and  Juno,  with  the  other  inhabitants  of 
Olympus,  are  sitting  in  an  open  hall  of  the  Olym- 
pian palace,  at  sundry  large  tables.  Ganymede 
and  Antinous  are  pouring  out  nectar  for  the  gods, 
Hebe,  for  the  goddesses.  The  Muses  perform  table 
music,  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  dance  pantomimic 
dances  ;  and  Jocus,  from  time  to  time,  provokes  the 
blessed  gods  to  loud  laicghter,  by  his  caricatures 
and  his  lazzi.  In  the  moment  of  the  greatest  mer- 
riment, Mercury  comes  flying  in,  in  great  haste. 

Jupiter.  You  are  late,  my  son  ;  how  you  look ! 
What  news  do  you  bring  us  from  below  there? 

Venus,  to  Bacclius.  He  seems  to  have  a  heavy 
load  of  it ;  how  troubled  he  looks  ! 

Mercury.  The  newest  that  I  bring  with  me  is 
not  very  well  calculated  to  enhance  the  mirth 
which,  I  see,  reigns  here  at  this  moment. 

Jupiter.  At  least  your  looks  are  not,  Mercury. 
What  can  have  happened  so  bad  as  to  disturb 
even  the  gods  in  their  enjoyment? 

Quirinus.  Has  an  earthquake  destroyed  the 
Capitol  ? 

Mercury.  That  would  be  a  trifling  affair. 

Ceres.  Has  a  violent  eruption  of  iEtna  de- 
vastated my  beautiful  Sicily  ? 

Bacchus.  Or  has  an  untimely  frost  blighted 
the  Campanian  vines? 

Mercury.  Trifles!  Trifles! 

Jupiter.  Well !  Come !  Out  with  your  tale 
of  wo ! 

Mercury.  It  is  nothing  more  than —  {He  hesi- 
tates.) 

Jupiter.  Do  not  make  me  impatient,  Hermes ! 
What  is  '  nothing  more  than  V 

Mercury.  Nothing,  Jupiter,  but  that  at  Rome 
on  a  motion  made  in  the  Senate  by  the  Impe- 
rator  in  his  own  person,  and  carried  by  an 
overwhelming  majority,  you  have  been  form- 
ally DEPOSED. 


*  These  dialogues  were  suggested  to  Wieland  by  his 
translations  of  Lucian.  Some  of  them  are  mere  jeux 
d'esprit  in  imitation  of  that  author  on  whom  he  had  ex- 
pended three  years'  labour.  Some  have  a  deeper  meaning. 
The  author  says  of  them,  "  I  do  not  wish  for  readers  who 
need  to  be  informed  that  they  have  a  very  serious  pur- 
pose." Tr. 


142 


W  I  EL  AND. 


(77/e  gods  all  7~isc  from  the  tabic  in  great  com- 
motion. Jupiter,  icho  alone  remains  seated,  laugh- 
ing.) Is  that  all?  That  is  what  I  have  been 
expecting  this  long  while. 

Jill  the  gods  at  once.  Jupiter  deposed !  Is  it 
possible?  Jupiter! 

Juno.  You  talk  like  a  crazy  man,  Mercury. — 
iEsculapius,  do  feel  of  his  pulse! 

The  gods.  Jupiter  deposed! 

Mercury.  As  I  said,  formally  and  solemnly,  by 
a  great  majority  of  voices,  declared  to  be  a  man 
of  straw  —  what  do  I  say  ?  a  man  of  straw  is 
something  ;  —  less  than  a  man  of  straw,  a  no- 
thing: robbed  of  his  temples,  his  priests,  his 
dignity  as  supreme  protector  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire ! 

Hercules.  That  is  mad  news,  Mercury! — But, 
as  true  as  I  am  Hercules,  (flourishing  his  club) 
they  shall  not  have  done  me  that  for  nothing! 

Jupiter.  Be  quiet,  Hercules  ! — So  then,  Jupiter 
Optimus  Maximus,  Capitolinus,  Feretrius,  Sta- 
tor,  Lapis,  &c.  &c,  has  finished  his  part? 

Mercury.  Your  statue  is  thrown  down,  and 
they  are  now  busily  employed  in  demolishing 
your  temple.  The  same  tragedy  is  going  on  in 
all  the  provinces  and  corners  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire. Everywhere  legions  of  goat-bearded,  semi- 
human  beings,  with  torches  and  crowbars,  ham- 
mers, mattocks  and  axes  are  falling  to  work  and 
destroying  with  fanatic  rage  the  venerable  ob- 
jects of  the  arch-old  popular  faith. 

Serapis.  Wo  is  me  !  What  will  be  the  fate  of 
my  splendid  temple  at  Alexandria  and  my  su- 
perb colossal  image  !  If  the  desert  of  Thebais 
spews  out  but  one  half  of  its  sacred  Satyrs 
against  them,  it  is  a  gone  case. 

Momus.  0  !  you  have  nothing  to  fear,  Serapis. 
Who  would  dare  to  touch  your  image,  when  it 
is  an  understood  thing  at  Alexandria,  that,  on 
the  least  outrage  committed  against  it  by  any 
sacrilegious  hand,  heaven  and  earth  will  tumble 
into  ruins  and  Nature  sink  back  into  ancient 
chaos? 

Quirinus.  Only,  one  cannot  always  depend  on 
that  sort  of  tradition,  my  good  Serapis  !  It  might 
happen  to  you  as  it  did  to  the  massive-gold 
statue  of  the  goddess  Anaitis  at  Zela,  with  re- 
gard to  which,  it  was  also  believed,  that  the 
first  one  who  offered  any  violence  to  it,  would 
be  struck  dead  on  the  spot. 

Serapis.  And  what  happened  to  that  statue? 

Quirinus.  When  the  Triumvir,  Antony,  had 
routed  Pharnaces  at  Zela,  the  city,  together  with 
the  temple  of  Anaitis,  was  plundered  ;  and  no 
one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  the  massive- 
gold  goddess.  Some  years  after,  it  happened 
that  Augustus  was  spending  the  night  at  Bono- 
nia  with  one  of  Antony's  veterans.  The  Impe- 
rator  was  splendidly  entertained,  and,  at  table, 
the  conversation  happening  to  turn  on  the  battle 
of  Zela  and  the  plunder  of  the  temple  of  Anai- 
tis, he  asked  his  host,  as  an  eyewitness,  whether 
it  was  true  that  the  first  one  who  laid  hand  on 
her  fell  suddenly  dead  to  the  ground?  —  You 
behold  that  rash  man  before  you,  said  the 


veteran,  and  you  are  actually  supping  from  a 
leg  of  the  goddess.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
seize  upon  her  first.  Anaitis  is  a  very  good 
person,  and  I  gratefully  confess,  that  I  am  in- 
debted to  her  for  all  my  wealth. 

Serapis.  That  is  poor  consolation  which  you 
give  me,  Quirinus  !  If  such  things  are  going  on 
in  the  world  as  Mercury  reports,  I  can  promise 
myself  no  better  fate  for  my  colossus  at  Alexan- 
dria. It  is  really  dreadful  that  Jupiter  can  look 
so  composedly  on  such  enormities! 

Jupiter.  You  would  do  well,  Serapis,  if  you 
would  follow  my  example.  For  a  Divinity  of 
Pontus,  you  have  enjoyed  the  honour  of  being 
worshipped  from  East  to  West  long  enough, 
and  you  can  hardly  expect  that  your  temples 
should  fare  better  than  mine,  or  that  your  colos- 
sus should  last  longer  than  the  god-like  master- 
piece of  Phidias.  Surely  you  do  not  look  to  be 
the  only  one  that  stands  upright,  when  all  the 
rest  of  us  are  fallen. 

Momus.  Fy !  Fy !  Jupiter,  what  have  you 
done  with  your  famous  thunderbolts,  that  you 
submit  so  quietly  to  your  fall? 

Jupiter.  If  I  were  not  what  I  am,  I  should 
answer  that  foolish  question  with  one  of  them, 
witling! 

Quirinus  to  Mercury.  You  must  tell  it  to  me 
again,  Mercury,  before  I  can  believe  you.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  then,  that  my  Flamen  is 
abolished  ?  my  temple  closed  ?  that  my  festival 
is  no  longer  celebrated  ?  Have  the  enervated, 
slavish,  unfeeling  Quirites  degenerated  to  this 
degree  of  ingratitude  toward  their  founder  ? 

Mercury.  I  should  deceive  you,  if  I  were  to 
give  any  other  account. 

Victoria.  Then  I  need  not  ask  what  has  be- 
come of  my  altar  and  my  statue  in  the  Julian 
Curia.  The  Romans  have  so  long  forgotten  the 
art  of  conquering,  that  I  find  nothing  more 
natural  than  that  they  should  not  even  be  able 
to  bear  the  presence  of  my  image  any  longer. 
With  every  look  which  they  cast  upon  it,  it 
would  seem  to  reproach  them  with  their  shame- 
ful degeneracy.  Victoria  has  nothing  more  to 
do  with  Romans  whose  very  name  has  become 
an  insult  among  Barbarians,  which  only  blood 
can  wash  out. 

Vesta.  Under  such  circumstances  they  will 
be  sure  not  to  let  the  sacred  fire  burn  any  longer 
in  my  temple.  Heaven !  What  will  be  the 
fate  of  my  poor  virgins  ? 

Mercury.  O,  they  will  not  touch  a  hair  of 
their  heads,  venerable  Vesta !  They  will  let 
them  very  quietly  die  of  hunger. 

Quirinus.  How  times  change !  Formerly,  it 
was  a  dreadful  misfortune  for  the  whole  Roman 
Empire,  if  the  sacred  fire,  on  the  altar  of  Vesta, 
went  out. 

Mercury.  And  now,  there  would  be  a  deal 
more  fuss  made,  if  the  fire  should  go  out  in 
some  Roman  cook's -shop  than  if  the  Vestals 
should  let  theirs  expire  twice  every  week. 

Quirinus.  But  who  then,  in  future,  is  to  be 
the  patron  and  protector  of  Rome,  in  my  stead  ? 


W I  E  L  A  N  D. 


143 


Mercury.  St.  Peter  with  the  douhle  key  has 
bespoken  this  little  office  for  himself. 

Quirinus.  St.  Peter  with  the  double  key !  Who 
is  he  1 

Mercury.  I  do  not  exactly  know,  myself. 
Ask  Apollo ;  perhaps  he  can  give  you  more 
information  on  the  subject. 

Apollo.  That  is  a  man,  Quirinus,  who,  in  his 
successors,  will  govern  half  the  world  for  eight 
hundred  years  ;  although  he  himself  was  only 
a  poor  fisherman. 

Quirinus.  What !  Will  the  world  let  itself  be 
governed  by  fishers? 

Apollo.  At  least  by  a  certain  kind  of  fishers, 
by  fishers  of  men,  who  with  a  very  ingenious 
kind  of  bow-net,  called  decretals,  will  gradually 
catch  all  the  nations  and  princes  of  Europe. 
Their  commands  will  be  regarded  as  divine 
oracles  and  a  piece  of  sheep-skin  or  of  paper 
sealed  with  St.  Peter's  fisher's-ring  will  have 
power  to  create  and  depose  kings. 

Quirinus.  This  St.  Peter,  with  his  double  key, 
must  be  a  mighty  conjuror! 

Apollo.  Not  at  all !  The  strangest  and  most 
miraculous  things  in  the  world  come  about,  as 
you  ought  to  know  by  this  time,  in  a  very 
natural  way.  The  avalanche,  which  over- 
whelms a  whole  village,  was  at  first  a  little 
snow-ball ;  and  a  stream  which  bears  large 
vessels  is  a  gurgling  rock-fountain  in  its  origin. 
Why  may  not  the  successors  of  a  Galilean 
fisherman,  in  a  few  centuries,  become  masters 
of  Rome,  and,  by  means  of  a  new  religion, 
whose  chief  priests  they  have  constituted  them- 
selves, and  with  the  aid  of  an  entirely  new 
morality  and  system  of  politics  which  they 
know  how  to  rear  upon  that  religion,  become 
at  last,  masters  for  a  time  of  half  the  world? 
Did  you  not  yourself  tend  the  herds  of  the  King 
of  Alba,  who  was  a  very  small  potentate,  be- 
fore you  placed  yourself  at  the  head  of  all  the 
banditti  in  Latium,  and  patched  together  the 
little  robbers-nest,  which,  in  process  of  time, 
became  the  capital  and  queen  of  the  world  ? 
St.  Peter,  it  is  true,  made  no  great  figure  in  his 
life-time,  but  he  will  see  the  time  when  em- 
perors shall  hold  the  stirrups  for  his  successors, 
and  queens  with  all  humility  kiss  their  feet. 

Quirinus.  What  things  one  lives  to  see,  when 
one  is  immortal ! 

Apollo.  To  be  sure,  it  requires  a  good  deal 
of  time  and  no  little  art  to  make  that  progress 
in  man-fishing.  But  the  fishes  must  be  stupid 
enough,  who  will  let  themselves  be  caught  by 
them. 

Quirinus.  Meanwhile,  we  are  and  remain  all 
of  us  deposed,  eh  ? 

Mercury.  It  seems  likely  to  stop  at  that,  for 
the  present. 

Several  gods.  Better  not  be  immortal,  than 
experience  such  things. 

Jupiter.  My  dear  sons,  uncles,  nephews,  and 
cousins,  all  and  severally !  I  see  that  you  treat 
this  little  revolution,  which  I  have  very  quietly 
seen  approaching  this  long  while,  more  tragi- 


cally than  the  thing  is  worth.  May  I  ask  you 
to  sit  down  again  in  your  places,  and  let  us 
discuss  these  matters  calmly  and  candidly  over 
a  glass  of  nectar.  Everything  in  nature  has  its 
time,  everything  is  liable  to  change,  and  so  too 
are  human  opinions.  They  ever  change  with 
circumstances,  and  if  we  consider  what  a  dif- 
ference only  fifty  years  makes  between  the 
grandsire  and  the  grandson,  it  really  will  not 
seem  strange  that  the  world  should  appear  to 
take  an  entirely  new  shape  in  the  course  of  one 
thousand  or  two  thousand  years.  For  at  bot- 
tom it  is  only  in  appearance  after  all.  It  re- 
mains forever  the  same  comedy  though  with 
different  masks  and  names.  The  foolish  peo- 
ple there  below  have  practised  superstition 
with  us  long  enough,  and  if  there  are  some 
among  you  who  thought  themselves  benefited 
by  it,  I  must  tell  them  that  they  were  mistaken. 
One  would  not  grudge  that  mankind  should 
grow  wiser  at  last,  if  they  can.  By  heaven ! 
it  were  none  too  soon.  But  that  is  not  to  be 
thought  of,  at  present.  True,  they  always  flat- 
ter themselves  that  the  last  folly  of  which  they 
have  become  conscious,  is  the  last  they  shall 
commit.  The  hope  of  better  times  is  their 
everlasting  chimera,  by  which  they  are  forever 
deluded,  in  order  to  be  forever  deluded  again; 
because  they  will  never  come  to  understand 
that  not  the  time,  but  their  own  inborn,  in- 
curable folly,  is  the  cause  why  their  condition 
never  improves.  For  it  is,  once  for  all,  their 
lot  not  to  be  able  to  enjoy  anything  good  with 
a  pure  enjoyment,  and  to  exchange  one  folly, 
of  which  they  have  grown  weary  at  last,  like 
children  of  a  worn-out  doll,  for  a  new  one, 
with  which,  for  the  most  part,  they  fare  worse 
than  before.  This  time,  it  actually  looked  as 
if  they  would  gain  by  the  exchange,  but  I  knew 
them  too  well  not  to  foresee  that  they  were  not 
to  be  helped  in  this  way.  For  though  Wisdom 
herself  should  descend  to  them,  in  person,  and 
dwell  visibly  among  them,  they  would  not  cease 
to  hang  ribbons  and  feathers  and  rags  and  bells 
about  her,  until  they  had  made  a  fool  of  her. 
Believe  me,  Gods,  the  song  of  triumph,  which 
they  are  raising,  at  this  moment,  on  account  of 
the  glorious  victory  they  have  obtained  over 
our  defenceless  statues,  is  a  raven-cry  prophetic 
of  wo  to  posterity.  They  think  to  improve,  and 
will  fall  from  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire.  They 
are  weary  of  us,  they  wish  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  us.  So  much  the  worse  for 
them  !  We  need  them  not.  If  their  priests 
pronounce  us  unclean  and  evil  spirits  and  as- 
sure the  foolish  people  that  an  ever-burning 
gulph  of  brimstone  is  our  dwelling,  why  need 
that  trouble  us?  Of  what  importance  is  it  to 
us,  what  conceptions  half-reasoning  creatures 
of  earth  may  form  of  us?  or  in  what  relation 
they  place  themselves  to  us,  and  whether  they 
smoke  us  with  a  sickening  compound  of  the 
stink  of  sacrifices  and  incense,  or  with  hellish 
brimstone  ?  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other 
reaches  to  us.    You  say,  they  do  not  know  us, 


144 


WIEL  AND. 


when  they  wish  to  withdraw  themselves  from 
our  government.  Did  they  know  us  better 
while  they  served  us?  What  the  poor  people 
call  their  religion  is  their  concern  not  ours.  It 
is  they  alone  who  gain  or  lose  by  ordering  their 
life  rationally  or  irrationally.  And  their  de- 
scendants, when  hereafter  they  shall  feel  the 
consequences  of  the  unwise  decrees  of  their 
Valentinians,  their  Gratiani,  and  their  Theo- 
dosii,  will  find  cause  enough  to  regret  the  un- 
wise provisions  which  will  accumulate  on  their 
giddy  heads  a  flood  of  new  and  insupportable 
evils,  of  which  the  world  had  no  conception 
as  long  as  it  adhered  to  the  old  faith  or  the  old 
superstition.  It  would  be  a  very  different 
affair,  if  they  really  improved  their  condition 
under  the  new  arrangement !  Who  of  us  would 
or  could  blame  them  for  that?  But  it  is  just 
the  opposite !  They  resemble  a  man,  who,  for 
the  sake  of  driving  away  some  trifling  evil 
with  which  he  might  live  to  the  age  of  Titho- 
nus,  suffers  ten  others,  which  are  ten  times 
worse,  to  be  fastened  upon  him.  Thus,  for 
example,  they  raise  a  great  outcry  against  our 
priests,  because  they  entertained  the  people, 
who  are  everywhere  superstitious  and  will 
always  remain  so,  with  delusions,  which  how- 
ever benefited  the  State  as  well  as  them- 
selves. Will  their  priests  do  better  ?  At  this 
moment  they  are  laying  the  foundation  of  a 
superstition,  which  will  benefit  no  one  but 
themselves,  and  which,  instead  of  strengthen- 
ing the  political  constitution,  will  confound  and 
undermine  all  human  and  civil  relations,  —  a 
superstition  which  will  lie  like  lead  on  their 
brains,  exclude  every  sound  conception  of 
things,  natural  and  moral,  and,  under  pretence 
of  a  chimerical  perfection,  will  poison  humanity 
in  every  man  in  the  very  germ.  When  the 
worst  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  with 
truth  of  the  superstition  which  has  hitherto 
fooled  the  world,  men  will  be  forced,  here- 
after, to  confess,  that  it  was  far  more  human, 
more  innocent,  and  more  beneficial,  than  the 
new  one  which  is  substituted  in  its  place.  Our 
priests  were  infinitely  more  harmless  than  those 
to  whom  they  must  now  yield.  They  enjoyed 
their  authority  and  their  income  in  peace,  were 
in  harmony  with  every  one  and  assailed  no 
man's  faith.  These  are  greedy  of  dominion 
and  intolerant,  they  persecute  one  another  with 
the  uttermost  rage  on  account  of  the  most  in- 
significant verbal  subtleties,  decide  by  a  majority 
of  voices  what  must  be  thought  concerning  un- 
thinkable things  and  what  must  be  said  con- 
cerning unspeakable  things,  and  treat  all,  who 
think  or  speak  otherwise,  as  enemies  of  God 
and  man.  It  was  a  thing  scarce  heard  of  for 
a  thousand  years,  that  the  priests  of  the  gods 
came  into  collision  with  the  civil  authority,  un- 
til encroached  upon  by  these  raving  iconoclasts. 
The  new  priesthood  on  the  contrary,  since  their 
party  has  been  in  power,  have  not  ceased  to 
confound  the  world.  As  yet,  their  pontiffs 
work  under  ground,  but  soon  they  will  grasp 


at  the  sceptres  of  kings  and  assume  to  be  vice, 
gerents  of  their  God,  and  under  this  title  arro- 
gate to  themselves  an  hitherto  unheard  of  do- 
minion over  heaven  and  earth.  Our  priests 
indeed,  as  was  proper,  were  not  very  zealous 
promoters — or  at  least  they  were  not  avowed 
enemies — of  philosophy,  from  which  they  had 
nothing  to  fear  under  the  protection  of  the 
laws.  Least  of  all,  did  they  dream  of  sub- 
jecting the  thoughts  and  opinions  of  men  to 
their  jurisdiction,  and  of  hindering  their  free 
circulation  in  society.  Theirs,  on  the  other 
hand,  who,  as  long  as  they  were  the  weaker 
party,  made  so  much  boast  of  having  Reason 
on  their  side  and  always  placed  her  in  the  van, 
whenever  attacked  by  ours,  —  now  that  she 
would  only  be  an  hindrance  to  them,  in  their 
farther  operations, — will  dismiss  her  from  their 
service  and  will  not  rest  until  they  have  made 
all  dark  around  them,  until  they  have  with- 
drawn from  the  people  all  means  of  enlighten- 
ment and  stamped  the  free  use  of  the  natural 
judgment  as  the  greatest  of  all  crimes.  For- 
merly, while  they  lived  on  alms  themselves, 
the  wealth  and  decent  living  of  our  priests  was 
an  abomination  to  them;  now  that  they  are 
driving  with  full  sails,  the  moderate  revenues 
of  our  temples  are  much  too  small  to  satisfy 
the  necessities  of  their  pride  and  vanity.  Al- 
ready their  pontiffs  at  Rome,  through  the  li- 
berality of  superstitious  and  wealthy  matrons, 
whose  enthusiastic  sentimentality  they  know 
how  to  avail  themselves  of  in  so  masterly  a 
manner,  by  the  most  shameless  legacy-hunting, 
and  a  thousand  other  arts  of  the  same  sort,  have 
placed  themselves  in  a  condition  to  surpass  the 
first  persons  in  the  State,  in  splendor,  luxury, 
and  expense.  But  all  these  fountains,  although 
grown  to  rivers  by  ever  new  accessions,  will 
not  satisfy  these  insatiable  men.  They  will 
invent  a  thousand  unheard  of  means  to  tax  the 
simplicity  of  rude  and  deluded  men;  even  the 
sins  of  the  world  they  will  convert  to  golden 
fountains  by  their  magic  art,  and,  to  render  these 
fountains  more  productive,  they  will  invent  a 
monstrous  number  of  new  sins,  of  which  the 
Theophrasts  and  the  Epictetusses  had  no  con- 
ception. 

But  why  do  I  speak  of  all  this  ?  What  is  it 
to  us  what  these  people  do  or  leave  undone,  or 
how  well  or  ill  they  avail  themselves  of  their 
new  dominion  over  the  sickly  souls  of  men  who 
are  enervated  and  crippled  by  lust  and  bondage? 
They  who  deceive  the  rest  are  themselves  de- 
luded. They  too  know  not  what  they  do.  But 
it  becomes  us  to  treat  them  with  indulgence  as 
diseased  and  insane,  and,  without  regard  to 
their  gratitude  or  ingratitude,  in  future  also,  still 
to  confer  upon  them  as  much  good  as  their  own 
folly  may  yet  leave  us  the  opportunity  of  doing. 
The  unhappy !  Whom  but  themselves  do  they 
injure,  when  of  their  own  accord  they  deprive 
themselves  of  the  beneficent  influence  by  which 
Athens  became  the  school  of  wisdom  and  of 
art,  and  Rome  the  lawgiver  and  mistress  of  the 


WIE  L  AND, 


145 


earth,  by  which  both  attained  a  degree  of  cul- 
ture to  which  even  the  better  descendants  of  the 
barbarians,  who  are  now  about  to  divide  among 
themselves  the  lands  and  wealth  of  these  de- 
generate Greeks  and  Romans,  will  never  be 
able  to  rise.  For  what  is  to  become  of  men 
from  whom  the  Muses  and  the  Graces,  Philoso- 
phy and  all  the  beautifying  arts  of  life  and  the 
finer  enjoyment  of  life  have  withdrawn  them- 
selves, together  with  the  gods,  their  inventors 
and  protectors  ?  I  foresee  with  one  glance  all 
the  evil  that  will  thrust  itself  in,  in  the  place  of 
the  good,  all  the  unformed,  the  perverted,  the 
monstrous  and  misshapen  that  these  fanatical 
destroyers  of  the  beautiful  will  rear  on  the  ashes 
and  the  ruins  of  works  of  genius,  of  wisdom  and 
art,  and  I  am  disgusted  with  the  loathsome 
spectacle.  Away  with  it!  For,  so  truly  as  I 
am  Jupiter  Olympius,  it  shall  not  always  remain 
so,  although  centuries  will  elapse  before  Hu- 
manity reaches  the  lowest  abyss  of  its  fall,  and 
centuries  more  before,  with  our  aid,  it  works  its 
way  once  more  above  the  slime.  The  time  will 
come  when  they  will  seek  us  again,  invoke  our 
aid  once  more,  and  confess  that  they  are  power- 
less without  us.  The  time  will  come  when  with 
unwearying  diligence  they  will  drag  forth  from 
the  dust  once  more,  or  excavate  from  rubbish 
and  corruption  every  ruined  or  defaced  relic 
of  those  works  which,  by  our  influence,  once 
sprung  from  the  mind  and  hands  of  our  fa- 
vourites, and  exhaust  themselves  in  vain,  with 
affected  enthusiasm,  to  imitate  those  miracles 
of  genuine  inspiration  and  the  actual  afflatus  of 
divine  powers. 

Apollo.  Most  surely  it  will  come,  Jupiter,  that 
time !  I  see  it  as  if  it  stood  already  before  me, 
in  the  full  glory  of  the  present.  They  will  again 
erect  our  images,  will  gaze  upon  them  with  a 
feeling  of  awe  and  adoring  wonder,  will  use 
them  as  models  for  their  idols,  which  had  be- 
come frights  in  barbarous  hands  ;  and — O  !  what 
a  triumph !  their  pontiffs  themselves  will  take 
pride  in  erecting  the  most  magnificent  temple 
to  us,  under  a  different  name  ! 

Jupiter,  (  with  a  large  goblet  of  nectar  in  his  hand) 
Here  s  to  the  Future!  [to  Minerva.)  My  daugh- 
ter, we'll  drink  to  the  time  when  you  shall  see 
all  Europe  converted  into  a  new  Athens,  filled 
with  academical  lyceums,  and  perhaps  shall 
hear  the  voice  of  philosophy  from  the  midst  of 
the  forests  of  Germany,  more  clear  and  free  than 
formerly  from  the  halls  of  Athens  and  Alexan- 
dria. 

Minerva,  (slightly  shaking  her  head)  I  am  glad, 
Father  Jupiter,  to  see  you  of  such  good  cheer  in 
view  of  the  present  aspects;  but  you  will  par- 
don me  if  I  believe  as  little  in  a  new  Athens  as 
in  a  new  Olympus. 

Quirinus.  (to  Mercury)  I  can't  get  that  Peter 
with  the  double  key.  who  is  to  be  my  successor, 
out  of  my  head,  Mercury  !  How  is  it  with  that 
key?  Is  it  an  actual  or  emblematic,  a  natural 
or  a  magic  key  ?  Where  did  he  get  it,  and  what 
will  he  unlock  with  it  1 

T 


Mercury.  All  that  I  can  tell  you  about  it, 
Quirinus,  is,  that  with  this  key  he  can  unlock 
Heaven  or  Tartarus  to  whom  he  pleases. 

Quirinus.  He  may  unlock  Tartarus  to  whom 
he  will  for  all  me ;  but  as  to  Heaven!  —  that  is 
a  very  different  matter. 

Mercury.  Indeed,  they  are  preparing  to  peo- 
ple Heaven  with  such  an  enormous  quantity  of 
new  gods  of  their  sort,  that  there  will  hardly  be 
any  room  left  for  us  old  ones. 

Jupiter.  Leave  that  to  me,  Hermes!  They 
could  easily  deprive  us  of  our  temples  and  ter- 
ritories on  the  earth  ;  but,  in  Olympus,  we  have 
been  established  too  long  to  be  crowded  out. 
For  the  rest,  as  a  proof  of  our  perfect  impar- 
tiality, we  will  concede  to  the  new  Romans  the 
right  of  apotheosis,  notwithstanding  their  inso- 
lence, under  the  same  conditions  as  to  the  old. 
As  I  understand,  most  of  their  candidates  who 
lay  claim  to  this  promotion  are  not  persons  of 
the  best  society.  Therefore,  before  we  admit 
any  one,  with  St.  Peter's  permission  we  will 
examine  him  a  little.  If  it  shall  appear  that, 
in  virtue  of  his  other  qualities  and  merits,  he 
can  maintain  his  place  among  us,  no  objection 
shall  be  made  on  account  of  the  golden  circle 
round  his  head;  and  Momus  himself  shall  not 
twit  him  with  the  miracles  which  are  wrought 
with  his  bones  or  his  wardrobe. 

Juno.  You  may  do  as  you  please  with  regard 
to  the  men,  Jupiter;  but  I  protest  against  the 
introduction  of  the  ladies. 

Venus.  There  are  said  to  be  some  very  pretty 
ones  among  the  number. 

Jupiter.  We  will  talk  about  that  when  the 
case  occurs.  And  now  —  not  a  word  more  de 
odiosis!    A  fresh  cup,  Antinous! 

DIALOGUE  VIII. 

jupiter,  numa,  afterward  as  uxKJfowsr  * 

Jupiter.  How  happens  it,  Numa,  that  we  have 
not  seen  you  now,  for  several  days,  at  the  table 
of  the  Gods  ? 

Numa.  The  accounts  which  Mercury  lately 
brought  us  from  Rome  left  me  no  rest  until  I 
had  seen  with  my  own  eyes  how  matters  stood. 

Jupiter.  And  how  did  you  find  thein  ? 

Numa.  I  say  it  with  heavy  heart,  Jupiter,  but 
probably  I  tell  you  nothing  new,  when  I  say 
that  your  authority  with  mortals  appears  to  be 
irrecoverably  lost. 

Jupiter.  Did  you  not  hear  what  Apollo  said 
at  table  the  other  day  ? 

Numa.  He  gave  you  very  distant  consolation, 
Jupiter ;  and  even  this  consolation  turns  at  last 
on  a  verbal  quibble.  It  is  just  as  if  a  Chaldean 
soothsayer  had  comforted  Alexander  the  Great, 
when  about  to  die  of  a  miserable  fever  at  Baby- 
lon in  the  midst  of  the  enjoyment  of  his  con- 
quests, with  the  assurance  that  two  thousand 


*  He  is  so  still  to  most  persons  at  the  present  day,  and 
he  appears  here  to  give  some  important  information  re- 
specting his  true  character  and  aim. 

13 


146 


WIEL  AND. 


years  after  his  death  a  noble  descendant  of  the 
great  Wittekind  would  wear  his  picture  in  a 
ring.  Such  a  thought  may  be  very  agreeable  as 
long  as  one  is  in  good  condition  ;  but  it  is  a  poor 
indemnification  for  the  loss  of  the  first  throne  in 
the  world. 

Jupiter.  I  should  have  thought,  friend  Numa, 
that  your  residence  in  Olympus  would  have 
corrected  your  notions  of  such  things ! 

Numa.  I  know  very  well  that  a  decree  of  the 
senate  at  Rome  cannot  deprive  you  of  the  in- 
fluence which  you  have  on  the  affairs  of  the 
world  below  ;  but — 

Jupiter,  (smiling)  Speak  out  plainly  what  you 
think!  My  ear  has  grown  patient  of  late  — 
'But'  what? 

Numa.  Your  influence,  after  all,  cannot  be 
very  considerable ;  or  else  I  cannot  conceive 
how  you  could  suffer  yourself  to  be  deprived  of 
the  divine  authority  and  the  high  privileges 
which  you  have  enjoyed  for  so  many  centuries 
throughout  the  Roman  world,  without  so  much 
as  stirring  a  finger. 

Jupiter.  I  can  pardon  my  Flamen  for  not 
comprehending  a  thing  of  this  sort;  but  you, 
Numa  !— 

Numa.  To  speak  candidly,  Jupiter,  although 
I  may  be  considered  in  some  sort  the  founder 
of  the  old  Roman  religion,  it  was  never  my  in- 
tention to  give  more  nourishment  to  the  super- 
stition of  the  rude  Romans  than  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  polish  them.  I  did  not  indeed 
make  any  essential  change  in  the  service  of 
those  gods  which  a  primeval,  popular  belief 
had  long  established  in  the  possession  of  the 
public  veneration.  Nevertheless,  it  was  my  aim 
to  keep  the  way  open,  so  to  speak,  to  a  purer 
knowledge  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  at  least 
to  prevent  the  coarsest  kind  of  idolatry  by  not 
allowing  the  Godhead  to  be  represented  in  the 
temples,  neither  in  the  likeness  of  beasts  nor 
even  of  men.  I  regarded  even  then  the  dif- 
ferent persons  and  names,  which  the  faith  of 
the  forefathers  had  exalted  into  gods,  either  as 
symbols  of  the  invisible  and  unfathomable 
arch-Power  of  Nature,  or  as  men  whom  the  gra- 
titude of  posterity  for  great  services  conferred  on 
social  and  civil  life,  had  raised  to  the  rank  of 
publicly  worshipped,  guardian  spirits. 

Jupiter.  And  ocular  evidence  has  taught  you 
that  you  did  not  err  greatly,  in  this  latter  notion 
at  least;  although  I  am  not  of  your  opinion  a9 
it  regards  the  images  of  the  gods. 

Numa.  Had  there  been  Phidiasses  and  Alka- 
meneses  in  Latium  in  my  day,  it  is  probable  that 
these  artists  might  have  led  me  too  to  a  differ- 
ent way  of  thinking. 

Jupiter.  If,  then,  you  have  never  held  us  for 
anything  else  than  we  are,  whence  your  sur- 
prise that  we  are  quite  willing  to  let  it  pass, 
when  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  have  also 
advanced  so  far  as  to  regard  us  in  the  same 
light  1 

Numa.  It  may  be  owing  to  the  habit  of  living 
among  you,  and  of  seeing  you  so  long  in  posses- 


sion of  the  worship  of  mankind.  Both  these 
circumstances  have  placed  you  in  a  strange  kind 
of  chiaroscuro  to  my  eye,  and  have  given  me 
imperceptibly,  perhaps,  too  high  an  opinion  of 
your  nature  and  dignity.  In  short,  I  confess 
that  it  will  be  difficult  for  me,  Jupiter,  to  accus- 
tom myself  to  a  different  way  of  thinking. 

Jupiter.  I  am  half  inclined  to  come  forth  from 
the  chiaroscuro,  and  to  draw  away  the  veil  from 
the  secrets  of  my  family,  concerning  which  so 
many  excellent  people  on  the  earth  have  cud- 
gelled their  brains  to  no  purpose. 

Numa.  I  am  sure  you  will  lose  nothing  by  it. 

Jupiter.  One  always  gains  by  the  truth,  friend 
Numa!  —  You  know  that  no  one  of  us,  Olym- 
pians, long  as  we  have  existed  and  far  as  our 
sight  extends,  can  refer  to  a  time  when  this  im- 
measurable whole  began  to  be,  whose  exist- 
ence, on  the  contrary,  is  the  most  convincing 
proof  that  it  had  no  beginning.  On  the  other 
hand  it  may  be  affirmed  with  the  same  cer- 
tainty, that,  of  all  its  visible  parts,  no  one  has 
always  existed  precisely  as  it  is.  Thus,  for  ex- 
ample, the  earth  which  we  once  inhabited  has 
undergone  several  great  revolutions,  of  which, 
in  part,  some  traces  have  been  preserved  by 
oral  tradition  among  the  oldest  nations.  Of  this 
kind  is  the  tradition  current  among  the  North- 
landers,  the  Indians  and  the  Egyptians,  that 
there  was  a  time  when  the  earth  was  inhabited 
by  gods.  In  fact,  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  in 
this  first  period,  if  they  can  be  called  men,  were 
a  kind  of  men  who  would  compare  with  the 
present  race,  as  the  Olympian  Jupiter  of  Phi- 
dias, with  the  Priapus-images  of  fig-tree  wood 
which  the  country  people  stick  up  to  protect 
their  gardens ;  so  far  did  they  surpass  in  size 
and  beauty,  bodily  strength  and  mental  powers, 
the  men  of  after  times.  With  them  and  by 
means  of  them,  the  earth  enjoyed  a  state  of  per- 
fection which  was  worthy  of  its  then  inhabit- 
ants. But,  in  the  course  of  thousands  of  years, 
it  has  undergone  great  changes.  A  part  of  the 
posterity  of  the  first  inhabitants  degenerated  in 
the  different  regions  of  the  earth,  over  which 
their  increase  compelled  them  to  spread  them- 
selves. Extraordinary  events,  earthquakes,  vol- 
canoes, floods,  changed  the  shape  of  the  planet. 
While  whole  countries  were  swallowed  up  in 
the  ocean,  others  gradually  emerged  from  the 
waves;  but  the  greater  part  of  the  old  inhabit- 
ants of  the  earth  perished  in  this  fearful  revolu- 
tion of  things.  The  few  who  remained,  wan- 
dered singly,  amazed  and  dispirited,  among  the 
ruins  of  Nature.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  acci- 
dent brought  a  Deucalion  and  a  Pyrrha  together, 
but  their  descendants  soon  degenerated,  through 
want  and  misery,  into  beastly  savages.  Mean- 
while, the  earth  gradually  recovered  from  the 
chaotic  state  which  naturally  resulted  from  those 
terrible  convulsions,  and  became  evermore  fitted 
for  the  habitation  and  subsistence  of  its  new  in- 
habitants. The  new  races  with  which  it  was 
peopled  supported  themselves  scantily  with 
hunting  and  fishing,  and  where  these  failed, 


W  I E  L  A  N  D. 


147 


with  acorns  and  other  wild  fruits.  They  dwelt, 
for  the  most  part,  in  forests  and  caves  ;  and  the 
most  of  them  were  so  rude,  that  they  did  not 
even  know  the  use  of  fire.  Happily,  a  family 
of  that  first  and  more  perfect  race  had  preserved 
itself  on  the  summit  of  Imaus,  with  all  their 
original  excellences,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of 
all  the  advantages  derived  from  the  arts  and 
sciences  invented  by  their  ancestors.  Necessi- 
tated by  similar  catastrophes  to  relinquish  the 
seats  of  their  inheritance,  they  scattered  them- 
selves to  the  east  and  to  the  west,  and  wherever 
they  came,  their  arrival  was  like  the  appearance 
of  beneficent  gods.  For,  besides  a  cultivated 
language  and  gentle  manners,  they  brought  all 
the  arts,  of  which  no  trace  was  to  be  found 
among  those  wild-animal-men,  and  the  want 
of  which  was  the  very  cause  which  had  de- 
graded them  to  that  inhuman  animality.  You 
will  comprehend,  friend  Numa,  that  they  were 
received  as  gods  by  these  wretched  creatures, 
and  that,  by  all  the  good  which  they  communi- 
cated, by  the  arts  of  agriculture,  by  the  breeding 
of  domestic  animals,  the  planting  of  fruit  trees, 
whereby  they  became  creators  of  a  new  world, 
by  the  civil  societies  whose  founders,  by  the  cities 
whose  builders  and  lawgivers  they  became,  by 
the  pleasant  arts  of  the  Muses,  whereby  they 
diffused  milder  manners,  more  refined  plea- 
sures, and  a  sweeter  enjoyment  of  life,  —  you 
will  comprehend,  I  say,  that  by  all  these  bene- 
fits they  had  deserved  so  well  of  mankind,  that, 
after  their  death,  (of  which  their  ascension  into 
this  purer  element  was  the  natural  consequence) 
they  came  to  be  honoured  as  guardian  gods  by 
a  grateful  posterity.  You  will  further  compre- 
hend, that  they  who  once  conferred  so  many 
and  such  great  benefits  on  mortals,  after  their 
transition  to  a  higher  mode  of  life,  should  still 
find  pleasure  in  caring  for  men  who  had  re- 
ceived from  them  all  that  made  them  men,  and 
in  general  to  watch  over  the  preservation  of  all 
that  of  which  they  had  been,  in  some  sense,  the 
creators. 

Numa.  Now,  suddenly,  everything  which, 
before,  I  had  seen  only  as  in  a  mist,  is  made 
clear  to  me. 

Jupiter.  And  now  too,  it  will  be  clear  to  you, 
I  hope,  why  I  said  I  was  very  willing  that  men 
should  become  sufficiently  enlightened  to  regard 
us  as  nothing  more  than  we  actually  are.  Su- 
perstition and  priestcraft,  powerfully  supported 
by  poets,  artists  and  mythologians,  had  gradu- 
ally converted  the  service  which  was  paid  us, 
and  which  we  accepted,  only  on  account  of  its 
beneficial  influence  on  Humanity,  into  a  mad 
idolatry,  which  neither  could  nor  ought  to  con- 
tinue, which  was  necessarily  undermined  by  an 
ever-growing  culture,  and  like  all  human  things, 
must  finally  fall  back  into  itself.  How  could  I 
desire  that  that  should  not  ensue,  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  eternal  laws  of  necessity,  must  needs 
ensue? 

Numa.  But  these  fanatical  innovators  are  not 
contented  with  merely  purifying  a  service  so 


ancient,  and  founded  on  such  important  bene- 
fits;  they  destroy,  they  annihilate  it!  They  rob 
you  of  that  which  they  actually  owe  to  you; 
and  far  from  reducing  the  ideas  of  the  nations 
respecting  the  gods  of  their  fathers  to  the  stan- 
dard of  truth,  they  carry  the  madness  of  their 
impious  insolence  so  far  as  to  pronounce  you 
evil  demons  and  hellish  spirits,  and  to  treat  you 
as  such. 

Jupiter.  Do  not  be  angry,  good  Numa!  Was 
I  not  also  forced,  while  my  altars  yet  smoked, 
to  endure  every  coarse  and  indecent  tale  with 
which  the  poets  entertained  their  gaping  hearers 
at  my  expense  ?  What  does  it  signify  to  me 
what  is  thought  or  said  of  me  there  below, 
since  the  period  has  once  for  all  arrived,  when 
the  service  of  Jupiter  has  ceased  to  be  bene- 
ficial to  men?  Shall  I  force  them  with  thunder- 
bolts to  have  more  respect  for  me  ?  Of  what 
importance  can  it  be  to  me,  whether  they  assign 
Olympus  or  Tartarus  to  me  for  a  dwelling? 
Am  I  not  secure  against  all  the  consequences  of 
their  opinion  ?  Or  will  Ganymede  pour  out  for 
me  one  cup  the  less  of  nectar  on  their  account? 

Numa.  But  it  is  of  importance  to  them,  Jupiter, 
not  to  deprive  themselves  of  all  the  benefits 
which  the  world  has  hitherto  enjoyed  under 
your  government,  by  the  abandonment  of  all 
communion  between  themselves  and  you,  into 
which  they  are  now  suffering  themselves  to  be 
betrayed. 

Jupiter.  I  thank  you  for  your  good  opinion  of 
my  government,  friend  Pompilius  !  There  are 
certain  wise  people  below  there,  who  do  not 
think  quite  so  highly  of  my  influence  in  human 
things,  and — strictly  considered — they  may  not 
be  so  far  out  of  the  way.  One  cannot  do  more 
for  people  than  they  are  receptive  of.  I  have 
never  liked  to  employ  myself  with  working 
miracles,  and  so  every  thing  goes  its  natural 
course,  —  mad  enough,  as  you  see,  and  yet,  on 
the  whole,  not  so  bad  but  that  one  may  get  on 
with  it.  And  so  it  will  remain  for  the  future, 
I  think.  Whatever  I  can  contribute  to  the  com- 
mon good,  without  sacrificing  my  repose,  I  shall 
always  be  pleased  to  do.  But  as  to  playing  the 
enthusiast  and  letting  myself  be  crucified  for 
ingrates  and  fools — that  is  not  in  Jupiter's  line, 
my  good  Numa ! 

The  Unknown  appears. 

Numa.  Who  may  that  stranger  be,  who  is 
coming  towards  us  yonder?  Or  are  you  already 
acquainted  with  him,  Jupiter  ? 

Jupiter.  Not  that  I  remember.  He  has  some- 
thing in  his  appearance,  which  indicates  no 
common  character. 

The  Unknown.  Is  it  permitted  me  to  take  part 
in  your  conversation?  I  confess,  it  hath  drawn 
me  hither  from  a  considerable  distance. 

Jupiter,  (aside)  A  new  kind  of  magnetism  ! 
(To  the  unknown.)  You  know  then,  already, 
whereof  we  were  speaking? 

The  Unknown.  I  possess  the  faculty  of  being 
where  I  wish  to  bej  and  where  two  are  in- 


148 


WIE  L  AND. 


quiring  after  truth,  I  seldom  fail,  visibly  or  in- 
visibly, to  make  the  third. 

Numa.  (shaking  his  head,  softly  to  Jupiter)  A 
queer  customer  ! 

Jupiter,  (without  minding  Numa,  to  the  Un- 
known) In  that  case,  you  are  an  excellent  com- 
panion! I  rejoice  to  make  your  acquaintance. 

Numa.  (to  the  Unknown)  May  I  ask  your  name? 
and  whence  you  come? 

The  Unknown.  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other 
has  anything  to  do  with  the  subject  matter 
which  you  were  discussing. 

Jupiter.  We  were  speaking  merely  of  facts. 
And  these,  as  you  know,  appear  differently  to 
each  observer,  according  to  his  stand-point  and 
the  quality  of  his  eyes. 

The  Unknown.  And  yet  each  thing  can  be 
seen  correctly  only  from  one  point  of  view. 

Numa.  And  that  is — ? 

The  Unknown.  The  centre  of  the  Whole. 

Jupiter,  (aside,  to  Numa)  In  that  man  there 
!  is  either  a  great  deal,  or  nothing. — (To  the  Un- 
known.)   You  know  the  Whole  then? 

The  Unknown.  Yes. 

Numa.  And  what  do  you  call  its  centre  ? 

The  Unknown.  Perfection  ;  from  which  every- 
thing is  equally  remote  and  to  which  everything 
approximates. 

Numa.  And  how  does  each  thing  appear  to 
you  from  this  centre? 

The  Unknown.  Not  fragmentary,  not  as  it  is  in 
particular  places  and  periods  of  time,  not  as  it 
relates  to  these  or  those  things,  not  as  it  loses  or 
j  gains  by  its  immersion  in  the  atmosphere  of 
human  opinions  and  passions,  not  as  it  is  falsi- 
fied by  folly  or  poisoned  by  corruption  of  heart; 
but  as  it  relates  to  the  whole,  in  its  beginning, 
progress  and  issue,  in  all  its  forms,  movements, 
operations  and  consequences;  —  that  is,  in  the 
measure  in  which  it  contributes  to  the  eternal 
growth  of  the  perfection  of  the  whole. 

Jupiter.  That  is  not  bad ! 

Numa.  And  seen  from  this  point  of  view, 
how  do  you  find  the  subject  of  which  we  were 
speaking  when  you  came,  —  the  great  cata- 
strophe which,  in  these  days,  without  respect 
or  mercy,  has  overthrown  everything  that,  for 
so  many  centuries,  was  most  venerable  and 
sacred  to  the  human  race? 

The  Unknown.  It  followed  necessarily,  for  it 
had  been  a  long  while  preparing ;  and  it  needs 
at  last,  as  you  know,  but  a  single  blast  to  over- 
throw an  old,  ill-joined,  thoroughly  ruinous 
fabric,  and  one,  moreover,  which  was  founded 
on  the  sand. 

Numa.  But  it  was  such  a  magnificent  struc- 
ture, so  venerable  in  its  antiquity,  possessing, 
with  all  its  variety,  so  much  simplicity,  so  bene- 
ficent in  the  protection  which  Humanity,  the 
laws,  the  security  of  the  States  enjoyed  so 
long  under  its  lofty  arches !  Would  it  not 
have  been  better  to  repair  than  to  destroy  it? 
Our  philosophers  at  Alexandria  had  formed 
such  beautiful  projects  not  merely  to  restore  its 
former  authority  but  even  to  give  it  a  far  greater 


splendour  and  especially  a  symmetry,  a  beauty, 
a  convenience  which  it  never  had  before !  It 
was  a  Pantheon  of  such  great  extent  and  such 
ingenious  construction  that  all  the  religions  in  the 
world  —  even  this  new  one  if  it  would  only  be 
peaceable  —  might  have  found  space  enough 
within  its  walls. 

The  Unknown.  It  is  a  pity  that,  with  all  these 
apparent  advantages,  it  was  nevertheless  built 
only  on  the  movable  sand !  And  as  to  peace- 
ableness  ! — how  can  you  expect  that,  in  a  matter 
of  such  great  importance,  truth  and  delusion 
should  agree  together  ? 

Numa.  That  is  a  very  easy  matter,  if  only 
mankind  will  agree  among  themselves.  They 
are  never  more  grossly  deluded  than  when  they 
imagine  themselves  in  exclusive  possession  of 
the  truth. 

The  Unknown.  If  it  is  not  their  destination  to 
be  deceived  —  and  that,  surely,  you  will  not 
maintain  —  then  it  cannot  and  will  not  be  their 
lot  to  wander  forever  in  error  and  delusion,  like 
sheep  without  a  shepherd.  Between  darkness 
and  light,  twilight  and  half-light  is  certainly 
better  than  complete  night !  but  only  as  a  transi 
tion  from  that  to  pure  all-irradiating  daylight. 
The  day  has  now  dawned,  and  would  you 
lament  that  night  and  twilight  are  past? 

Jupiter.  You  love  allegory,  as  I  hear,  young 
man !  I,  for  my  part,  love  to  speak  roundly  and 
plainly.  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  that  men 
will  be  made  happier  by  this  new  order  of 
things  ?  I  hope  they  may,  but  as  yet  I  see  very 
poor  preparations  for  it. 

The  Unknown.  Without  fail  the  condition  of 
these  poor  mortals  will  be  better  and  infinitely 
better.  Truth  will  put  them  in  possession  of 
that  freedom  which  is  the  most  indispensable 
condition  of  happiness :  for  truth  alone  makes 
free. 

Jupiter.  Bravo!  I  heard  that  five  hundred 
years  ago  in  the  Stoa  at  Athens,  until  I  was  sick 
of  it.  Propositions  of  this  kind  are  just  as  in- 
disputable and  contribute  just  as  much  to  the 
welfare  of  the  world  as  the  great  truth,  that 
once  one  is  one.  As  soon  as  you  will  bring  me 
intelligence  that  the  foolish  people  below  there 
have  become  better  men  than  their  fathers,  since 
that  a  great  part  of  them  believe  differently  from 
their  fathers,  I  will  call  you  the  messenger  of 
very  good  tidings. 

The  Unknown.  The  corruption  of  mankind 
was  so  great  that  even  the  most  extraordinary 
provisions  could  not  remedy  the  evil  at  once. 
But,  assuredly,  they  will  grow  better  when  truth 
shall  have  made  them  free. 

Jupiter.  I  believe  so  too,  but,  it  seems  to  me, 
that  is  saying  no  more  than  if  you  should  say, 
that  as  soon  as  all  men  are  wise  and  good  they 
will  cease  to  be  foolish  and  perverse ;  or  that, 
when  the  golden  age  arrives  in  which  every 
man  shall  have  abundance,  no  one  will  suffer 
hunger  any  more. 

The  Unknown.  I  see  the  time  actually  coming 
when  all  who  do  not  purposely  close  their 


WIELAND. 


149 


hearts  to  the  truth,  will,  by  means  of  it,  attain 
to  a  perfection  of  which  yfcur  philosophers  never 
dreamed. 

Jupiter.  Have  you  been  initiated  in  the  mys- 
teries of  Eleusisl 

The  Unknown.  I  know  them  as  well  as  if  I 
had  been. 

Jupiter.  Then  you  know  what  is  the  ultimate 
aim  of  those  mysteries. 

The  Unknown.  To  live  happily,  and  to  die 
with  the  hope  of  a  better  life. 

Jupiter.  You  seem  to  be  a  great  philanthropist ; 
do  you  know  anything  more  salutary  for  mortals 
than  this? 

The  Unknown.  Yes. 

Jupiter.  Let  me  hear  it,  if  I  may  ask. 

The  Unknown.  To  give  them  in  reality  what 
those  mystagogues  at  Eleusis  promised. 

Jupiter.  I  fear  that  is  more  than  you  or  I  will 
be  able  to  perform. 

The  Unknown.  You  have  never  tried,  Jupiter. 

Jupiter.  Who  likes  to  speak  of  his  services? 
But  you  may  easily  suppose  that  I  could  not 
have  attained  to  the  honour  which  has  been 
paid  me  by  so  many  great  and  powerful  nations 
for  several  thousand  years,  without  having 
served  them  to  some  extent. 

The  Unknown.  That  may  have  been  a  long 
while  ago !  He  who  is  unwilling  to  do  more  for 
man  than  he  can  do  '  without  sacrificing  his  re- 
pose,' will  not  accomplish  much  in  their  behalf. 
I  confess,  I  have  laboured  sore. 

Jupiter.  I  like  you,  young  man.  In  your 
years  this  amiable  enthusiasm,  which  sacrifices 
itself  for  others,  is  a  real  merit.  Who  can  offer 
himself  up  for  mankind  without  loving  them  ? 
And  who  can  love  them  without  thinking  better 
of  them  than  they  deserve  ? 

The  Unknown.  I  think  neither  too  well  nor 
too  ill  of  them.  I  pity  their  misery.  I  see 
that  they  may  be  helped ;  and  they  shall  be 
helped. 

Jupiter.  It  is  even  as  I  said.  You  are  full  of 
courage  and  good-will,  but  you  are  still  young: 
the  folly  of  earth's  people  has  not  yet  made  you 
tender.  When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  you  will 
sing  a  different  song ! 

The  Unknown.  You  speak  as  might  be  ex- 
pected of  you. 

Jupiter.  It  seems  scandalous  to  you  to  hear 
me  talk  thus,  does  it?  You  have  formed  a 
great  and  benevolent  plan  for  the  good  of  man- 
kind. You  burn  with  the  desire  to  execute  it. 
You  live  and  have  your  being  in  it ;  your  far- 
seeing  glance  shows  you  all  its  advantages; 
your  courage  swallows  up  all  difficulties ;  you 
have  set  your  existence  upon  it ;  how  can  you 
help  believing  that  it  will  be  accomplished? 
But  you  have  to  do  with  men,  my  good  friend ! 
Do  not  be  offended,  if  I  speak  exactly  as  I 
think:  it  is  the  privilege  of  age  and  experience. 
You  seem  to  me  like  a  tragic  poet  who  under- 
takes to  perform  an  excellent  piece  with  no- 
thing but  crippled,  dwarfed,  halt  and  hunch- 
backed actors.    Once  more,  my  friend,  you  are 


not  the  first  who  has  undertaken  to  accomplish 
something  great  with  men;  but  I  tell  you  that, 
as  long  as  they  are  what  they  are,  all  such 
attempts  will  come  to  nothing. 

The.  Unknown.  For  that  very  reason,  they 
must  be  made  new  men. 

Jupiter.  New  men  !  (laughing}  That,  indeed  ! 
If  you  could  only  do  that!  But  I  think  I  under- 
stand you.  You  mean  to  remodel  them,  to  give 
them  a  new  and  better  form.  The  model  is 
there;  you  have  only  to  form  them  after  your- 
self. But  that  is  not  all  that  is  required.  Na- 
ture must  furnish  the  clay  for  your  creation; 
and  you  will  have  to  take  that  as  it  is.  Think 
of  me,  my  friend  !  You  will  take  all  possible 
pains  with  your  pottery,  and  when  it  comes 
out  of  the  furnace,  you  will  see  yourself  dis- 
graced by  it. 

The  Unknown.  The  clay  —  to  continue  your 
figure — is  not  so  bad  in  itself,  as  you  think.  It 
can  be  purified  and  made  as  plastic  as  I  re- 
quire it,  in  order  to  make  new  and  better  men 
out  of  it. 

Jupiter.  I  rejoice  to  hear  it.  Have  you  made 
the  experiment? 

The  Unknown.  I  have. 

Jupiter.  I  mean,  on  the  large  scale.  For  suc- 
cess in  one  piece  out  of  a  thousand,  does  not 
decide  the  matter. 

The  Unknown,  (after  some  hesitation)  If  the 
experiment  on  the  large  scale  has  not  yet  suc- 
ceeded according  to  my  mind,  I  know,  at  least, 
why  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  It  will  be 
better  in  time. 

Jupiter.  In  time?  Yes,  to  be  sure!  we  always 
hope  the  best  from  time.  And  who  would  un- 
dertake anything  great  without  that  hope?  We 
shall  see  how  time  will  fulfil  your  expectations. 
I  can  promise  you  little  good  for  the  next  thou- 
sand years. 

The  Unknown.  You  have,  I  see,  a  small  scale, 
old  King  of  Crete  !  What  are  a  thousand  years, 
compared  with  the  period  required  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  great  work  of  making  a  single 
family  of  good  and  happy  beings  out  of  the 
whole  human  race  ? 

Jupiter.  Ah  !  you  are  right.  How  many  thou- 
sand years  the  Hermetic  philosophers  have 
been  labouring  on  their  stone,  without  complet- 
ing it?  And  what  is  the  undertaking  of  those 
wise  masters  compared  with  yours  ? 

The  Unknown.  Your  jest  is  unseasonable. 
The  work  which  I  have  undertaken,  is  just  as 
possible  as  that  the  seed  of  a  cedar  should  grow 
to  a  great  tree  ;  only  that  the  cedar  does  not,  it 
is  true,  attain  its  perfection  as  rapidly  as  a 
poplar. 

Jupiter.  And  you  should  have  as  much  time 
for  the  accomplishment  of  your  work  as  you 
desire,  if  it  depended  only  on  that.  But  the 
certain  and  enormous  evils,  with  which  man- 
kind for  so  many  centuries  are  to  purchase  the 
hope  of  an  uncertain  good,  give  the  thing  a 
different  shape.  What  shall  we  think  of  a 
plan  intended  to  benefit  the  human  race,  which 
13* 


150 


W  IE  LAND. 


so  fails  in  the  execution,  that  a  large  portion  of 
the  human  race,  for  a  period  whose  duration  is 
incalculable,  are  rendered  beyond  all  compari- 
son more  miserable  and  (what  is  worse  still) 
more  depraved  in  head  and  heart  than  they 
ever  were  before?  I  appeal  to  ocular  evidence, 
and  yet  all  that  we  have  witnessed  since  the 
murder  of  the  brave  enthusiast,  Julian,  was  but 
a  small  prelude  to  the  immeasurable  calamities 
which  the  new  hierarchy  will  bring  down  on 
poor  foolish  mortals  who  suffer  themselves  to 
be  lured  into  the  unsuspected  snare,  by  every 
new  song  which  is  piped  to  them. 

The  Unknown.  All  these  evils  about  which 
you  complain,  in  the  name  of  Humanity, — you 
who  formerly  took  their  misery  so  little  to 
heart,  —  are  neither  the  conditions  nor  the  con- 
sequences of  the  great  plan  of  which  we  speak. 
They  are  the  obstacles  which  oppose  it  from 
without,  and  with  which  the  light  will  have  to 
contend  but  too  long,  until  it  has  finally  over- 
come the  darkness.  Is  it  the  fault  of  the  wine 
when  it  is  spoiled  in  mouldy  vessels  ?  Since 
it  is  the  nature  of  the  case,  that  mankind  can 
advance  in  wisdom  and  goodness,  only  by  im- 
perceptible degrees ;  since  from  within  and 
without  such  an  infinite  number  of  enemies 
are  labouring  against  their  amendment;  since 
the  difficulties  increase  with  every  victory  and 
even  the  most  effective  measures,  from  the 
mere  circumstance  that  they  have  to  pass 
through  human  heads  and  to  be  confided  to 
human  hands,  become  new  obstacles;  how  can 
you  be  surprised  that  it  is  not'in  my  power  to 
procure  for  my  brethren  the  happiness  which 
I  have  designed  for  them  at  a  less  cost?  How 
gladly  would  I  have  relieved  them  of  all  their 
misery  at  once !  But  even  I  can  effect  nothing 
in  opposition  to  the  eternal  laws  of  necessity. 
Suffice  it  that  the  time  will  come  at  last. — 

Jupiter,  (somewhat  vexed)  Well  then!  we  will 
let  it  come ;  and  the  poor  fools  to  whom  you 
are  so  kindly  disposed,  must  see,  meanwhile, 
how  they  can  help  themselves  !  As  I  said,  my 
sight  does  not  extend  far  enough  to  judge  of  so 
far-looking  and  complicated  a  plan  as  yours. 
The  best  of  it  is,  that  we  are  immortal  and 
therefore  may  hope  to  see  the  result  at  last,  how- 
ever many  Platonic  ages  we  have  to  wait  for  it. 

The  Unknown.  My  plan,  great  as  it  is,  is  at 
bottom  the  simplest  in  the  world.  The  way 
in  which  I  am  sure  of  effecting  the  general 
happiness  is  the  same  by  which  I  conduct 
each  individual  to  happiness ;  and  the  pledge 
of  its  safety  is,  that  there  is  no  other.  For  the 
rest,  I  end  as  I  began :  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
deceived,  so  long  as  one  regards  things  frag- 
mentarily  and  as  they  appear  in  the  particular. 
They  are,  in  reality,  nothing  but  what  they  are 
in  the  whole ;  and  the  perfection  which  unites 
all  in  one,  toward  which  everything  tends  and 
in  which  everything  will  finally  rest,  is  the 
only  view-point  from  which  everything  is  seen 
aright.  And  herewith,  fare  ye  well!  (He 
vanishes.) 


Numa.  (to  Jupiter)  What  say  you  to  this  ap- 
parition, Jupiter  ? 

Jupiter.  Ask  me  again  fifteen  hundred  years 
hence. 

DIALOGUE  IX. 

JUPITER  AND  JUNO. 

Jupiter,  half-sitting,  half-reclining  on  a  couch 
strown  with  roses.    Juno,  sitting  at  his  feet. 

Jupiter.  And  is  this  all,  dear  Juno,  that  you 
have  to  ask  of  me  ?  You  might  have  requested 
an  impossibility ;  and  to  oblige  you  I  would 
have  attempted  to  make  it  possible. 

Juno.  You  are  very  gallant,  Jupiter.  I  shall 
never  expect  anything  unreasonable  of  you. 

Jupiter.  The  kings  and  the  nobility  have  al- 
ways belonged  to  your  department,  and  the 
least  you  can  expect  of  my  affection  is,  that  I 
should  leave  you  unmolested  in  your  own 
sphere. 

Juno.  Nor  do  my  wishes  extend  any  farther 
than  that.  For  since  I  know  your  present  prin- 
ciples, it  would  be  asking  too  much  to  require 
that  you,  for  your  own  part,  should  take  a  live- 
lier interest  in  kings. 

Jupiter.  I  perceive  you  think  I  incline  too 
strongly  to  the  side  of  the  people.  There  may 
be  some  foundation  for  that  opinion ;  but  in 
fact  it  is  only  because  it  has  been  one  of  my 
first  principles  of  government  to  take  the  side 
of  those  who  are  likely  to  retain  the  right  at 
last.  The  present  time  is  not  favourable  to  the 
'  Shepherds  of  the  people.'  It  is  now  the  people's 
turn ;  and  I  am  afraid,  my  love,  that  I  am  doing 
very  little  for  you  and  your  clients,  when  I 
swear  to  you  that  I  will  place  no  hindrances  in 
the  way  of  the  measures  which  you  shall  adopt 
for  their  advantage. 

Juno.  I  trust  things  have  not  yet  come  to  that 
pass,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  have  only 
to  imagine  that  we  have  no  more  power  over 
them,  in  order  to  be  independent  of  us. 

Jupiter.  As  I  said,  you  can  try.  I  leave  you 
perfect  freedom ;  only  I  foresee  that,  as  matters 
stand,  you  will  have  but  little  pleasure  in  the 
result. 

Juno.  I  would  rather  you  did  not  foresee  that. 
If  I  were  suspicious — 

Jupiter.  That  you  have  always  been  a  little, 
lady  of  my  heart!  But  this  time  you  would  do 
me  injustice.  It  is  my  serious  intention  to  keep 
my  promise  to  you,  and  to  leave  the  governing 
gentlemen  below  there  to  your  powerful  protec- 
tion and — to  their  fate. 

Juno.  1  confess,  Jupiter,  I  do  not  exactly  un- 
derstand how  the  king  of  gods  and  of  men  can 
be  so  indifferent  in  the  affairs  of  kings,  and, 
without  moving  a  finger,  can  look  quietly  on 
and  see  his  sub-delegates  gradually  changed  into 
theatre-princes  and  card-kings. 

Jupiter.  It  will  not  come  to  that  so  easily,  my 
dearest. 

Juno.  It  has  come  to  that  already  in  some 
places,  and  it  will  come  to  that  everywhere  at 
last,  if  w&  fold  our  hands  in  our  laps  any  longeT. 


WIEL 


Jupiter.  We  shall  not  assuredly  make  a  man 
like  Henry  IV.  of  France,  or  Frederick  the  only, 
out  of  a  king  of  cards ;  and  he  who  lets  a  king 
of  cards  be  made  of  himself  deserves  nothing 
better. 

Juno.  That  is  a  mere  evasion,  sir  husband. 
You  know  very  well  that  such  kings  as  you 
have  named  are  extremely  rare  products  of 
Nature  and  circumstances ;  and  so  much  the 
better.  The  kings  at  bottom  are  our  vicegerents 
after  all,  and  for  that  purpose  the  ordinary  ones 
are  good  enough,  provided  we  do  not  let  them 
fall. 

Jupiter.  The  compliment  which  you  are  pleased 
to  pay  me  in  those  words  is  not  very  flattering ; 
but,  basta  !  We  will  not  enter  into  any  explana- 
tion on  this  subject.  I  shall  not  let  my  vicege- 
rents, as  you  call  them,  fall,  as  long  as  they  can 
stand  on  their  own  legs.  My  office  is  to  let  no 
one  be  oppressed  if  I  can  help  it.  Only,  dear 
wife,  do  not  let  us  forget  the  great  truth,  that 
kings  exist  for  the  sake  of  the  people,  and  not 
the  people  for  the  sake  of  the  kings. 

Juno.  With  your  permission,  sir  husband, 
that  is  an  old  saw,  which,  like  most  wise  say- 
ings of  the  kind,  seems  to  say  a  great  deal,  and 
in  fact  says  very  little.  Kings  exist  to  govern 
the  people,  and  the  people  must  let  themselves 
be  governed  by  them.  That  is  the  thing;  and 
so  old  Homer,  even  in  his  day,  understood  it, 
when  he  makes  the  wise  Ulysses  say  to  the 
stupid  populace  of  the  Grecian  army :  "  The 
government  of  many  is  not  good  !  Let  one  only 
be  ruler,  one  only  be  king."*  And,  that  no  one 
may  imagine  the  sceptre  to  depend  on  arbitrary 
will,  he  wisely  adds,  that  it  is  Jupiter  himself 
from  whose  hand  kings  receive  this  sign  of  su- 
preme power.  This  is  truth,  and  I  know  no 
higher. 

Jupiter.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  and 
to  old  Homer!  But  to  speak  candidly,  what 
might  pass  for  true  in  a  certain  sense,  in  those 
rude  times  of  the  world's  first  youth,  is  no  longer 
so  when  applied  to  a  people  who  through  ex- 
perience and  cultivation  have  reached  that 
point  at  last  where  they  are  masters  of  their 
own  reason,  and  have  grown  strong  enongh  to 
shake  off  the  yoke  of  ancient  prejudices  and 
errors.  Nations,  indeed,  have  their  childhood 
as  well  as  individuals;  and,  as  long  as  they  are 
ignorant  and  weak  and  foolish  like  children, 
they  must  be  treated  like  children,  and  govern- 
ed by  blind  obedience  to  an  authority  which  is 
not  responsible  to  them.  But  nations  do  not,  any 
more  than  individuals,  remain  children  for  ever. 
It  is  a  crime  against  Nature  to  wish  to  keep 
them  in  perpetual  childhood  by  force  or  fraud ; 
or,  as  is  generally  the  case,  by  both.  And  it  is 
both  folly  and  crime  to  treat  them  as  children 
still,  when  they  have  already  ripened  into  men. 

Juno.  I  willingly  concede,  Jupiter,  that  a  high 
degree  of  culture  requires  a  different  kind  of 
government  from  that  which  is  most  fitting  for 

*  See  Iliad,  B.  II.  vs.  204,  205.  Tr. 


AND.  151 


a  people  that  is  yet  entirely  rude,  or  that  is  still 
in  the  first  stages  of  its  culture.  But  all  the  phi- 
losophers of  the  earth  will  never  cause  that  ten 
millions  of  men,  who  together  constitute  a  na- 
tion, shall  have  two  millions  of  Epaminondasses 
and  Epictetusses  at  their  head;  and  so  the  say- 
ing of  Ulysses  will  always  remain  true : 

"Truly  we  cannot  all  reign,  not  all  be  kings,  we  Achaians, 
Nor  is  polycracy  good;  let  one  and  one  only  be  ruler, 
One  only  kingf* 

Jupiter.  Granted!  Only  let  every  people,  when 
it  has  arrived  at  that  point  where  it  can  un- 
derstand its  own  rights  and  calculate  its  own 
powers,  for  which  in  fact  nothing  more  is  re- 
quired than  an  ordinary  share  of  common  sense, 
— let  every  such  people  have  the  privilege  of 
managing  its  own  political  institutions,  (/wno 
shakes  her  head.)  I  mean,  they  should  be  allowed 
to  empower  those  of  their  number  in  whose 
judgment  and  integrity  they  have  most  confi- 
dence, to  adopt  such  measures  as  shall  hinder 
the  arbitrary  power  of  the  individual  and  of 
the  few  who  know  how  to  possess  themselves 
of  his  favour  and  confidence  from  doing  mis- 
chief, from  wasting  the  powers  of  the  state, 
corrupting  its  morals,  and  making  a  crime  of 
wisdom,  virtue,  and  the  candour  which  says 
aloud  what  it  believes  to  be  true ;  in  short — 

Juno.  0 !  you  are  perfectly  right  there,  Jupi- 
ter !  Kings  must  not  be  suffered  to  do  that. 
They  must  be  restrained  by  religion  and  laws, 
of  course !  They  must  know  that  they  receive 
their  sceptre  from  the  hands  of  Jupiter  alone. 

Jupiter.  Dear  wife,  do  not  harp  upon  this 
string  any  more,  if  I  may  make  the  request.  I 
know  best  how  the  matter  stands.  But  suppose 
it  were  as  you  say,  the  people  would  be  little 
benefited  if  kings  had  no  one  over  them  beside 
me.  I  should  have  to  remind  them  of  it  with 
thunder  and  lightning  every  moment,  or  they 
would  govern  exactly  as  if  there  were  no  Jupi- 
ter over  them,  although  they  should  sacrifice 
whole  hecatombs  to  me  every  morning  with  the 
greatest  ceremony. 

Juno.  I  do  not  mean  that  religion  shall  be  the 
only  thing  which  they  respect — 

Jupiter,  (somewhat  passionately}  The  worst 
kings  will  always  respect  us  most, — they  who 
have  made  the  great  Ulyssean  principle  :  that 
kings  have  their  sceptre  from  me,  one  of  the 
first  articles  of  faith,  and  thereon  grounded  a 
blind  subjection  which  is  made  the  most  sacred 
duty  of  the  people. 

Juno.  But  I  say  that  they  must  govern  accord- 
ing to  laws  whose  end  is  the  common  good. 

Jupiter.  The  common  good  ! — A  beautiful  say- 
ing!   And  who  shall  give  them  these  laws'? 

Juno.  O !  Themis  has  published  them  long 
ago  all  over  the  world !  Where  is  there  a  na- 
tion so  barbarous  as  not  to  know  the  universal 
laws  of  justice  and  right  1 

Jupiter.  So  innocent  as  you  affect  to  be,  child  ! 
Suppose  now  kings  and  their  tools,  or  rather 
imperious  courtiers  and  servants  and  their  obe- 


152 


WIELAND. 


client  instruments  the  kings,  in  spite  of  old 
Themis  and  her  antiquated  laws,  should  govern 
only  according  to  their  own  will  and  pleasure, 
and  because  they  have  the  power  and  are  an- 
swerable to  no  one  should  do  as  much  evil  or — 
what  is  the  same  thing  to  the  people — should 
suffer  as  much  evil  to  be  done  as  they  please ; 
How  then  ? 

Juno.  That  is  the  very  thing  that  we  must 
prevent,  Jupiter!  Else  why  are  we  in  the 
world? 

Jupiter.  We !  Well,  to  be  sure,  my  darling, 
you  are  right  there ! — only  that  the  more  rea- 
sonable class  of  men  view  the  thing  from  an- 
other side.  We  mortals,  they  think,  are  after 
all  the  only  ones  who  have  suffered  under  the 
former  government.  We  can  help  ourselves ; 
and  we  will  help  ourselves.  He  who  trusts 
that  others  will  do  for  him  that  which  he  can 
do  for  himself,  and  in  the  doing  of  which  no 
one  is  so  much  interested  as  himself,  will  al- 
ways be  poorly  served. 

Jwno.  How  you  talk!  If  mortals  below  there 
should  hear  you  talk  in  this  way — 

Jupiter.  We  are  speaking  between  ourselves, 
child  !  If  we  do  not  see  clearly ! — I  do  not  ob- 
ject however  that  all  men  should  know  that  I, 
for  my  part,  always  hold  with  him  who  does 
his  duty.  I  am  very  willing  that  people  should 
grow  wiser.  There  was  a  time  when  they 
showed  me  unmerited  honour.  All  the  mis- 
chief that  was  done  by  lightning  among  them 
was  placed  to  my  account;  and  dear  Heaven 
knows  what  foolish  things  I  often  had  to  hear, 
when  the  lightning  struck  my  own  temple  or 
passed  by  many  rogues  to  fall  on  some  innocent 
person.  Now  that  the  brave  North  American, 
Franklin,  has  invented  the  lightning-rod,  and 
since  the  people  know  that  metals,  high  trees, 
the  pinnacles  of  towers,  and  things  of  that  sort 
are  natural  conductors  of  lightning,  my  thunder- 
bolts are  ever  less  feared.  But  I  never  think 
of  being  jealous  about  it. 

Juno.  We  have  imperceptibly  fallen  into  a 
moralising  vein,  dear  Jupiter! 

Jupiter.  And  morals,  you  think,  have  nothing 
to  do  with  politics  ? 

Juno.  Not  that  exactly.  But  I  think  that  po- 
litics have  a  morals  of  their  own,  and  that  what 
is  the  rule  of  right  for  the  subjects  is  not  always 
so  for  the  monarchs. 

Jupiter.  I  remember  the  time  when  I  thought 
so  too.  It  is  a  very  convenient  and  pleasant 
way  of  thinking  for  kings ;  but  times  change, 
my  love ! 

Juno.  If  we  only  remain  firm,  there  is  nothing 
to  fear. 

Jupiter.  Hear  me,  Juno!  You  know  that  I 
possess  the  privilege  of  seeing  somewhat  farther 
into  the  Future  than  the  rest  of  you.  Your  con- 
fident tone  sometimes  tempts  me  to  discover  to 
you  more  than  I  had  originally  intended. 

Juno.  And  what  mystery  may  that  be  which 
makes  you  look  so  serious  ? 

Jupiter.  Everything,  dear  Juno,  is  subject  to 


the  eternal  law  of  change.  The  time  has  now 
arrived  for  monarchies  to  cease  ;  and  (in  a  lower 
tone)  our  own  tends  to  its  decline  as  well  as  the 
rest.  It  is  not  much  to  be  regretted,  for  it  was 
only  patchwork  after  all. 

Juno.  You  speak  as  in  a  dream,  Jupiter. 

Jupiter.  First  reigned  Uranus  and  Gaia ;  then 
came  the  kingdom  of  Saturn ;  this  gave  place  to 
mine  ;  and  now — 

Juno.  And  now?  You  do  not  mean  to  abdi- 
cate your  kingdom  in  favour  of  the  National 
Assembly  at  Paris,  do  you? 

Jupiter.  And  now  the  kingdom  of  Nemesis 
has  come ! 

Juno.  The  kingdom  of  Nemesis  ? 

Jupiter.  The  kingdom  of  Nemesis!  So  I  am 
assured  by  a  primeval  oracle  long  forgotten  by 
gods  and  men,  which  Themis  uttered  while 
still  in  possession  of  the  Delphian  soil,  and 
which  I  recall  again  in  these  days. 

"When  after  long  revolving  centuries,"  says 
the  oracle,  "there  shall  be  a  kingdom  on  the 
earth  in  which  the  tyranny  of  kings,  the  inso- 
lence of  the  great,  and  the  oppression  of  the 
people  keep  equal  pace  with  the  cultivation  of 
all  the  faculties  of  Humanity,  and  both  at  last 
are  so  near  their  acme,  that  in  a  moment  the 
eyes  of  all  the  oppressed  are  opened  and  all 
arms  raised  for  revenge,  then  inexorable  but 
ever  just  Nemesis,  with  her  diamond  bridle  in 
one  hand  and  her  scale  which  measures  with 
a  hair's  breadth  exactness  in  the  other,  will 
descend  upon  the  throne  of  Olympus  to  humble 
the  proud,  to  exalt  the  depressed,  and  to  exer- 
cise a  strict  retribution  upon  every  sinner  who 
has  trampled  the  rights  of  Humanity  under  foot, 
and  who  in  the  intoxication  of  his  insolence 
would  acknowledge  no  other  laws  than  the  ex- 
travagant demands  of  his  passions  and  his  hu- 
mours. Content  to  reign  under  her,  Jupiter 
himself  will  then  be  nothing  more  than  the 
executor  of  the  laws  which  she  will  enact  for 
the  nations  of  the  earth.  An  age  more  golden 
than  the  Saturnian  will  then  be  diffused  among 
innumerable  generations  of  better  men.  Uni- 
versal harmony  will  make  one  family  of  them, 
and  mortality  will  be  the  only  difference  be- 
tween the  happiness  of  the  inhabitants  of  earth 
and  of  Olympus." 

Juno,  (laughing)  That  sounds  splendidly,  Ju- 
piter! —  And  you  believe  in  this  fine  poetic 
dream,  and  are  resolved,  as  it  would  seem, 
with  your  hands  in  your  lap,  to  await  its  fulfil- 
ment? 

Jupiter,  (gravely)  I  am  resolved  to  submit 
myself  to  the  only  Power  which  is  above  me, 
and  if  you  would  take  good  advice,  you  would 
follow  my  example,  and  quietly  let  come  what 
must  come  at  last,  though  we  should  all  so  for- 
get ourselves  as  to  attempt  to  hinder  it. 

Juno.  0 !  certainly  I  shall  let  come  what  I 
can't  hinder !  But  why  therefore  remain  inac- 
tive ?  Why  divest  ourselves,  before  the  time, 
of  the  power  which  we  actually  possess,  to 
oblige  an  old  oracle  ?  and  not  rather  summon 


W I  E  L  A  N  D. 


153 


all  our  powers  to  restrain  the  Demon  of  rebel- 
lion and  the  rage  for  governing  which  has  taken 
possession  of  the  people'?  I  insist  on  my  old 
Homeric  Oracle  :  "  The  government  of  many  is 
bad !"  Nations  must  enjoy  the  privileges  of 
liberty  under  a  paternal  government;  nothing 
is  more  reasonable.  But  they  must  not  attempt 
to  govern  themselves,  they  must  not  attempt  to 
throw  off  the  indispensable  yoke  of  relations 
and  duties,  and  to  introduce  an  equality  which 
is  not  in  the  nature  of  men  or  of  things,  and 
which  makes  the  deluded  happy  in  a  moment 
of  intoxication,  only  to  make  them  more  fear- 
fully sensible  of  their  actual  misery,  on  awak- 
ing. 

Jupiter.  Be  unconcerned,  my  best  of  wives ! 
Nemesis  and  Themis  will  know  how  to  reduce 


to  the  right  measure  what  is  now  too  much  0) 
too  little,  too  rash  or  too  one-sided. 

Juno.  I  am  not  yet  disposed  to  abdicate  my 
share  in  the  government  of  the  world  to  another 
I  still  feel  courage  in  me  to  preside  over  my 
ofiice  myself;  and  if  you  always  hold  with  those 
who  do  their  duty,  I  promise  myself  your  ap- 
probation. At  least  I  have  your  word  that  you 
will  not  labour  against  me. 

Jupiler.  And  I  swear  to  you  by  the  diamond 
bridle  of  Nemesis,  that  I  will  keep  it  as  long  as 
you  are  wise  enough  to  bridle  yourself.  Do  as 
you  think  best,  but  do  not  compel  me  to  do  my 
duty,  my  dear ! 

Juno,  (embracing  him)  Let  the  beautiful  Anti- 
nous  fill  you  your  great  cup  with  nectar,  Jupiter  ; 
and  take  your  ease.  You  shall  be  satisfied  with  me. 


JOHANN  AUGUST  MUSAUS.* 


Born  1735.   Died  1787. 


Johann  August  Musaus  was  born  in  the 
year  1735,  at  Jena,  where  his  father  then  held 
the  office  of  Judge.  The  quick  talents,  and 
kind  lively  temper  of  the  boy,  recommended 
him  to  the  affection  of  his  uncle,  Herr  Weissen- 
born,  Snperintendent  at  Allstadt,  who  took  him 
to  his  house,  and  treated  him  in  all  respects 
like  a  son.  Johann  was  then  in  his  ninth  year : 
a  few  months  afterwards,  his  uncle  was  pro- 
moted to  the  post  of  General  Superintendent  at 
Eisenach  ;  a  change  which  did  not  alter  the 
domestic  condition  of  the  nephew,  though  it 
replaced  him  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  pa- 
rents ;  for  his  father  had  also  been  transferred 
to  Eisenach,  in  the  capacity  of  Councillor  and 
Police  Magistrate.  With  this  hospitable  rela- 
tive he  continued  till  his  nineteenth  year. 

Old  Weissenborn  had  no  children  of  his  own, 
and  he  determined  that  his  foster-child  should 
have  a  liberal  education.  In  due  time  he  placed 
him  at  the  University  of  Jena,  as  a  student  of 
theology.  It  is  not  likely  that  the  inclinations 
of  the  youth  himself  had  been  particularly  con- 
sulted in  this  arrangement;  nevertheless  he 
appears  to  have  studied  with  sufficient  dili- 
gence ;  for  in  the  usual  period  of  three  years 
and  a  half,  he  obtained  his  degree  of  Master, 
and  what  was  then  a  proof  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary merit,  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Ger- 
man Society.  With  these  titles,  and  the 
groundwork  of  a  solid  culture,  he  returned  to 
Eisenach,  to  wait  for  an  appointment  in  the 
Church,  of  which  he  was  now  licentiate. 

For  several  years,  though  he  preached  with 
ability,  and  not  without  approval,  no  appoint- 
ment presented  itself;  and  when  at  last  a 
country  living  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Eisenach 
was  offered  him,  the  people  stoutly  resisted  the 
admission  of  their  new  pastor,  on  the  ground, 
says  his  Biographer,  that  "  he  had  once  been 
seen  dancing."  It  may  be,  however,  that  the 
sentence  of  the  peasants  was  not  altogether  so 
infirm  as  this  its  alleged  very  narrow  basis 
would  betoken:  judging  from  external  circum- 
stances, it  by  no  means  appears  that  devotion 

*  From  Carlyle's  German  Romance. 


was  at  any  time  the  chief  distinction  of  the  new 
candidate;  and  to  a  simple  rustic  flock,  his 
shining  talents,  unsupported  by  zeal,  would  be 
empty  and  unprofitable,  as  sounding  brass  or  a 
tinkling  cymbal.  At  all  events,  this  hindrance 
closed  his  theological  career :  it  came  in  good 
season  to  withdraw  him  from  a  calling,  in 
which,  whether  willingly  or  unwillingly  adopt- 
ed, his  history  must  have  been  dishonest  and 
contemptible,  and  his  gifts  could  never  have 
availed  him. 

Musaus  had  now  lost  his  profession ;  but  his 
resources  were  not  limited  to  one  department 
of  activity,  and  he  was  still  young  enough  to 
choose  another.  His  temper  was  gay  and  kind- 
ly; his  faculties  of  mind  were  brilliant,  and 
had  now  been  improved  by  years  of  steady  in- 
dustry. His  residence  at  Eisenach  had  not 
been  spent  in  scrutinizing  the  phases  of  church 
preferment,  or  dancing  attendance  on  patrons 
and  dignitaries :  he  had  stored  his  mind  with 
useful  and  ornamental  knowledge ;  and  from 
his  remote  watch-tower,  his  keen  eye  had  dis- 
cerned the  movements  of  the  world,  and  firm 
judgments  of  its  wisdom  and  its  folly  were 
gathering  form  in  his  thoughts.  In  his  twenty- 
fifth  year  he  became  an  author ;  a  satirist,  and 
what  is  rarer,  a  just  one.  Germany,  by  the 
report  of  its  enemies  and  lukewarm  friends,  is 
seldom  long  without  some  Idol;  some  author 
of  superhuman  endowments,  some  system  that 
promises  to  renovate  the  earth,  some  science 
destined  to  conduct,  by  a  north-west  passage, 
to  universal  knowledge.  At  this  period,  the 
Brazen  Image  of  the  day  was  our  English 
Richardson:  his  novels  had  been  translated 
into  German  with  unbounded  acceptance  ;*  and 
Grandison  was  figuring  in  many  weak  heads 
as  the  sole  model  of  a  true  Christian  gentle- 
man. Musaus  published  his  German  Grandi- 
son in  1760 ;  a  work  of  good  omen  as  a  first 
attempt,  and  received  with  greater  favor  than 
the  popularity  of  its  victim  seemed  to  promise. 
It  co-operated  with  Time  in  removing  this  spi- 

*  See  the  Letters  of  Meta,  Klopstock's  lady,  in  Richard- 
son's Life  and  Correspondence. 

(154) 


MUSAUS. 


155 


ritual  epidemic ;  and  appears  to  have  survived 
its  object,  for  it  was  reprinted  in  1761. 

The  success  of  his  anonymous  parody,  how- 
ever gratifying  to  the  youthful  author,  did  not 
tempt  him  to  disclose  his  name,  and  still  less 
to  think  of  literature  as  a  profession.  With  his 
cool  sceptical  temper,  he  was  little  liable  to 
over-estimate  his  talents,  or  the  prizes  set  up 
for  them;  and  he  longed  much  less  for  a  literary 
existence  than  for  a  civic  one.  In  1763,  his 
wish,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  granted  :  he  be- 
came Tutor  of  the  Pages  in  the  court  of  Wei- 
mar; which  office,  after  seven  punctual  and 
laborious  years,  he  exchanged  for  a  professor- 
ship in  the  Gymnasium,  or  public  school  of  the 
same  town.  He  had  now  married ;  and  amid 
the  cares  and  pleasures  of  providing  for  a 
family,  and  keeping  house  like  an  honest 
burgher,  the  dreams  of  fame  had  faded  still 
farther  from  his  mind.  The  emoluments  of 
his  post  were  small ;  but  his  heart  was  light, 
and  his  mind  humble :  to  increase  his  income 
he  gave  private  lessons  in  history  and  the  like, 
"  to  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  quality  ;" 
and  for  several  years  took  charge  of  a  few 
boarders.  The  names  of  Wieland  and  Goethe 
had  now  risen  on  the  world,  while  his  own  was 
still  under  the  horizon :  but  this  obscurity,  en- 
joying as  he  did  the  kind  esteem  of  all  his 
many  personal  acquaintances,  he  felt  to  be  a 
very  light  evil ;  and  participated  without  envy 
in  whatever  entertainment  or  instruction  his 
famed  contemporaries  could  afford  him.  With 
literature  he  still  occupied  his  leisure ;  he  had 
read  and  reflected  much ;  but  for  any  public 
display  of  his  acquirements  he  was  making  no 
preparation,  and  feeling  no  anxiety. 

After  an  interval  of  nineteen  years,  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  new  idol  again  called  forth  his 
iconoclastic  faculty.  Lavater  had  left  his 
parsonage  among  the  Alps,  and  set  out  on  a 
cruize  over  Europe,  in  search  of  proselytes  and 
striking  physiognomies.  His  theories,  sup- 
ported by  his  personal  influence,  and  the 
honest  rude  ardor  of  his  character,  became 
the  rage  in  Germany ;  and  men,  women,  and 
children  were  immersed  in  promoting  philan- 
thropy, and  studying  the  human  mind.  Where- 
upon Musaus  grasped  his  satirical  hammer;  and 
with  lusty  strokes,  defaced  and  unshrined  the 
false  divinity.  His  Physiognomical  Travels, 
which  appeared  in  1779,  is  still  ranked  by  the 
German  critics  among  the  happiest  productions 


of  its  kind  in  their  literature  ;  and  still  read  for 
its  wit  and  acuteness,  and  genial  overflowing 
humour,  though  the  object  it  attacked  has  long 
ago  become  a  reminiscence.  At  the  time  of  its 
publication,  when  everything  conspired  to  give 
its  qualities  their  full  effect,  the  applause  it 
gained  was  instant  and  general.  The  author 
had,  as  in  the  former  case,  concealed  his  name: 
but  the  public  curiosity  soon  penetrated  the 
secret,  which  he  had  now  no  interest  in  keep- 
ing; and  Musaus  was  forthwith  enrolled  among 
the  lights  of  his  day  and  generation ;  and  courte- 
ous readers  crowded  to  him  from  far  and  near, 
to  see  his  face,  and  pay  him  the  tribute  of  their 
admiration.  This  unlooked-for  celebrity  he 
valued  at  its  just  price ;  continuing  to  live  as 
if  it  were  not ;  gratified  chiefly  in  his  character 
of  father,  at  having  found  an  honest  way  of 
improving  his  domestic  circumstances,  and  en- 
larging the  comforts  of  his  family.  The  ground 
was  now  broken,  and  he  was  not  long  in  digging 
deeper. 

The  popular  traditions  of  Germany,  so  nu- 
merous and  often  so  impressive,  had  attracted 
his  attention ;  and  their  rugged  Gothic  vigor, 
saddened  into  sternness  or  venerable  grace  by 
the  flight  of  ages,  became  dearer  to  his  taste, 
as  he  looked  abroad  upon  the  mawkish  deluge 
of  Sentimentality,  with  which  The  Sorrows  of 
Werter  had  been  the  innocent  signal  for  a 
legion  of  imitators  to  drown  the  land.  The 
spirit  of  German  imagination  seemed  but  ill 
represented  by  these  tearful  persons,  who,  if 
their  hearts  were  full,  minded  little  though 
their  heads  were  empty :  their  spasmodic  ten- 
derness made  no  imposing  figure  beside  the 
gloomy  strength,  which  might  still  in  frag- 
ments be  discerned  in  their  distant  predecessors. 
Of  what  has  been  preserved  from  age  to  age 
by  living  memory  alone,  the  chance  is  that  it 
possesses  some  intrinsic  merit :  its  very  exist- 
ence declares  it  to  be  adapted  to  some  form  of 
our  common  nature,  and  therefore  calculated 
more  or  less  to  interest  all  its  forms.  It  struck 
Musaus  that  these  rude  traditionary  fragments 
might  be  worked  anew  into  shape  and  polish, 
and  transferred  from  the  hearths  of  the  common 
people,  to  the  parlors  of  the  intellectual  and 
refined.  He  determined  on  forming  a  series  of 
Volksmdhrchen,  or  Popular  Traditionary  Tales ; 
a  task  of  more  originality  and  smaller  promise 
in  those  days  than  it  would  be  now.  In  the 
collection  of  materials,  he  spared  no  pains ;  and 
despised  no  source  of  intelligence,  however 


15G 


M  US  A  US, 


mean.  He  would  call  children  from  the  street; 
become  a  child  along  with  them,  listen  to  their 
nursery  tales,  and  reward  his  tiny  narrators 
with  a  dreyer  apiece.  Sometimes  he  assembled 
a  knot  of  old  women,  with  their  spinning- 
wheels,  about  him ;  and  amid  the  hum  of  their 
industrious  implements,  gathered  stories  of  the 
ancient  time  from  the  lips  of  the  garrulous 
sisterhood.  Once  his  wife  had  been  out  pay- 
ing visits :  on  opening  the  parlor  door  at  her 
return,  she  was  met  by  a  villanous  cloud  of 
tobacco-smoke ;  and  venturing  forward  through 
the  haze,  she  found  her  husband  seated  by  the 
stove,  in  company  with  an  old  soldier,  who  was 
smoking  vehemently  on  his  black  stump  of 
pipe,  and  charming  his  landlord,  between  whiffs, 
with  legendary  lore. 

The  Volksmdhrchen,  in  five  little  volumes, 
appeared  in  1782.  They  soon  rose  into  favor 
with  a  large  class  of  readers ;  and  while  many 
generations  of  novels  have  since  that  time  been 
ushered  into  being,  and  conducted  out  of  it, 
they  still  survive,  increasing  in  popularity  ra- 
ther than  declining.  This  pre-eminence  is 
owing  less  to  the  ancient  materials,  than  to 
the  author's  way  of  treating  them.  The  pri- 
mitive tradition  often  serves  him  only  as  a 
vehicle  for  interesting  description,  shrewd  sar- 
castic speculation,  and  gay  fanciful  pleasantry, 
extending  its  allusions  over  all  things  past  and 
present,  now  rising  into  comic  humor,  now 
sinking  into  drollery,  often  tasteless,  strained, 
or  tawdry,  but  never  dull.  The  traces  of  poetry 
and  earnest  imagination,  here  and  there  dis- 
cernible in  the  original  fiction,  he  treats  with 
levity  and  kind  sceptical  derision:  nothing  is 
required  of  the  reader  but  what  all  readers  are 
prepared  to  give.  Since  the  publication  of  this 
work,  the  subject  of  popular  tradition  has  been 
handled  to  triteness;  Volksmdhrchen  have  been 
written  and  collected  without  stint  or  limit; 
and  critics,  in  admitting  that  Musaus  was  the 
first  to  open  this  mine  of  entertainment,  have 
lamented  the  incongruity  between  his  subject 
and  his  style.  But  the  faculty  of  laughing  has 
been  given  to  all  men,  and  the  feeling  of 
imaginative  beauty  has  been  given  only  to  a 
few :  the  lovers  of  primeval  poetry,  in  its  un- 
adulterated state,  may  censure  Musaus;  but 
they  join  witn  the  public  at  large  in  reading 
him. 

This  book  of  Volksmdhrchen  established  the 
character  of  its  author  for  wit  and  general 


talent,  and  forms  the  chief  support  of  his  repu- 
tation with  posterity.  A  few  years  after,  he 
again  appeared  before  the  public  with  a  humor- 
ous performance,  entitled,  Friend  Hein's  Ap- 
paritions, in  the  style  of  Holberg,  printed  in 
1785.  Friend  Hein  is  a  name  under  which 
Musaus,  for  what  reason  his  commentator  Wie- 
land  seems  unable  to  inform  us,  usually  personi- 
fies Death :  the  essay  itself,  which  I  have  never 
seen,  may  be  less  irreverent  and  offensive  to 
pious  feeling  than  its  title  indicates,  and  it  is 
said  to  abound  with  "  wit,  humor,  and  know- 
ledge of  life,"  as  much  as  any  of  his  former 
works.  He  had  also  begun  a  second  series  of 
Tales,  under  the  title  of  Slraussfedern  (Os- 
trich-feathers) :  but  only  the  first  volume  had 
appeared,  when  death  put  a  period  to  his  labors. 
He  had  long  been  in  weakly  health:  often 
afflicted  with  violent  head-aches :  his  disorder 
was  a  polypus  of  the  heart,  which  cut  him  off 
on  the  28th  of  October  1787,  in  the  fifty-second 
year  of  his  age.  The  Straussfedern  was  com- 
pleted by  another  hand;  and  a  small  volume 
of  Remains,  edited  by  Kotzebue  in  1791,  con- 
cludes the  list  of  his  writings.  A  simple  but 
tasteful  memorial,  we  are  told,  was  erected 
over  his  grave  by  some  unknown  friend. 

Musaus  was  a  practical  believer  in  the  Ho- 
ratian  maxim,  Nil  admirari :  of  a  jovial  heart, 
and  a  penetrating,  well-cultivated  understand- 
ing, he  saw  things  as  they  were,  and  had  little 
disposition  or  aptitude  to  invest  them  with  any 
colors  but  their  own.  Without  much  effort, 
therefore,  he  stood  aloof  from  every  species  of 
cant;  and  was  the  man  he  thought  himself, 
and  wished  others  to  think  him.  Had  his  tem- 
per been  unsocial  and  melancholic,  such  a  creed 
might  have  rendered  him  spiteful,  narrow,  and 
selfish :  but  nature  had  been  kinder  to  him  than 
education ;  he  did  not  quarrel  with  the  world, 
though  he  saw  its  barrenness,  and  knew  not 
how  to  make  it  solemn  any  more  than  lovely ; 
for  his  heart  was  gay  and  kind,  and  an  imper- 
turbable good-humor,  more  potent  than  a  pano- 
ply of  brass,  defended  him  from  the  stings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  Fortune  to  the  end  of  his 
pilgrimage.  Few  laughers  have  walked  so 
circumspectly,  and  acquired  or  merited  so  much 
affection.  By  profession  a  Mornus,  he  looked 
upon  the  world  as  little  else  than  a  boundless 
Chase,  where  the  wise  were  to  recreate  them- 
selves with  the  hunting  of  Follies ;  and  perhaps 
he  is  the  only  satirist  on  record  of  whom  it  can 


MUS  AUS. 


157 


be  said,  that  his  jesting  never  cost  him  a  friend. 
His  humor  is,  indeed,  untinctured  with  bitter- 
ness; sportful,  ebullient,  and  guileless,  as  the 
frolics  of  a  child.  He  could  not  reverence  men ; 
but  with  all  their  faults  he  loved  them ;  for 
they  were  his  brethren,  and  their  faults  were 
not  clearer  to  him  than  his  own.  He  inculcated 
or  entertained  no  lofty  principles  of  generosity ; 
yet  though  never  rich  in  purse,  he  was  always 
ready  to  divide  his  pittance  with  a  needier  fel- 
low-man. Of  vanity,  he  showed  little  or  none : 
in  obscurity  he  was  contented ;  and  when  his 
honors  came,  he  wore  them  meekly,  and  was 
the  last  to  see  that  they  were  merited.  In 
society  he  was  courteous  and  yielding ;  a  uni- 
versal favorite ;  in  his  chosen  circle,  the  most 
fascinating  of  companions.  From  the  slenderest 
trifle,  he  could  spin  a  boundless  web  of  drollery  ; 
and  his  brilliant  mirth  enlivened  without  wound- 
ing. With  the  foibles  of  others,  he  abstained 
from  meddling ;  but  among  his  friends,  we  are 
informed,  he  could  for  hours  keep  the  table  in 
a  roar,  when,  with  his  dry  inimitable  vein,  he 
started  some  banter  on  himself  or  his  wife, 
and,  in  trustful  abandonment,  laid  the  reins  on 
the  neck  of  his  fancy  to  pursue  it.  Without 
enthusiasm  of  character,  or  any  pretension  to 
high  or  even  earnest  qualities,  he  was  a  well- 
conditioned,  laughter-loving,  kindly  man ;  led 
a  gay,  jestful  life ;  conquering  by  contentment 
and  mirth  of  heart,  the  long  series  of  difficulties 
and  distresses  with  which  it  assailed  him ;  and 
died  regretted  by  his  nation,  as  a  forwarder  of 
harmless  pleasure ;  and  by  those  that  knew  him 
better,  as  a  truthful,  unassuming,  affectionate, 
and,  on  the  whole,  very  estimable  person. 

His  intellectual  character  corresponds  with 
his  moral  and  social  one ;  not  high  or  glorious, 
but  genuine  so  far  as  it  goes.  He  does  not 
approach  the  first  rank  of  writers;  he  attempts 
not  to  deal  with  the  deeper  feelings  of  the 
heart;  and  for  instructing  the  judgment,  he 
ranks  rather  as  a  sound,  well-informed,  com- 
mon-sense thinker,  than  as  a  man  of  high  wis- 
dom or  originality.  He  advanced  few  new 
truths,  but  he  dressed  many  old  ones  in  sprightly 
apparel ;  and  it  ought  to  be  remembered,  that 
he  kept  himself  unspotted  from  the  errors  of 
his  time ;  a  merit  which  posterity  is  apt  to  un- 
derrate ;  for  nothing  seems  more  stolid  than  a 
past  delusion;  and  we  forget  that  delusions, 
destined  also  to  be  past,  are  now  present  with 
ourselves,  about  us  and  within  us,  which,  were 


the  task  so  easy,  it  is  pity  that  we  do  not  forth- 
with convict  and  cast  away.  Musaus  had  a 
quick  vigorous  intellect,  a  keen  eye  for  the 
common  forms  of  the  beautiful,  a  fancy  ever 
prompt  with  allusions,  and  an  overflowing  store 
of  sprightly  and  benignant  humor.  These  na- 
tural gifts  he  had  not  neglected  to  cultivate  by 
study  both  of  books  and  things;  his  reading 
distinguishes  him  even  in  Germany ;  nor  doe3 
he  bear  it  about  him  like  an  ostentatious  burden, 
but  in  the  shape  of  spiritual  strength  and  plenty 
derived  from  it.  As  an  author,  his  beauties  and 
defects  are  numerous  and  easily  discerned.  His 
style  sparkles  with  metaphors,  sometimes  just 
and  beautiful,  often  new  and  surprising ;  but  it 
is  laborious,  unnatural,  and  diffuse.  Of  his 
humor,  his  distinguishing  gift,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, that  it  seems  copious  rather  than  fine, 
and  originates  rather  in  the  understanding  than 
in  the  character :  his  heart  is  not  delicate,  or 
his  affections  tender ;  but  he  loves  the  ludicrous 
with  true  passion ;  and  seeing  keenly,  if  he 
feels  obtusely,  he  can  choose  with  sufficient 
skill  the  point  of  view  from  which  his  object 
shall  appear  distorted,  as  he  requires  it.  This 
is  the  humor  of  a  Swift  or  a  Voltaire,  but  not 
of  a  Cervantes,  or  even  of  a  Sterne  in  his  best 
passages ;  it  may  produce  a  Zadig  or  a  Battle 
of  the  Books;  but  not  a  Don  Quixote  or  a 
Corporal  Trim.  Musaus  is,  in  fact,  no  poet ; 
he  can  see,  and  describe  with  rich  graces  what 
he  sees ;  but  he  is  nothing,  or  very  little,  of  a 
maker.  His  imagination  is  not  powerless :  it 
is  like  a  bird  of  feeble  wing,  which  can  fly  from 
tree  to  tree ;  but  never  soars  for  a  moment  into 
the  aBther  of  Poetry,  to  bathe  in  its  serene 
splendor,  with  the  region  of  the  Actual  lying  far 
below,  and  brightened  into  beauty  by  radiance 
not  its  own.  He  is  a  man  of  fine  and  varied 
talent,  but  scarcely  of  any  genius. 

These  characteristics  are  apparent  enough 
in  his  Popular  Tales ;  they  may  be  traced  even 
in  the  few  specimens  of  that  work,  by  which  he 
is  now  introduced  to  the  English  reader.  As 
has  been  already  stated,  his  Volksmdhrchen 
exhibit  himself  much  better  than  his  subject. 
He  is  not  admitted  by  his  critics  to  have  seized 
the  finest  spirit  of  this  species  of  fiction,  or 
turned  it  to  the  account  of  which  it  is  capable 
in  other  hands.  Whatever  was  austere  or 
earnest,  still  more,  whatever  bordered  upon 
awe  or  horror,  his  riant  fancy  rejected  with 
aversion :  the  rigorous  moral  sometimes  hid  in 
these  traditions,  the  grim  lines  of  primeval  feel- 
 14  


158 


MUSAUS. 


ing  and  imagination  to  be  traced  in  them,  had 
no  charms  for  him.  These  ruins  of  the  remote 
time  he  has  not  attempted  to  complete  into  a 
perfect  edifice,  according  to  the  first  simple 
plan;  he  has  rather  pargetted  them  anew,  and 
decorated  them  with  the  most  modern  orna- 
ments and  furniture ;  and  he  introduces  his 
guests,  with  a  roguish  smile  at  the  strange, 
antic  contrast  they  are  to  perceive  between  the 
movables  and  the  apartment.  Sometimes  he 
rises  into  a  flight  of  simple  eloquence,  and  for 
a  sentence  or  two,  seems  really  beautiful  and 
affecting ;  but  the  knave  is  always  laughing  in 
his  sleeve  at  our  credulity,  and  returns  with 
double  relish  to  riot  at  will  in  his  favorite  do- 
main. 

Of  the  three  Tales*  here  offered  to  the  reader, 
nothing  need  be  said  in  explanation ;  for  their 
whole  significance,  with  all  their  beauties  and 
*Only  one  is  given  in  this  volume.— Ed. 


blemishes,  lies  very  near  the  surface.  I  have 
selected  them,  as  specimens  at  once  of  his  man- 
ner and  his  materials,  in  the  hope  that,  convey- 
ing some  impression  of  a  gifted  and  favorite 
writer,  they  may  furnish  a  little  entertainment 
both  to  the  lovers  of  intellectual  novelty,  and 
of  innocent  amusement.  To  neither  can  I  pro- 
mise very  much  :  Musaus  is  a  man  of  sterling 
powers,  but  no  literary  monster ;  and  his  Tales, 
though  smooth  and  glittering,  are  cold ;  they 
have  beauty,  yet  it  is  the  beauty  not  of  living 
forms,  but  of  well-proportioned  statues.  Mean- 
while, I  have  given  him  as  I  found  him,  endea- 
voring to  copy  faithfully;  changing  nothing, 
whether  I  might  think  it  good  or  bad,  that  my 
skill  enabled  me  to  keep  unchanged.  With  all 
drawbacks,  I  anticipate  some  favor  for  him: 
but  his  case  admits  no  pleading;  being  clear 
by  its  own  light,  it  must  stand  or  fall  by  a  first 
judgment,  and  without  the  help  of  advocates. 


DUMB  LOVE. 

There  was  once  a  wealthy  merchant,  Mel- 
chior  of  Bremen  by  name,  who  used  to  stroke 
his  beard  with  a  contemptuous  grin,  when  be 
heard  the  Rich  Man  in  the  Gospel  preached  of, 
whom,  in  comparison,  he  reckoned  little  better 
than  a  petty  shopkeeper.  Melchior  had  money 
in  such  plenty,  that  he  floored  his  dining-room 
all  over  with  a  coat  of  solid  dollars.  In  those 
frugal  times,  as  in  our  own,  a  certain  luxury 
prevailed  among  the  rich ;  only  then  it  had  a 
more  substantial  shape  than  now.  But  though 
this  pomp  of  Melchior s  was  sharply  censured 
by  his  fellow-citizens  and  consorts,  it  was,  in 
truth,  directed  more  to  trading  speculation  than 
to  mere  vain-glory.  The  cunning  Bremer  easily 
observed,  that  those  who  grudged  and  blamed 
this  seeming  vanity,  would  but  diffuse  the  repu- 
tation of  his  wealth,  and  so  increase  his  credit. 
He  gained  his  purpose  to  the  full ;  the  sleeping 
capital  of  old  dollars,  so  judiciously  set  up  to 
public  inspection  in  the  parlour,  brought  interest 
a  hundred  fold,  by  the  silent  surety  which  it 
offered  for  his  bargains  in  every  market ;  yet, 
at  last,  it  became  a  rock  on  which  the  welfare 
of  his  family  made  shipwreck. 

Melchior  of  Bremen  died  of  a  surfeit  at  a 
city-feast,  without  having  time  to  set  his  house 
in  order ;  and  left  all  his  goods  and  chattels  to 
an  only  son,  in  the  bloom  of  life,  and  just  arrived 
at  the  years  when  the  laws  allowed  him  to 
take  possession  of  his  inheritance.  Franz  Mel- 
cherson  was  a  brilliant  youth,  endued  by  nature 
with  the  best  capacities.  His  exterior  was 
gracefully  formed,  yet  firm  and  sinewy  withal ; 


his  temper  was  cheery  and  jovial,  as  if  hung- 
beef  and  old  French  wine  had  joined  to  influ- 
ence his  formation.  On  his  cheeks  bloomed 
health ;  and  from  his  brown  eyes  looked  mirth- 
fulness  and  love  of  joy.  He  was  like  a  marrowy 
plant,  which  needs  but  water  and  the  poorest 
ground  to  make  it  grow  to  strength ;  but  which, 
in  too  fat  a  soil,  will  shoot  into  luxuriant  over- 
growth, without  fruit  or  usefulness.  The  father's 
heritage,  as  often  happens,  proved  the  ruin  of 
the  son.  Scarce  had  he  felt  the  joy  of  being 
sole  possessor  and  disposer  of  a  large  fortune, 
when  he  set  about  endeavouring  to  get  rid  of  it 
as  of  a  galling  burden ;  began  to  play  the  Rich 
Man  in  the  Gospel  to  the  very  letter ;  went 
clothed  in  fine  apparel,  and  fared  sumptuously 
everyday.  No  feast  at  the  bishop's  court  could 
be  compared  for  pomp  and  superfluity  with  his  ; 
and  never  while  the  town  of  Bremen  shall  en- 
dure, will  such  another  public  dinner  be  con- 
sumed, as  it  yearly  got  from  him  ;  for  to  every 
burgher  of  the  place  he  gave  a  Krusel-soup  and 
a  jug  of  Spanish  wine.  For  this,  all  people  cried  : 
Long  life  to  him  !  and  Franz  became  the  hero 
of  the  day. 

In  this  unceasing  whirl  of  joviality,  no  thought 
was  cast  upon  the  Balancing  of  Entries,  which, 
in  those  days,  was  the  merchant's  vademecum, 
though  in  our  times  it  is  going  out  of  fashion, 
and  for  want  of  it  the  tongue  of  the  commercial 
beam  too  frequently  declines  with  a  magnetic 
virtue  from  the  vertical  position.  Some  years 
passed  on  without  the  joyful  Franz's  noticing  a 
diminution  in  his  incomes;  for  at  his  father's 
death  every  chest  and  coffer  had  been  full.  The 
voracious  host  of  table-friends,  the  airy  company 
of  jesters,  gamesters,  parasites,  and  all  who  had 


MUS 


their  living  by  the  prodigal  son,  took  special 
care  to  keep  reflection  at  a  distance  from  him  ; 
they  hurried  him  from  one  enjoyment  to  another  ; 
kept  him  constantly  in  play,  lest  in  some  sober 
moment  Reason  might  awake,  and  snatch  him 
from  their  plundering  claws. 

But  at  last  their  well  of  happiness  went  sud- 
denly dry;  old  Melchior's  casks  of  gold  were 
now  run  off  even  to  the  lees.  One  day,  Franz 
ordered  payment  of  a  large  account ;  his  cash- 
keeper  was  not  in  a  state  to  execute  the  precept, 
and  returned  it  with  a  protest.  This  counter- 
incident  flashed  keenly  through  the  soul  of 
Franz ;  yet  he  felt  nothing  else  but  anger  and 
vexation  at  his  servant,  to  whose  unaccountable 
perversity,  by  no  means  to  his  own  ill  husbandry, 
he  charged  the  present  disorder  in  his  finances. 
Nor  did  he  give  himself  the  trouble  to  investi- 
gate the  real  condition  of  the  business  ;  but  after 
flying  to  the  common  Fool's-litany,  and  thunder- 
ing out  some  scores  of  curses,  he  transmitted  to 
his  shoulder-shrugging  steward  the  laconic  or- 
der: Find  means. 

Bill-brokers,  usurers,  and  money-changers  now 
came  into  play.  For  high  interest,  fresh  sums 
were  poured  into  the  empty  coffers ;  the  silver 
flooring  of  the  dining-room  was  then  more  po- 
tent in  the  eyes  of  creditors,  than  in  these  times 
of  ours  the  promissory  obligation  of  the  Congress 
of  America,  with  the  whole  thirteen  United 
States  to  back  it.  This  palliative  succeeded  for 
a  season;  but,  underhand,  the  rumour  spread 
about  the  town,  that  the  silver  flooring  had  been 
privily  removed,  and  a  stone  one  substituted  in 
its  stead.  The  matter  was  immediately,  by 
application  of  the  lenders,  legally  inquired  into, 
and  discovered  to  be  actually  so.  Now,  it  could 
not  be  denied,  that  a  marble-floor,  worked  into 
nice  Mosaic,  looked  much  better  in  a  parlour, 
than  a  sheet  of  dirty,  tarnished  dollars :  the 
creditors,  however,  paid  so  little  reverence  to 
the  proprietor's  refinement  of  taste,  that  on  the 
spot  they,  one  and  all,  demanded  payment  of 
their  several  moneys ;  and  as  this  was  not  com- 
plied with,  they  proceeded  to  procure  an  act  of 
bankruptcy;  and  Melchior*s  house,  with  its  ap- 
purtenances, offices,  gardens,  parks,  and  furni- 
ture, were  sold  by  public  auction,  and  their  late 
owner,  who  in  this  extremity  had  screened 
himself  from  jail  by  some  chicanery  of  law, 
judicially  ejected. 

It  was  now  too  late  to  moralize  on  his  ab- 
surdities, since  philosophical  reflections  could 
not  alter  what  was  done,  and  the  most  whole- 
some resolutions  would  not  bring  him  back  his 
money.  According  to  the  principles  of  this  our 
cultivated  century,  the  hero  at  this  juncture 
ought  to  have  retired  with  dignity  from  the 
stage,  or  in  some  way  terminated  his  existence : 
to  have  entered  on  his  travels  into  foreign  parts, 
or  opened  his  carotid  artery ;  since  in  his  native 
town  he  could  live  no  longer  as  a  man  of  honour. 
Franz  neither  did  the  one  nor  the  other.  The 
quen-dira-t-on,  which  French  morality  employs 
as  bit  and  curb  for  thoughtlessness  and  folly, 


AUS.  159 


had  never  once  occurred  to  the  unbridled 
squanderer  in  the  days  of  his  profusion,  and 
his  sensibility  was  still  too  dull  to  feel  so  keenly 
the  disgrace  of  his  capricious  wastefulness.  He 
was  like  a  toper,  who  has  been  in  drink,  and 
on  awakening  out  of  his  carousal,  cannot  rightly 
understand  how  matters  are  or  have  been  with 
him.  He  lived  according  to  the  manner  of  un- 
prospering  spendthrifts  ;  repented  not,  lamented 
not.  By  good  fortune,  he  had  picked  some  relics 
from  the  wreck;  a  few  small  heir-looms  of  the 
family;  and  these  secured  him  for  a  time  from 
absolute  starvation. 

He  engaged  a  lodging  in  a  remote  alley,  into 
which  the  sun  never  shone  throughout  the  year, 
except  for  a  few  days  about  the  solstice,  when 
it  peeped  for  a  short  while  over  the  high  roofs. 
Here  he  found  the  little  that  his  now  much-con- 
tracted wants  required.  The  frugal  kitchen  of 
his  landlord  screened  him  from  hunger,  the 
stove  from  cold,  the  roof  from  rain,  the  four 
walls  from  wind  ;  only  from  the  pains  of  tedium 
he  could  devise  no  refuge  or  resource.  The 
light  rabble  of  parasites  had  fled  away  with 
his  prosperity;  and  of  his  former  friends  there 
was  now  no  one  that  knew  him.  Reading  had 
not  yet  become  a  necessary  of  life  ;  people  did 
not  yet  understand  the  art  of  killing  time  by 
means  of  those  amusing  shapes  of  fancy  which 
are  wont  to  lodge  in  empty  heads.  There 
were  yet  no  sentimental,  pedagogic,  psychologic, 
popular,  simple,  comic,  or  moral  tales  ;  no  novels 
of  domestic  life,  no  cloister-stories,  no  romances 
of  the  middle  ages;  and  of  the  innumerable 
generation  of  our  Henrys,  and  Adelaides,  and 
Cliffords,  and  Emmas,  no  one  had  as  yet  lifted 
up  its  mantua-maker  voice,  to  weary  out  the 
patience  of  a  lazy  and  discerning  public.  In 
those  days,  knights  were  still  diligently  pricking 
round  the  tilt-yard ;  Dietrich  of  Bern,  Hilde- 
brand,  Seyfried  with  the  Horns,  Rennewart  the 
Strong,  were  following  their  snake  and  dragon 
hunt,  and  killing  giants  and  dwarfs  of  twelve 
men's  strength.  The  venerable  epos,  Theuer- 
dank,  was  the  loftiest  ideal  of  German  art  and 
skill,  the  latest  product  of  our  native  wit,  but 
only  for  the  cultivated  minds,  the  poets  and 
thinkers  of  the  age.  Franz  belonged  to  none 
of  those  classes,  and  had  therefore  nothing  to 
employ  himself  upon,  except  that  he  tuned  his 
lute,  and  sometimes  twanged  a  little  on  it ;  then, 
by  way  of  variation,  took  to  looking  from  the 
window,  and  instituted  observations  on  the 
weather;  out  of  which,  indeed,  there  came  no 
inference  a  whit  more  edifying  than  from  all 
the  labours  of  the  most  rheumatic  meteorologist 
of  this  present  age.  Meanwhile,  his  turn  for 
observation  ere  long  found  another  sort  of 
nourishment,  by  which  the  vacant  space  in  his 
head  and  heart  was  at  once  filled. 

In  the  narrow  lane  right  opposite  his  win- 
dow, dwelt  an  honest  matron,  who,  in  hope  of 
better  times,  was  earning  a  painful  living  by 
the  long  threads,  which,  assisted  by  a  mar- 
vellously fair  daughter,  she  winded  daily  from 


100 


MUSAUS. 


her  spindle.  Day  after  day  the  couple  spun  a 
length  of  yarn,  with  which  the  whole  town  of 
Bremen,  with  its  walls  and  trenches,  and  all  its 
suburbs,  might  have  been  begirt.  These  two 
spinners  had  not  been  born  for  the  wheel ;  they 
were  of  good  descent,  and  had  lived  of  old  in 
pleasant  aflluence.  The  fair  Meta  s  father  had 
once  had  a  ship  of  his  own  on  the  sea,  and, 
freighting  it  himself,  had  yearly  sailed  to  Ant- 
werp ;  but  a  heavy  storm  had  sunk  the  vessel, 
u  with  man  and  mouse,"  and  a  rich  cargo,  into 
the  abysses  of  the  ocean,  before  Meta  had 
passed  the  years  of  her  childhood.  The  mo- 
ther, a  staid  and  reasonable  woman,  bore  the 
loss  of  her  husband  and  all  her  fortune  with  a 
wise  composure ;  in  her  need  she  refused,  out 
of  noble  pride,  all  help  from  the  charitable  sym- 
pathy of  her  relations  and  friends ;  considering 
it  as  shameful  alms,  so  long  as  she  believed, 
that  in  her  own  activity  she  might  find  a  living 
by  the  labour  of  her  hands.  She  gave  up  her 
large  house,  and  all  her  costly  furniture,  to  the 
rigorous  creditors  of  her  ill-fated  husband,  hired 
a  little  dwelling  in  the  lane,  and  span  from 
early  morning  till  late  night,  though  the  trade 
went  sore  against  her,  and  she  often  wetted  the 
thread  with  her  tears.  Yet.  by  this  diligence 
she  reached  her  object,  of  depending  upon  no 
one,  and  owing  no  mortal  any  obligation.  By 
and  by  she  trained  her  growing  daughter  to  the 
same  employment ;  and  lived  so  thriftily,  that 
she  laid  by  a  trifle  of  her  gainings,  and  turned 
it  to  account  by  carrying  on  a  little  trade  in 
flax. 

She,  however,  nowise  purposed  to  conclude 
her  life  in  these  poor  circumstances ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  honest  dame  kept  up  her  heart 
with  happy  prospects  into  the  future,  and  hoped 
that  she  should  once  more  attain  a  prosperous 
situation,  and  in  the  autumn  of  her  life  enjoy 
her  woman's-summer.  Nor  were  these  hopes 
grounded  altogether  upon  empty  dreams  of 
fancy,  but  upon  a  rational  and  calculated  ex- 
pectation. She  saw  her  daughter  budding  up 
like  a  spring  rose,  no  less  virtuous  and  modest 
than  she  was  fair ;  and  with  such  endowments 
of  heart  and  spirit,  that  the  mother  felt  delight 
and  comfort  in  her,  and  spared  the  morsel  from 
her  own  Hps,  that  nothing  might  be  wanting  in 
an  education  suitable  to  her  capacities.  For 
she  thought,  that  if  a  maiden  could  come  up  to 
the  sketch  which  Solomon,  the  wise  friend  of 
woman,  has  left  of  the  ideal  of  a  perfect  wife, 
it  could  not  fail  that  a  pearl  of  such  price  would 
be  sought  after,  and  bidden  for,  to  ornament 
some  good  man's  house;  for  beauty,  combined 
with  virtue,  in  the  days  of  Mother  Brigitta,  were 
as  important  in  the  eyes  of  wooers,  as,  in  our 
days,  birth  combined  with  fortune.  Besides, 
the  number  of  suitors  was  in  those  times  greater ; 
it  was  then  believed  that  the  wife  was  the  most 
essential,  not,  as  in  our  refined  economical 
theory,  the  most  superfluous  item  in  the  house- 
hold. The  fair  Meta,  it  is  true,  bloomed  only 
like  a  precious  rare  flower  in  the  green-house, 


not  under  the  gay,  free  sky ;  she  lived  in 
maternal  oversight  and  keeping,  sequestered 
and  still ;  was  seen  in  no  walk,  in  no  company ; 
and  scarcely  once  in  the  year  passed  through 
the  gate  of  her  native  town  ;  all  which  seemed 
utterly  to  contradict  her  mother's  principle.  The 
old  Lady  E  of  Memel  understood  it  other- 
wise, in  her  time.  She  sent  the  itinerant  Sophia, 
it  is  clear  as  day,  from  Memel  into  Saxony,  sim- 
ply on  a  marriage  speculation,  and  attained  her 
purpose  fully.  How  many  hearts  did  the  wan- 
dering nymph  set  on  fire,  how  many  suitors 
courted  her  ?  Had  she  stayed  at  home,  as  a  do- 
mestic modest  maiden,  she  might  have  bloomed 
away  in  the  remoteness  of  her  virgin  cell,  with- 
out even  making  a  conquest  of  Kubbuz  the 
schoolmaster.  Other  times,  other  manners. 
Daughters  with  us  are  a  sleeping  capital,  which 
must  be  put  in  circulation  if  it  is  to  yield  any 
interest ;  of  old,  they  were  kept  like  thrifty 
savings,  under  lock  and  key ;  yet  the  bankers 
still  knew  where  the  treasure  lay  concealed, 
and  how  it  might  be  come  at.  Mother  Brigitta 
steered  towards  some  prosperous  son-in-law, 
who  might  lead  her  back  from  the  Babylonian 
captivity  of  the  narrow  lane  into  the  land  of 
superfluity,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey;  and 
trusted  firmly,  that  in  the  urn  of  Fate,  her 
daughter's  lot  would  not  be  coupled  with  a 
blank. 

One  day,  while  neighbour  Franz  was  look- 
ing from  the  window,  making  observations  on 
the  weather,  he  perceived  the  charming  Meta 
coming  with  her  mother  from  church,  whither 
she  went  daily,  to  attend  mass.  In  the  times 
of  his  abundance,  the  unstable  voluptuary  had 
been  blind  to  the  fairer  half  of  the  species  ;  the 
finer  feelings  were  still  slumbering  in  his  breast; 
and  all  his  senses  had  been  overclouded  by  the 
ceaseless  tumult  of  debauchery.  But  now  the 
stormy  waves  of  extravagance  had  subsided ; 
and  in  this  deep  calm,  the  smallest  breath  of 
air  sufficed  to  curl  the  mirror  surface  of  his 
soul.  He  was  enchanted  by  the  aspect  of  this, 
the  loveliest  female  figure  that  had  ever  flitted 
past  him.  He  abandoned  from  that  hour  the 
barren  study  of  the  winds  and  clouds,  and  now 
instituted  quite  another  set  of  Observations  for 
the  furtherance  of  Moral  Science,  and  one 
which  afforded  to  himself  much  finer  occupa- 
tion. He  soon  extracted  from  his  landlord  in- 
telligence of  this  fair  neighbour,  and  learned 
most  part  of  what  we  know  already. 

Now  rose  on  him  the  first  repentant  thought 
for  his  heedless  squandering;  there  awoke  a 
secret  good-will  in  his  heart  to  this  new  ac- 
quaintance; and  for  her  sake  he  wished  that 
his  paternal  inheritance  were  his  own  again, 
that  the  lovely  Meta  might  be  fitly  dowered 
with  it.  His  garret  in  the  narrow  lane  was 
now  so  dear  to  him,  that  he  would  not  have 
exchanged    it    with    the    Schudding  itself* 


*  One  of  the  largest  buildings  in  Bremen,  where  the 
meetings  of  the  merchants  are  usually  held. 


MUSAUS. 


161 


Throughout  the  day  he  stirred  not  from  the 
window,  watching  for  an  opportunity  of  glan- 
cing at  the  dear  maiden  ;  and  when  she  chanced 
to  show  herself,  lie  felt  more  rapture  in  his 
soul  than  did  Horrox  in  his  Liverpool  Observa- 
tory, when  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  Venus 
passing  over  the  disk  of  the  Sun. 

Unhappily  the  watchful  mother  instituted 
counter-observations,  and  ere  long  discovered 
what  the  lounger  on  the  other  side  was  driving 
at;  and  as  Franz,  in  the  capacity  of  spendthrift, 
already  stood  in  very  bad  esteem  with  her,  this 
daily  gazing  angered  her  so  much,  that  she 
shrouded  her  lattice  as  with  a  cloud,  and  drew 
the  curtains  close  together.  Meta  had  the  strict- 
est orders  not  again  to  appear  at  the  window  ; 
and  when  her  mother  went  with  her  to  mass, 
she  drew  a  rain-cap  over  her  face,  disguised 
her  like  a  favourite  of  the  Grand  Signior,  and 
hurried  till  she  turned  the  corner  with  her,  and 
escaped  the  eyes  of  the  lier-in-wait. 

Of  Franz,  it  was  not  held  that  penetration 
was  his  master  faculty;  but  Love  awakens  all 
the  talents  of  the  mind.  He  observed,  that  by 
his  imprudent  spying,  he  had  betrayed  himself; 
and  he  thenceforth  retired  from  the  window, 
with  the  resolution  not  again  to  look  out  at  it, 
though  the  Venerabile  itself  were  carried  by.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  meditated  some  invention 
for  proceeding  with  his  observations  in  a  private 
manner ;  and  without  great  labour,  his  combin- 
ing spirit  mastered  it. 

He  hired  the  largest  looking-glass  that  he 
could  find,  and  hung  it  up  in  his  room,  with 
such  an  elevation  and  direction,  that  he  could 
distinctly  see  whatever  passed  in  the  dwelling 
of  his  neighbours.  Here,  as  for  several  days 
the  watcher  did  not  come  to  light,  the  screens 
by  degrees  went  asunder;  and  the  broad  mirror 
now  and  then  could  catch  the  form  of  the  noble 
maid,  and,  to  the  great  refreshment  of  the  vir- 
tuoso, cast  it  truly  back.  The  more  deeply  love 
took  root  in  his  heart,*  the  more  widely  did  his 
wishes  extend.  It  now  struck  him  that  he  ought 
to  lay  his  passion  open  to  the  fair  Meta,  and 
investigate  the  corresponding  state  of  her  opi- 
nions. The  commonest  and  readiest  way  which 
lovers,  under  such  a  constellation  of  their  wishes, 
strike  into,  was  in  his  position  inaccessible.  In 
those  modest  ages,  it  was  always  difficult  for 
Paladins  in  love  to  introduce  themselves  to 
daughters  of  the  family;  toilette  calls  were  not 
in  fashion;  trustful  interviews  tete-a-tete  were 
punished  by  the  loss  of  reputation  to  the  female 
sharer;  promenades,  esplanades,  masquerades, 
pic-nics,  goutes,  soupes,  and  other  inventions  of 
modern  wit  for  forwarding  sweet  courtship, 
had  not  then  been  hit  upon;  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing, all  things  went  their  course,  much  as  they 
do  with  us.  Gossipings,  weddings,  lykewakes, 
were,  especially  in  our  Imperial  Cities,  privi- 
leged vehicles  for  carrying  on  soft  secrets,  and 
expediting  marriage  contracts:  hence  the  old 

*  'A7t6  tov  bpq.v  ip^trat  rii  fpijiv. 
V 


proverb,  One  wedding  makes  a  score.  But  a  poor 
runagate  no  man  desired  to  number  among  his 
baptismal  relatives;  to  no  nuptial  dinner,  to  no 
wake-supper,  was  he  bidden.  The  by  way  of 
negotiating,  with  the  woman,  with  the  young 
maid,  or  any  other  serviceable  spirit  of  a  go-be- 
tween, was  here  locked  up.  Mother  Brigitta 
had  neither  maid  nor  woman ;  the  flax  and 
yarn  trade  passed  through  no  hands  but  her 
own  ;  and  she  abode  by  her  daughter  as  closely 
as  her  shadow. 

In  these  circumstances,  it  was  clearly  impos- 
sible for  neighbour  Franz  to  disclose  his  heart 
to  the  fair  Meta,  either  verbally  or  in  writing. 
Ere  long,  however,  he  invented  an  idiom,  which 
appeared  expressly  calculated  for  the  utterance 
of  the  passions.  It  is  true,  the  honour  of  the 
first  invention  is  not  his.  Many  ages  ago,  the 
sentimental  Celadons  of  Italy  and  Spain  had 
taught  melting  harmonies,  in  serenades  beneath 
the  balconies  of  their  dames,  to  speak  the  lan- 
guage of  the  heart;  and  it  is  said  that  this  me- 
lodious pathos  had  especial  virtue  in  love  mat- 
ters ;  and,  by  the  confession  of  the  ladies,  was 
more  heart-affecting  and  subduing,  than  of  yore 
the  oratory  of  the  reverend  Chrysostom,  or  the 
pleadings  of  Demosthenes  and  Tully.  But  of 
all  this  the  simple  Bremer  had  not  heard  a  syl- 
lable ;  and,  consequently,  the  invention  of  ex- 
pressing his  emotions  in  symphonious  notes,  and 
trilling  them  to  his  beloved  Meta,  was  entirely 
his  own. 

In  an  hour  of  sentiment,  he  took  his  lute  :  he 
did  not  now  tune  it  merely  to  accompany  his 
voice,  but  drew  harmonious  melodies  from  its 
strings ;  and  Love,  in  less  than  a  month,  had 
changed  the  musical  scraper  to  a  new  Amphion. 
His  first  efforts  did  not  seem  to  have  been  no- 
ticed ;  but  soon  the  population  of  the  lane  were 
all  ear,  every  time  the  dilettante  struck  a  note. 
Mothers  hushed  their  children,  fathers  drove 
the  noisy  urchins  from  the  doors,  and  the  per- 
former had  the  satisfaction  to  observe  that  Meta 
herself,  with  her  alabaster  hand,  would  some- 
times open  the  window  as  he  began  to  prelude. 
If  he  succeeded  in  enticing  her  to  lend  an  ear, 
his  voluntaries  whirled  along  in  gay  allegro,  or 
skipped  away  in  mirthful  jigs ;  but  if  the  turn- 
ing of  the  spindle,  or  her  thrifty  mother,  kept 
her  back,  a  heavy-laden  andante  rolled  over  the 
bridge  of  the  sighing  lute,  and  expressed,  in 
languishing  modulations,  the  feeling  of  sadness 
which  love-pain  poured  over  his  soul. 

Meta  was  no  dull  scholar;  she  soon  learned 
to  interpret  this  expressive  speech.  She  made 
various  experiments  to  try  whether  she  had 
rightly  understood  it,  and  found  that  she  could 
govern  at  her  will  the  dilettante  humours  of  the 
unseen  lute  -  twanger ;  for  your  silent  modest 
maidens,  it  is  well  known,  have  a  much  sharper 
eye  than  those  giddy  flighty  girls,  who  hurry 
with  the  levity  of  butterflies  from  one  object  to 
another,  and  take  proper  heed  of  none.  She 
felt  her  female  vanity  a  little  flattered  ;  and  it 
pleased  her  that  she  had  it  in  her  power,  by  a 
14* 


1G2 


MUSAUS. 


secret  magic,  to  direct  the  neighbouring  lute, 
and  tune  it  now  to  the  note  of  joy,  now  to  the 
whimpering  moan  of  grief.  Mother  Brigitta. 
on  the  other  hand,  had  her  head  so  constantly- 
employed  with  her  traffic  on  the  small  scale, 
that  she  minded  none  of  these  things;  and  the 
sly  little  daughter  took  especial  care  to  keep  her 
in  the  dark  respecting  the  discovery;  and,  in- 
stigated either  by  some  touch  of  kindness  for 
her  cooing  neighbour,  or  perhaps  by  vanity,  that 
she  might  show  her  hermeneutic  penetration, 
meditated  on  the  means  of  making  some  sym- 
bolical response  to  these  harmonious  apostrophes 
to  her  heart.  She  expressed  a  wish  to  have 
flower-pots  on  the  outside  of  the  window  ;  and 
to  grant  her  this  innocent  amusement  was  a 
light  thing  for  the  mother,  who  no  longer  feared 
the  coney-catching  neighbour,  now  that  she  no 
longer  saw  him  with  her  eyes. 

Henceforth  Meta  had  a  frequent  call  to  tend 
her  flowers,  to  water  them,  to  bind  them  up, 
and  guard  them  from  approaching  storms,  and 
watch  their  growth  and  flourishing.  With  in- 
expressible delight  the  happy  Franz  explained 
this  hieroglyphic  altogether  in  his  favour ;  and 
the  speaking  lute  did  not  fail  to  modulate  his 
glad  emotions,  through  the  alley,  into  the  heed- 
ful ear  of  the  fair  friend  of  flowers.  This,  in 
her  tender  virgin  heart,  worked  wonders.  She 
began  to  be  secretly  vexed,  when  Mother  Bri- 
gitta, in  her  wise  table-talk,  in  which  at  times 
she  spent  an  hour  chatting  with  her  daughter, 
brought  their  melodious  neighbour  to  her  bar, 
and  called  him  a  losel  and  a  sluggard,  or  com- 
pared him  with  the  Prodigal  in  the  Gospel. 
She  always  took  his  part;  threw  the  blame  of 
his  ruin  on  the  sorrowful  temptations  he  had 
met  with  ;  and  accused  him  of  nothing  worse 
than  not  having  fitly  weighed  the  golden  pro- 
verb, A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got.  Yet  she  de- 
fended him  with  cunning  prudence;  so  that  it 
rather  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  help  the  conver- 
sation, than  took  any  interest  in  the  thing  itself. 

While  Mother  Brigitta  within  her  four  walls 
was  inveighing  against  the  luckless  spendthrift, 
he  on  his  side  entertained  the  kindest  feelings 
towards  her;  and  was  considering  diligently 
how  he  might,  according  to  his  means,  improve 
her  straitened  circumstances,  and  divide  with 
her  the  little  that  remained  to  him,  and  so  that 
she  might  never  notice  that  a  portion  of  his  pro- 
perty had  passed  over  into  hers.  This  pious 
outlay,  in  good  truth,  was  specially  intended  not 
for  the  mother,  but  the  daughter.  Underhand 
he  had  come  to  know,  that  the  fair  Meta  had  a 
hankering  for  a  new  gown,  which  her  mother 
had  excused  herself  from  buying,  under  pretext 
of  hard  times.  Yet  he  judged  quite  accurately, 
that  a  present  of  a  piece  of  stuff,  from  an  un- 
known hand,  would  scarcely  be  received,  or 
cut  into  a  dress  for  Meta;  and  that  he  should 
spoil  all,  if  he  stept  forth  and  avowed  himself 
the  author  of  the  benefaction.  Chance  afforded 
him  an  opportunity  to  realize  this  purpose  in 
the  way  he  wished. 


Mother  Brigitta  was  complaining  to  a  neigh- 
bour, that  flax  was  very  dull;  that  it  cost  her 
more  to  purchase  than  the  buyers  of  it  would 
repay ;  and  that  hence  this  branch  of  industry 
was  nothing  better,  for  the  present,  than  a 
withered  bough.  Eaves-dropper  Franz  did  not 
need  a  second  telling;  he  ran  directly  to  the 
goldsmith,  sold  his  mothers  ear-rings,  bought 
some  stones  of  flax,  and,  by  means  of  a  negoti- 
atress,  whom  he  gained,  had  it  offered  to  the 
mother  for  a  cheap  price.  The  bargain  was 
concluded;  and  it  yielded  so  richly,  that  on 
All-Saints'  day  the  fair  Meta  sparkled  in  a 
fine  new  gown.  In  this  decoration  she  had 
such  a  splendour  in  her  watchful  neighbour's 
eyes,  that  he  would  have  overlooked  the 
Eleven  Thousand  Virgins,  all  and  sundry,  had 
it  been  permitted  him  to  choose  a  heart  s-mate 
from  among  them,  and  fixed  upon  the  charm- 
ing Meta. 

But  just  as  he  was  triumphing  in  the  result 
of  his  innocent  deceit,  the  secret  was  betrayed. 
Mother  Brigitta  had  resolved  to  do  the  flax- 
retailer,  who  had  brought  her  that  rich  gain,  a 
kindness  in  her  turn;  and  was  treating  her 
with  a  well-sugared  rice-pap,  and  a  quarter- 
stoop  of  Spanish  sack.  This  dainty  set  in  mo- 
tion not  only  the  toothless  jaw,  but  also  the 
garrulous  tongue  of  the  crone :  she  engaged  to 
continue  the  flax-brokerage,  should  her  con- 
signer feel  inclined,  as  from  good  grounds  she 
guessed  he  would.  One  word  produced  an- 
other ;  Mother  Eve's  two  daughters  searched, 
with  the  curiosity  peculiar  to  their  sex,  till  at 
length  the  brittle  seal  of  female  secresy  gave 
way.  Meta  grew  pale  with  affright  at  the  dis- 
covery, which  would  have  charmed  her,  had 
her  mother  not  partaken  of  it.  But  she  knew 
her  strict  ideas  of  morals  and  decorum ;  and 
these  gave  her  doubts  about  the  preservation  of 
her  gown.  The  serious  dame  herself  was  no 
less  struck  at  the  tidings,  and  wished,  on  her 
side  too,  that  she  alone  had  got  intelligence  of 
the  specific  nature  of  her  flax-trade ;  for  she 
dreaded  that  this  neighbourly  munificence  might 
make  an  impression  on  her  daughter's  heart, 
which  would  derange  her  whole  calculations. 
She  resolved,  therefore,  to  root  out  the  still  ten- 
der germ  of  this  weed,  in  the  very  act,  from  the 
maiden  heart.  The  gown,  in  spite  of  all  the 
tears  and  prayers  of  its  lovely  owner,  was  first 
hypothecated,  and  next  day  transmitted  to  the 
huckster's  shop  ;  the  money  raised  from  it,  with 
the  other  profits  of  the  flax  speculation,  accurate- 
ly reckoned  up,  were  packed  together,  and  un- 
der the  name  of  an  old  debt,  returned  to  "  Mr. 
Franz  Melcherson,  in  Bremen,''  by  help  of  the 
Hamburg  post.  The  receiver,  nothing  doubting, 
took  the  little  lot  of  money  as  an  unexpected 
blessing;  wished  that  ail  his  father's  debtors 
would  clear  off  their  old  scores  as  conscientious- 
ly as  this  honest  unknown  person  ;  and  had  not 
the  smallest  notion  of  the  real  position  of  affairs. 
The  talking  brokeress,  of  course,  was  far  from 
giving  him  a  true  disclosure  of  her  blabbing; 


MUSAUS. 


103 


she  merely  told  him,  that  Mother  Brigitta  had 
given  up  her  flax-trade. 

Meanwhile,  the  mirror  taught  him,  that  the 
aspects  over  the  way  had  altered  greatly  in  a 
single  night.  The  flower-pots  were  entirely 
vanished  ;  and  the  cloudy  veil  again  ohscured 
the  friendly,  horizon  of  the  opposite  window. 
Meta  was  seldom  visible  ;  and  if  for  a  moment, 
like  the  silver  moon  from  among  her  clouds  in 
a  stormy  night,  she  did  appear,  her  countenance 
was  troubled,  the  fire  of  her  eyes  was  ex- 
tinguished, and  it  seemed  to  him,  that,  at  times, 
with  her  finger,  she  pressed  away  a  pearly 
tear.  This  seized  him  sharply  by  the  heart; 
and  his  lute  resounded  melancholy  sympathy  in 
soft  Lydian  mood.  He  grieved,  and  meditated 
to  discover  why  his  love  was  sad;  but  all  his 
thinking  and  imagining  were  vain.  After  some 
days  were  past,  he  noticed,  to  his  consternation, 
that  his  dearest  piece  of  furniture,  the  large 
mirror,  had  become  entirely  useless.  He  set 
himself  one  bright  morning  in  his  usual  nook, 
and  observed  that  the  clouds  over  the  way  had, 
like  natural  fog,  entirely  dispersed  ;  a  sign  which 
he  at  first  imputed  to  a  general  washing;  but 
ere  long  he  saw  that,  in  the  chamber,  all  was 
waste  and  empty;  his  pleasing  neighbours  had 
in  silence  withdrawn  the  night  before,  and 
broken  up  their  quarters. 

He  might  now,  once  more,  with  the  greatest 
leisure  and  convenience,  enjoy  the  free  prospect 
from  his  window,  without  fear  of  being  trouble- 
some to  any ;  but  for  him,  it  was  a  dead  loss  to 
miss  the  kind  countenance  of  his  Platonic  love. 
Mute  and  stupified,  he  stood,  as  of  old  his  fel- 
low-craftsman, the  harmonious  Orpheus,  when 
the  dear  shadow  of  his  Eurydice  again  vanish- 
ed down  to  Orcus;  and  if  the  bedlam  humour 
of  those  "noble  minds,"  who  raved  among  us 
through  the  by-gone  lustre,  but  have  now  like 
drones  disappeared  with  the  earliest  frost,  had 
then  been  ripened  to  existence,  this  calm  of  his 
would  certainly  have  passed  into  a  sudden  hur- 
ricane. The  least  he  could  have  done,  would 
have  been  to  pull  his  hair,  to  trundle  himself 
about  upon  the  ground,  or  run  his  head  against 
the  wall,  and  break  his  stove  and  window.  All 
this  he  omitted;  from  the  very  simple  cause, 
that  true  love  never  makes  men  fools,  but  rather 
is  the  universal  remedy  for  healing  sick  minds 
of  their  foolishness,  for  laying  gentle  fetters  on 
extravagance,  and  guiding  youthful  giddiness 
from  the  broad  way  of  ruin  to  the  narrow  path 
of  reason ;  for  the  rake  whom  love  will  not  re- 
cover, is  lost  irrecoverably. 

When  once  his  spirit  had  assembled  its  scat- 
tered powers,  he  set  on  foot  a  number  of  in- 
structive meditations  on  the  unexpected  pheno- 
menon, but  too  visible  in  the  adjacent  horizon. 
He  readily  conceived  that  he  was  the  lever 
which  had  effected  the  removal  of  the  wander- 
ing colony :  his  money-letter,  the  abrupt  conclu- 
sion of  the  flax-trade,  and  the  emigration  which 
had  followed  thereupon,  were  like  reciprocal 
exponents  to  each  other,  and  explained  the 


whole  to  him.  He  perceived  that  Mother 
Brigitta  had  got  round  his  secrets,  and  saw  from 
every  circumstance  that  he  was  not  her  hero; 
a  discovery  which  yielded  him  but  little  satis- 
faction. The  symbolic  responses  of  the  fair 
Meta,  with  her  flower-pots,  to  his  musical  pro- 
posals of  love ;  her  trouble,  and  the  tear  which 
lie  had  noticed  in  her  bright  eyes  shortly  before 
her  departure  from  the  lane,  again  animated 
his  hopes,  and  kept  him  in  good  heart.  His 
first  employment  was  to  go  in  quest,  and  try  to 
learn  where  Mother  Brigitta  had  pitched  her 
residence,  in  order  to  maintain,  by  some  means 
or  other,  his  secret  understanding  with  the 
daughter.  It  cost  him  little  toil  to  find  her 
abode;  yet  he  was  too  modest  to  shift  his  own 
lodging  to  her  neighbourhood  ;  but  satisfied 
himself  with  spying  out  the  church  where  she 
now  attended  mass,  that  he  might  treat  himself 
once  each  day  with  a  glance  of  his  beloved. 
He  never  failed  to  meet  her  as  she  returned, 
now  here,  now  there,  in  some  shop  or  door 
which  she  was  passing,  and  salute  her  kindly; 
an  equivalent  for  a  billet-doux,  and  productive 
of  the  same  effect. 

Had  not  Meta  been  brought  up  in  a  style  too 
nun-like,  and  guarded  by  her  rigid  mother  as  a 
treasure,  from  the  eyes  of  thieves,  there  is  little 
doubt  that  neighbour  Franz,  with  his  secret 
wooing,  would  have  made  no  great  impression 
on  her  heart.  But  she  was  at  the  critical  age, 
when  Mother  Nature  and  Mother  Brigitta,  with 
their  wise  nurture,  were  perpetually  coming 
into  collision.  The  former  taught  her,  by  a 
secret  instinct,  the  existence  of  emotions,  for 
which  she  had  no  name,  and  eulogized  them  as 
the  panacea  of  life ;  the  latter  warned  her  to 
beware  of  the  surprisals  of  a  passion,  which 
she  would  not  designate  by  its  true  title,  but 
which,  as  she  maintained,  was  more  pernicious 
and  destructive  to  young  maidens  than  the 
small-pox  itself.  The  former,  in  the  spring  of 
life,  as  beseemed  the  season,  enlivened  her 
heart  with  a  genial  warmth ;  the  latter  wished 
that  it  should  always  be  as  cold  and  frosty  as 
an  ice-house.  These  conflicting  pedagogic  sys- 
tems of  the  two  good  mothers,  gave  the  tract- 
able heart  of  the  daughter  the  direction  of  a 
ship,  which  is  steered  against  the  wind,  and 
follows  neither  the  wind  nor  the  helm,  but  a 
course  between  the  two.  She  maintained  the 
modesty  and  virtue  which  her  education,  from 
her  youth  upwards,  had  impressed  upon  her; 
but  her  heart  continued  open  to  all  tender  feel- 
ings. And  as  neighbour  Franz  was  the  first 
youth  who  had  awakened  these  slumbering 
emotions,  she  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  him, 
which  she  scarcely  owned  to  herself,  but  which 
any  less  unexperienced  maiden  would  have  re- 
cognised as  love.  It  was  for  this  that  her  de- 
parture from  the  narrow  lane  had  gone  so  near 
her  heart ;  for  this  that  the  little  tear  had  trickled 
from  her  beautiful  eyes;  for  this  that,  when  the 
watchful  Franz  saluted  her  as  she  came  from 
church,  she  thanked  him  so  kindly,  and  grew 


164 


MUSAUS. 


scarlet  to  the  ears.  The  lovers  had  in  truth 
never  spoken  any  word  to  one  another;  but  he 
understood  her,  and  she  him,  so  perfectly,  that 
in  the  most  secret  interview  they  could  not  have 
explained  themselves  more  clearly;  and  both 
contracting  parties  swore  in  their  silent  hearts, 
each  for  himself,  under  the  seal  of  secresy,  the 
oath  of  faithfulness  to  the  other. 

In  the  quarter,  where  Mother  Brigitta  had 
now  settled,  there  were  likewise  neighbours, 
and  among  these  likewise  girl-spiers,  whom  the 
beauty  of  the  charming  Meta  had  not  escaped. 
Right  opposite  their  dwelling,  lived  a  wealthy 
Brewer,  whom  the  wags  of  the  part,  as  he  was 
strong  in  means,  had  named  the  Hop-King.  He 
was  a  young,  stout  widower,  whose  mourning 
year  was  just  concluding,  so  that  now  he  was 
entitled,  without  offending  the  precepts  of  de- 
corum, to  look  about  him  elsewhere  for  a  new 
helpmate  to  his  household.  Shortly  after  the 
departure  of  his  whilom  wife,  he  had  in  secret 
entered  into  an  engagement  with  his  Patron 
Saint,  St.  Christopher,  to  offer  him  a  wax-taper 
as  long  as  a  hop-pole,  and  as  thick  as  a  mash- 
ing-beam,  if  he  would  vouchsafe  in  this  second 
choice  to  prosper  the  desire  of  his  heart. 
Scarcely  had  he  seen  the  dainty  Meta,  when 
he  dreamed  that  St.  Christopher  looked  in  upon 
him,  through  the  window  of  his  bed-room  in 
the  second  story,*  and  demanded  payment  of 
his  debt.  To  the  quick  widower  this  seemed 
a  heavenly  call  to  cast  out  the  net  without  de- 
lay. Early  in  the  morning  he  sent  for  the 
brokers  of  the  town,  and  commissioned  them 
to  buy  bleached  wax ;  then  decked  himself  like 
a  Syndic,  and  set  forth  to  expedite  his  marriage 
speculation.  He  had  no  musical  talents,  and 
in  the  secret  symbolic  language  of  love  he  was 
no  better  than  a  blockhead  ;  but  he  had  a  rich 
brewery,  a  solid  mortgage  on  the  city-revenues, 
a  ship  on  the  Weser,  and  a  farm  without  the 
gates.  With  such  recommendations,  he  might 
have  reckoned  on  a  prosperous  issue  to  his 
courtship,  independently  of  all  assistance  from 
St.  Kit,  especially  as  his  bride  was  without 
dowry. 

According  to  old  use  and  wont,  he  went 
directly  to  the  master  hand,  and  disclosed  to 
the  mother,  in  a  kind  neighbourly  way,  his 
christian  intentions  towards  her  virtuous  and 
honourable  daughter.  No  angel's  visit  could 
have  charmed  the  good  lady  more  than  these 
glad  tidings.  She  now  saw  ripening  before 
her  the  fruit  of  her  prudent  scheme,  and  the 
fulfilment  of  her  hope  again  to  emerge  from 
her  present  poverty  into  her  former  abundance; 
she  blessed  the  good  thought  of  moving  from 
the  crooked  alley,  and  in  the  first  ebullition  of 
her  joy,  as  a  thousand  gay  ideas  were  ranking 
themselves  up  within  her  soul,  she  also  thought 

*  St.  Christopher  never  appears  to  his  favourites,  like 
the  other  Saints,  in  a  solitary  room,  encircled  with  a 
glory  :  there  is  no  room  high  enough  to  admit  him  ;  thus 
the  celestial  Son  of  Anak  is  obliged  to  transact  all  busi- 
ness with  his  wards  outside  the  window. 


of  neighbour  Franz,  who  had  given  occasion  to 
it.  Though  Franz  was  not  exactly  her  bosom- 
youth,  she  silently  resolved  to  gladden  him,  as 
the  accidental  instrument  of  her  rising  star, 
with  some  secret  gift  or  other,  and  by  this 
means  likewise  recompense  his  well-intended 
flax-dealing. 

In  the  maternal  heart  the  marriage-articles 
were  as  good  as  signed;  but  decorum  did  not 
permit  these  rash  proceedings  in  a  matter  of 
such  moment.  She  therefore  let  the  motion  lie 
ad  referendum,  to  be  considered  by  her  daughter 
and  herself;  and  appointed  a  term  of  eight  days, 
after  which  "  she  hoped  she  should  have  it  in 
her  power  to  give  the  much-respected  suitor  a 
reply  that  would  satisfy  him;"  all  which,  as  the 
common  manner  of  proceeding,  he  took  in  good 
part,  and  with  his  usual  civilities  withdrew. 
No  sooner  had  he  turned  his  back,  than  spin- 
ning-wheel and  reel,  swingling-stake  and  hat- 
chel,  without  regard  being  paid  to  their  faithful 
services,  and  without  accusation  being  lodged 
against  them,  were  consigned,  like  some  luck- 
less Parliament  of  Paris,  to  disgrace,  and  dis- 
missed as  useless  implements  into  the  lumber- 
room.  On  returning  from  mass,  Meta  was 
astonished  at  the  sudden  catastrophe  which  had 
occurred  in  the  apartment;  it  was  all  decked 
out  as  on  one  of  the  three  high  Festivals  of  the 
year.  She  could  not  understand  how  her  thrifty 
mother,  on  a  work-day,  had  so  neglectfully  put 
her  active  hand  in  her  bosom  ;  but  before  she 
had  time  to  question  the  kindly-smiling  dame 
concerning  this  reform  in  household  affairs,  she 
was  favoured  by  the  latter  with  an  explanation 
of  the  riddle.  Persuasion  rested  on  Brigitta's 
tongue  ;  and  there  flowed  from  her  lips  a  stream 
of  female  eloquence,  depicting  the  offered  hap- 
piness in  the  liveliest  hues  which  her  imagina- 
tion could  lay  on.  She  expected  from  the  chaste 
Meta  the  blush  of  soft  virgin  bashfulness,  which 
announces  the  noviciate  in  love  ;  and  then  a 
full  resignation  of  herself  to  the  maternal  will. 
For  of  old,  in  proposals  of  marriage,  daughters 
were  situated  as  our  princesses  are  still ;  they 
were  not  asked  about  their  inclination,  and  had 
no  voice  in  the  selection  of  their  legal  helpmate, 
save  the  Yes  before  the  altar. 

But  Mother  Brigitta  was  in  this  point  widely 
mistaken ;  the  fair  Meta  did  not  at  the  unex- 
pected announcement  grow  red  as  a  rose,  but 
pale  as  ashes.  An  hysterical  giddiness  swam 
over  her  brain,  and  she  sank  fainting  in  her 
mother  s  arms.  When  her  senses  were  recalled 
by  the  sprinkling  of  cold  water,  and  she  had  in 
some  degree  recovered  strength,  her  eyes  over- 
flowed with  tears,  as  if  a  heavy  misfortune  had 
befallen  her.  From  all  these  symptoms,  the 
sagacious  mother  easily  perceived  that  the  mar- 
riage-trade was  not  to  her  taste ;  at  which  she 
wondered  not  a  little,  sparing  neither  prayers 
nor  admonitions  to  her  daughter  to  secure  her 
happiness  by  this  good  match,  not  flout  it  from 
her  by  caprice  and  contradiction.  But  Meta 
could  not  be  persuaded  that  her  happiness  de- 


MUSAUS. 


105 


pended  on  a  match  to  which  her  heart  gave  no 
assent.  The  debates  between  the  mother  and 
the  daughter  lasted  several  days,  from  early 
morning  to  late  night:  the  term  for  decision 
was  approaching ;  the  sacred  taper  for  St.  Chris- 
topher, which  Og  King  of  Bashan  need  not 
have  disdained  had  it  been  lit  for  him  as  a 
marriage  torch  at  his  espousals,  stood  in  readi- 
ness, all  beautifully  painted  with  living  flowers 
like  a  many-coloured  light,  though  the  Saint  had 
all  the  while  been  so  inactive  in  his  client's 
cause,  that  the  fair  Meta's  heart  was  still  bolted 
and  barred  agaiust  him  fast  as  ever. 

Meanwhile  she  had  bleared  her  eyes  with 
weeping,  and  the  maternal  rhetoric  had  worked 
so  powerfully,  that,  like  a  flower  in  the  sultry 
heat,  she  was  drooping  together,  and  visibly 
fading  away.  Hidden  grief  was  gnawing  at 
her  heart;  she  had  prescribed  herself  a  rigorous 
fast,  and  for  three  days  no  morsel  had  she  eaten, 
and  with  no  drop  of  water  moistened  her  parch- 
ed lips.  By  night  sleep  never  visited  her  eyes ; 
and  with  all  this  she  grew  sick  to  death,  and 
began  to  talk  about  extreme  unction.  As  the 
tender  mother  saw  the  pillar  of  her  hope  waver- 
ing, and  bethought  herself  that  she  might  lose 
both  capital  and  interest  at  once,  she  found,  on 
accurate  consideration,  that  it  would  be  more 
advisable  to  let  the  latter  vanish,  than  to  miss 
them  both;  and  with  kindly  indulgence  plied 
into  the  daughter's  will.  It  cost  her  much  con- 
straint, indeed,  and  many  hard  battles,  to  turn 
away  so  advantageous  an  offer ;  yet  at  last, 
according  to  established  order  in  household 
governments,  she  yielded  unconditionally  to  the 
inclination  of  her  child,  and  remonstrated  no 
more  with  her  beloved  patient  on  the  subject. 
As  the  stout  widower  announced  himself  on 
the  appointed  day,  in  the  full  trust  that  his 
heavenly  deputy  had  arranged  it  all  according 
to  his  wish,  he  received,  quite  unexpectedly,  a 
negative  answer,  which,  however,  was  sweet- 
ened with  such  a  deal  of  blandishment,  that  he 
swallowed  it  like  wine-of-wormwood  mixed 
with  sugar.  For  the  rest,  he  easily  accommo- 
dated himself  to  his  destiny;  and  discomposed 
himself  no  more  about  it,  than  if  some  bargain 
for  a  ton  of  malt  had  chanced  to  come  to  no- 
thing. Nor,  on  the  whole,  had  he  any  cause  to 
sorrow  without  hope.  His  native  town  has 
never  wanted  amiable  daughters,  who  come  up 
to  the  Solomonic  sketch,  and  are  ready  to  make 
perfect  spouses;  besides,  notwithstanding  this 
unprospered  courtship,  he  depended  with  firm 
confidence  upon  his  Patron  Saint;  who  in  fact 
did  him  such  substantial  service  elsewhere,  that 
ere  a  month  elapsed,  he  had  planted,  with  much 
pomp,  his  devoted  taper  at  the  friendly  shrine. 

Mother  Brigitta  was  now  fain  to  recall  the 
exiled  spinning-tackle  from  its  lumber-room, 
and  again  set  it  in  action.  All  once  more  went 
its  usual  course.  Meta  soon  bloomed  out  anew, 
was  active  in  business,  and  diligently  went  to 
mass ;  but  the  mother  could  not  hide  her  secret 
grudging  at  the  failure  of  her  hopes,  and  the 


annihilation  of  her  darling  plan  ;  she  was  sple- 
netic, peevish,  and  dejected.  Her  ill-humour 
had  especially  the  upper  hand  that  day  when 
neighbour  Hop-King  held  his  nuptials.  As  the 
wedding-company  proceeded  to  the  church,  with 
the  town-band  bedrumming  and  becymballing 
them  in  the  van,  she  whimpered  and  sobbed  as 
in  the  evil  hour  when  the  Job's-news  reached 
her,  that  the  wild  sea  had  devoured  her  hus- 
band, with  ship  and  fortune.  Meta  looked  at 
the  bridal-pomp  with  great  equanimity;  even 
the  royal  ornaments,  the  jewels  in  the  myrtle- 
crown,  and  the  nine  strings  of  true  pearls  about 
the  neck  of  the  bride,  made  no  impression  on 
her  peace  of  mind ;  a  circumstance  in  some 
degree  surprising,  since  a  new  Paris  cap,  or  any 
other  meteor  in  the  gallery  of  Mode,  will  so 
frequently  derange  the  contentment  and  domes- 
tic peace  of  an  entire  parish.  Nothing  but  the 
heart-consuming  sorrow  of  her  mother  discom- 
posed her,  and  overclouded  the  gay  look  of  her 
eyes ;  she  strove  by  a  thousand  caresses  and 
little  attentions  to  work  herself  into  favour;  and 
she  so  far  succeeded  that  the  good  lady  grew  a 
little  more  communicative. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  wedding-dance  be- 
gan, she  said,  "Ah,  child!  this  merry  dance  it 
might  have  been  thy  part  to  lead  off.  What  a 
pleasure,  hadst  thou  recompensed  thy  mother's 
care  and  toil  with  this  joy !  But  thou  hast 
mocked  thy  happiness,  and  now  I  shall  never 
see  the  day  when  I  am  to  attend  thee  to  the 
altar."  —  "Dear  mother,"  answered  Meta,  "I 
confide  in  Heaven  ;  and  if  it  is  written  above 
that  I  am  to  be  led  to  the  altar,  you  will  surely 
deck  my  garland :  for  when  the  right  wooer 
comes,  my  heart  will  soon  say  Yes." — "  Child, 
for  girls  without  dowry  there  is  no  press  of 
wooers ;  they  are  heavy  ware  to  trade  with. 
Now-a-days  the  bachelors  are  mighty  stingy; 
they  court  to  be  happy,  not  to  make  happy. 
Besides,  thy  planet  bodes  thee  no  good;  thou 
wert  born  in  April.  Let  us  see  how  it  is  writ- 
ten in  the  Calendar;  'A  damsel  born  in  this 
month  is  comely  of  countenance,  slender  of 
shape,  but  of  changeful  humour,  has  a  liking  to 
men.  Should  have  an  eye  upon  her  maiden 
garland,  and  so  a  laughing  wooer  come,  not 
miss  her  fortune.'  Alas,  it  answers  to  a  hair ! 
The  wooer  has  been  here,  comes  not  again : 
thou  hast  missed  him."—"  Ah,  mother,  let  the 
planet  say  its  pleasure,  never  mind  it ;  my  heart 
says  to  me  that  I  should  love  and  honour  the 
man  who  asks  me  to  be  his  wife  :  and  if  I  do 
not  find  that  man,  or  he  do  not  seek  me,  I  will 
live  in  good  courage  by  the  labour  of  my  hands, 
and  stand  by  you,  and  nurse  you  in  your  old 
age,  as  beseems  a  good  daughter.  But  if  the 
man  of  my  heart  do  come,  then  bless  my  choice, 
that  it  may  be  well  with  your  daughter  on  the 
Earth  ;  and  ask  not  whether  he  is  noble,  rich, 
or  famous,  but  whether  he  is  good  and  honest, 
whether  he  loves  and  is  loved." — "Ah,  daugh- 
ter !  Love  keeps  a  sorry  kitchen,  and  feeds  one 
poorly,  along  with  bread  and  salt." — "  But  yet 


16G 


MUSAUS. 


Unity  and  Contentment  delight  to  dwell  with, 
him,  and  these  season  bread  and  salt  with  the 
cheerful  enjoyment  of  our  days." 

The  pregnant  subject  of  bread  and  salt  con- 
tinued to  be  sifted  till  the  night  was  far  spent, 
and  the  last  fiddle  in  the  wedding-dance  was 
resting  from  its  labours.  The  moderation  of  the 
prudent  Meta,  who,  with  youth  and  beauty  on 
her  side,  pretended  only  to  an  altogether  bounded 
happiness,  after  having  turned  away  an  advan- 
tageous offer,  led  the  mother  to  conjecture  that 
the  plan  of  some  such  salt-trade  might  already 
have  been  sketched  in  the  heart  of  the  virgin. 
Nor  did  she  fail  to  guess  the  trading-partner  in 
the  lane,  of  whom  she  never  had  believed  that 
he  would  be  the  tree  for  rooting  in  the  lovely 
Meta's  heart.  She  had  looked  upon  him  only 
as  a  wild  tendril,  that  stretches  out  towards 
every  neighbouring  twig,  to  clamber  up  by  means 
of  it.  This  discovery  procured  her  little  joy; 
but  she  gave  no  hint  that  she  had  made  it. 
Only,  in  the  spirit  of  her  rigorous  morality,  she 
compared  a  maiden  who  lets  love,  before  the 
priestly  benediction,  nestle  in  her  heart,  to  a 
worm-eaten  apple,  which  is  good  for  the  eye, 
but  no  longer  for  the  palate,  and  is  laid  upon  a 
shelf  and  no  more  heeded,  for  the  pernicious 
worm  is  eating  its  internal  marrow,  and  cannot 
be  dislodged.  She  now  despaired  of  ever  hold- 
ing up  her  head  again  in  Bremen ;  submitted 
to  her  fate,  and  bore  in  silence  what  she  thought 
was  now  not  to  be  altered. 

Meanwhile  the  rumour  of  the  proud  Meta's 
having  given  the  rich  Hop -King  the  basket, 
spread  over  the  town,  and  sounded  even  into 
Franz's  garret  in  the  alley.  Franz  was  trans- 
ported with  joy  to  hear  this  tale  confirmed  ;  and 
the  secret  anxiety  lest  some  wealthy  rival  might 
expel  hi  in  from  the  dear  maiden's  heart  tor- 
mented him  no  more.  He  was  now  certain  of 
his  object;  and  the  riddle,  which  for  every  one 
continued  an  insoluble  problem,  had  no  mystery 
for  him.  Love  had  already  changed  a  spend- 
thrift into  a  dilettante;  but  this  for  a  bride- 
seeker  was  the  very  smallest  of  recommenda- 
tions, a  gift  which  in  those  rude  times  was  re- 
warded neither  with  such,  praise  nor  with  such 
pudding,  as  it  is  in  our  luxurious  century.  The 
fine  arts  were  not  then  children  of  superfluity, 
but  of  want  and  necessity.  No  travelling  pro- 
fessors were  at  that  time  known,  save  the  Prague 
students,  whose  squeaking  symphonies  solicited 
a  charitable  coin  at  the  doors  of  the  rich.  The 
beloved  maiden's  sacrifice  was  too  great  to  be 
repaid  by  a  serenade.  And  now  the  feeling  of 
his  youthful  dissipation  became  a  thorn  in  the 
soul  of  Franz.  Many  a  touching  monodrama 
did  he  begin  with  an  O  and  an  Ah,  besighing 
his  past  madness:  "Ah,  Meta,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "why  did  I  not  know  thee  sooner!  Thou 
hadst  been  my  guardian  angel,  thou  hadst  saved 
me  from  destruction.  Could  I  live  my  lost  years 
over  again,  and  be  what  I  was,  the  world  were 
now  Elysium  for  me,  and  for  thee  I  would  make 
it  an  Eden!    Noble  maiden,  thou  sacrificest 


thyself  to  a  wretch,  to  a  beggar,  who  has  nothing 
in  the  world  but  a  heart  full  of  love,  and  despair 
that  he  can  offer  thee  no  happiness  such  as  thou 
deservest."  Innumerable  times,  in  the  parox- 
ysms of  these  pathetic  humours,  he  struck  his 
brow  in  fury,  with  the  repentant  exclamation : 
"0  fool  !  O  madman!  thou  art  wise  too  late." 

Love,  however,  did  not  leave  its  working 
incomplete.  It  had  already  brought  about  a 
wholesome  fermentation  in  his  spirit,  a  desire 
to  put  in  use  his  powers  and  activity,  to  try  if 
he  might  struggle  up  from  his  present  nothing- 
ness :  it  now  incited  him  to  the  attempt  of  exe- 
cuting these  good  purposes.  Among  many  spe- 
culations he  had  entertained  for  the  recruiting 
of  his  wrecked  finances,  the  most  rational  and 
promising  was  this :  To  run  over  his  father's 
ledgers,  and  there  note  down  any  small  escheats 
which  had  been  marked  as  lost,  with  a  view 
of  going  through  the  land,  and  gleaning,  if  so 
were  that  a  lock  of  wheat  might  still  be  gathered 
from  these  neglected  ears.  With  the  produce 
of  this  enterprise,  he  would  then  commence 
some  little  traffic,  which  his  fancy  soon  extended 
over  all  the  quarters  of  the  world.  Already,  in 
his  mind's  eye,  he  had  vessels  on  the  sea,  which 
were  freighted  with  his  property.  He  proceeded 
rapidly  to  execute  his  purpose;  changed  the 
last  golden  fragment  of  his  heritage,  his  father's 
hour-egg,*  into  money,  and  bought  with  it  a 
riding  nag,  which  was  to  bear  him  as  a  Bremen 
merchant  out  into  the  wide  world. 

Yet  the  parting  with  his  fair  Meta  went  sore 
against  his  heart.  "What  will  she  think,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "of  this  sudden  disappearance, 
when  thou  shalt  no  more  meet  her  in  the 
church-way?  Will  she  not  regard  thee  as  faith- 
less, and  banish  thee  from  her  heart?"'  This 
thought  afflicted  him  exceedingly;  and  for  a 
great  while  he  could  think  of  no  expedient  for 
explaining  to  her  his  intention.  But  at  last  in- 
ventive Love  suggested  the  idea  of  signifying 
to  her  from  the  pulpit  itself  his  absence  and  its 
purpose.  With  this  view,  in  the  church,  which 
had  already  favoured  the  secret  understanding 
of  the  lovers,  he  bought  a  Prayer  "for  a  young 
Traveller,  and  the  happy  arrangement  of  his 
affairs;"  which  was  to  last,  till  he  should  come 
again  and  pay  his  groschen,  for  the  Thanks- 
giving. 

At  the  last  meeting,  he  had  dressed  himself 
as  for  the  road ;  he  passed  quite  near  his  sweet- 
heart; saluted  her  expressively,  and  with  less 
reserve  than  before  ;  so  that  she  blushed  deep- 
ly; and  Mother  Brigitta  found  opportunity  for 
various  marginal  notes,  which  indicated  her 
displeasure  at  the  boldness  of  this  ill-bred  fop, 
in  attempting  to  get  speech  of  her  daughter,  and 
with  which  she  entertained  the  latter  not  in  the 
most  pleasant  style  the  live-long  day.  From 
that  morning  Franz  was  no  more  seen  in  Bre- 
men, and  the  finest  pair  of  eyes  within  its  cir- 


*  The  oldest  watches,  from  the  shape  they  had,  were 
named  hour-eggs. 


MUSAUS.  107 


cuit  sought  for  him  in  vain.  Meta  often  heard 
the  Prayer  read,  but  she  did  not  heed  it,  for  her 
heart  was  troubled  because  her  lover  had  be- 
come invisible.  This  disappearance  was  inex- 
plicable to  her;  she  knew  not  what  to  think 
of  it.  After  the  lapse  of  some  months,  when 
time  had  a  little  softened  her  secret  care,  and 
she  was  suffering  his  absence  with  a  calmer 
mind,  it  happened  once,  as  the  last  appearance 
of  her  love  was  hovering  upon  her  fancy,  that 
this  same  Prayer  struck  her  as  a  strange  matter. 
She  coupled  one  thing  with  another,  she  guessed 
the  true  connection  of  the  business,  and  the 
meaning  of  that  notice.  And  although  church 
litanies  and  special  prayers  have  not  the  repu- 
tation of  extreme  potency,  and  for  the  worthy 
souls  that  lean  on  them,  are  but  a  supple  staff, 
inasmuch  as  the  fire  of  devotion  in  the  Christian 
flock  is  wont  to  die  out  at  the  end  of  the  sermon ; 
yet  in  the  pious  Meta's  case,  the  reading  of  the 
last  Prayer  was  the  very  thing  which  fanned 
that  fire  into  a  flame ;  and  she  never  neglected, 
with  her  whole  heart,  to  recommend  the  young 
traveller  to  his  guardian  angel. 

Under  this  invisible  guidance,  Franz  was 
journeying  towards  Brabant,  to  call  in  some 
considerable  sums  that  were  due  him  at  Ant- 
werp. A  journey  from  Bremen  to  Antwerp,  in 
the  time  when  road-blockades  were  still  in 
fashion,  and  every  landlord  thought  himself 
entitled  to  plunder  any  traveller  who  had  pur- 
chased no  safe-conduct,  and  to  leave  him  pining 
in  the  ward-room  of  his  tower,  was  an  under- 
taking of  more  peril  and  difficulty,  than  in  our 
days  would  attend  a  journey  from  Bremen  to 
Kamtschatka :  for  the  Landfried  (or  Act  for  sup- 
pressing Private  Wars),  which  the  Emperor 
Maximilian  had  proclaimed,  was  in  force 
through  the  Empire,  rather  as  a  law  than  an 
observance.  Nevertheless  our  solitary  traveller 
succeeded  in  arriving  at  the  goal  of  his  pilgrim- 
age, without  encountering  more  than  a  single 
adventure. 

Far  in  the  wastes  of  Westphalia,  he  rode  one 
sultry  day  till  nightfall,  without  reaching  any 
inn.  Towards  evening  stormy  clouds  towered 
up  at  the  horizon,  and  a  heavy  rain  wetted  him 
to  the  skin.  To  the  fondling,  who  from  his 
youth  had  been  accustomed  to  all  possible  con- 
veniences, this  was  a  heavy  matter,  and  he  felt 
himself  in  great  embarrassment  how  in  this 
condition  he  should  pass  the  night.  To  his  com- 
fort, when  the  tempest  had  moved  away,  he  saw 
a  light  in  the  distance ;  and  soon  after,  reached 
a  mean  peasant  hovel,  which  afforded  him  but 
little  consolation.  The  house  was  more  like  a 
cattle-stall,  than  a  human  habitation ;  and  the 
unfriendly  landlord  refused  him  fire  and  water, 
as  if  he  had  been  an  outlaw.  For  the  man  was 
just  about  to  stretch  himself  upon  the  straw 
among  his  steers ;  and  too  tired  to  relight  the 
fire  on  his  hearth,  for  the  sake  of  a  stranger. 
Franz  in  his  despondency  uplifted  a  mournful 
miserere,  and  cursed  the  Westphalian  steppes 
with  strong  maledictions :  but  the  peasant  took 


it  all  in  good  part;  and  blew  out  his  light  with 
great  composure,  troubling  himself  no  farther 
about  the  stranger;  for  in  the  laws  of  hospitality 
he  was  altogether  uninstructcd.  But  as  the 
wayfarer,  standing  at  the  door,  would  not  cease 
to  annoy  him  with  his  lamentations,  he  en- 
deavoured in  a  civil  way  to  get  rid  of  him,  con- 
sented to  answer,  and  said:  "Master,  if  yon 
want  good  entertainment,  and  would  treat  your- 
self handsomely,  you  could  not  find  what  you 
are  seeking  here.  But  ride  there  to  the  left 
hand,  through  the  bushes;  a  little  way  behind, 
lies  the  Castle  of  the  valiant  Eberhard  Bronk- 
horst,  a  knight  who  lodges  every  traveller,  as  a 
Hospitaller  does  the  pilgrims  from  the  Holy 
Sepulchre.  He  has  just  one  maggot  in  his  head, 
which  sometimes  twitches  and  vexes  him  ;  he 
lets  no  traveller  depart  from  him  unbasted.  If 
you  do  not  lose  your  way,  though  he  may  dust 
your  jacket,  you  will  like  your  cheer  prodigi- 
ously." 

To  buy  a  mess  of  pottage,  and  a  stoop  of  wine, 
by  surrendering  one's  ribs  to  the  bastinado,  is 
in  truth  no  job  for  every  man,  though  your 
spungers  and  plate-lickers  let  themselves  be 
tweaked  and  snubbed,  and  from  rich  artists 
willingly  endure  all  kinds  of  tar-and-feathering, 
so  their  palates  be  but  tickled  for  the  service. 
Franz  considered  for  a  while,  and  was  unde- 
termined what  to  do;  at  last  he  resolved  on 
fronting  the  adventure.  "  What  is  it  to  me,"' 
said  he,  "whether  my  back  be  broken  here  on 
miserable  straw,  or  by  the  Ritter  Bronkhorst? 
The  friction  will  expel  the  fever  which  is  com- 
ing on,  and  shake  me  tightly  if  I  cannot  dry  my 
clothes."  He  put  spurs  to  his  nag.  and  soon 
arrived  before  a  castle-gate  of  old  Gothic  archi- 
tecture ;  knocked  pretty  plainly  on  the  iron  door, 
and  an  equally  distinct  "Who's  there?"  re- 
sounded from  within.  To  the  freezing  pas- 
senger, the  long  entrance  ceremonial  of  this 
door-keeper  precognition  was  as  inconvenient, 
as  are  similar  delays  to  travellers  who,  at  bar- 
riers and  gates  of  towns,  bewail  or  execrate  the 
despotism  of  guards  and  tollmen.  Nevertheless 
he  must  submit  to  use  and  wont,  and  patiently 
wait  to  see  whether  the  philanthropist  in  the 
Castle  was  disposed  that  night  for  cudgelling  a 
guest,  or  would  choose  rather  to  assign  him  a 
couch  under  the  open  canopy. 

The  possessor  of  this  ancient  tower  had 
served,  in  his  youth,  as  a  stout  soldier  in  the 
Emperor  s  army,  under  the  bold  Georg  von 
Fronsberg,  and  led  a  troop  of  foot  against  the 
Venetians ;  had  afterwards  retired  to  repose, 
and  was  now  living  on  his  property ;  where,  to 
expiate  the  sins  of  his  campaigns,  he  employed 
himself  in  doing  good  works;  in  feeding  the 
hungry,  giving  drink  to  the  thirsty,  lodging 
pilgrims,  and  cudgelling  his  lodgers  out  of  doors. 
For  he  was  a  rude  wild  son  of  war ;  and  could 
not  lay  aside  his  martial  tone,  though  he  had 
lived  for  many  years  in  silent  peace.  The 
traveller,  who  had  now  determined  for  good 
quarters  to  submit  to  the  custom  of  the  house, 


168  MUSAUS. 


had  not  waited  long  till  the  holts  and  locks  be- 
gan rattling  within,  and  the  creaking  gate-leaves 
moved  asunder,  moaning  in  doleful  notes,  as  if 
to  warn  or  to  deplore  the  entering  stranger. 
Franz  felt  one  cold  shudder  after  the  other  run- 
ning down  his  hack,  as  he  passed  in:  neverthe- 
less he  was  handsomely  received;  some  servants 
hastened  to  assist  him  in  dismounting;  speedily 
unhuckled  his  luggage,  took  his  steed  to  the 
stahle,  and  its  rider  to  a  large  well-lighted 
chamher,  where  their  master  was  in  waiting. 

The  warlike  aspect  of  this  athletic  gentleman, 
—who  advanced  to  meet  his  guest,  and  shook 
him  by  the  hand  so  heartily,  that  he  was  like 
to  shout  with  pain,  and  bade  him  welcome 
with  a  Stentor's  voice,  as  if  the  stranger  had 
been  deaf,  and  seemed  withal  to  be  a  person 
still  in  the  vigour  of  life,  full  of  fire  and  strength, 
—put  the  timorous  wanderer  into  such  a  terror, 
that  he  could  not  hide  his  apprehensions,  and 
began  to  tremble  over  all  his  body. 

"  What  ails  you,  my  young  master,"  asked  the 
Ritter,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  that  you  quiver 
like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  look  as  pale  as  if  Death 
had  you  by  the  throat?" 

Franz  plucked  up  a  spirit ;  and  considering 
that  his  shoulders  had  at  all  events  the  score  to 
pay.  his  poltroonery  passed  into  a  species  of 
audacity. 

"Sir,"  replied  he,  "you  perceive  that  the  rain 
has  soaked  me,  as  if  1  had  swum  across  the 
Weser.  Let  me  have  my  clothes  dried  or 
changed;  and  get  me,  by  way  of  luncheon,  a 
well-spiced  aleberry,  to  drive  away  the  ague-fit 
that  is  quaking  through  my  nerves ;  then  I  shall 
come  to  heart,  in  some  degree." 

"Good!"  replied  the  Knight;  "demand  what 
you  want;  you  are  at  home  here." 

Franz  made  himself  be  served  like  a  bashaw  ; 
and  having  nothing  else  but  currying  to  expect, 
he  determined  to  deserve  it ;  he  bantered  and 
bullied,  in  his  most  imperious  style,  the  servants 
that  were  waiting  on  him  ;  it  comes  all  to  one, 
thought  he,  in  the  long  run.  "This  waistcoat," 
said  he,  "  would  go  round  a  tun ;  bring  me  one 
that  fits  a  little  better:  this  slipper  burns  like  a 
coal  against  my  corns ;  pitch  it  over  the  lists : 
this  ruff  is  stiff  as  a  plank,  and  throttles  me  like 
a  halter;  bring  one  that  is  easier,  and  is  not 
plastered  with  starch." 

At  this  Bremish  frankness,  the  landlord,  far 
from  showing  any  anger,  kept  inciting  his  ser- 
vants to  go  briskly  through  with  their  commands, 
and  calling  them  a  pack  of  blockheads,  who 
were  fit  to  serve  no  stranger.  The  table  being 
furnished,  the  Ritter  and  his  guest  sat  down  to 
it,  and  both  heartily  enjoyed  their  aleberry. 
The  Ritter  asked :  "  Would  you  have  aught 
farther,  by  way  of  supper!" 

"Bring  us  what  you  have,"  said  Franz,  "that 
I  may  see  how  your  kitchen  is  provided." 

Immediately  appeared  the  Cook,  and  placed 
upon  the  table  a  repast  with  which  a  duke 
might  have  been  satisfied.  Franz  diligently 
fell  to,  without  waiting  to  be  pressed.  When 


he  had  satisfied  himself:  "Your  kitchen,"  said 
he,  "is  not  ill-furnished,  I  perceive;  if  your 
cellar  corresponds  to  it,  I  shall  almost  praise 
your  house-keeping." 

Broukhorst  nodded  to  his  Butler,  who  directly 
filled  the  cup  of  welcome  with  common  table 
wine,  lasted,  and  presented  it  to  his  master,  and 
the  latter  cleared  it  at  a  draught  to  the  health 
of  his  guest.  Franz  pledged  him  honestly,  and 
Bronkhorst  asked  :  "  Now,  fair  sir,  what  say  you 
to  the  wine  I" 

"  I  say,"  answered  Franz,  "  that  it  is  bad.  if 
it  is  the  best  sort  in  your  catacombs;  and  good, 
if  it  is  your  meanest  number." 

"  You  are  a  judge,"  replied  the  Ritter  :  "  Here, 
Butler,  bring  us  of  the  mother-cask." 

The  Butler  put  a  stoop  upon  the  table,  as  a 
sample,  and  Franz  having  tasted  it,  said,  "  Ay, 
this  is  genuine  last  year's  growth;  we  will  stick 
by  this." 

The  Ritter  made  a  vast  pitcher  of  it  be 
brought  in ;  soon  drank  himself  into  hilarity 
and  glee  beside  his  guest;  began  to  talk  of  his 
campaigns,  how  he  had  been  encamped  against 
the  Venetians,  had  broken  through  their  barri- 
cado,  and  butchered  the  Italian  squadrons,  like 
a  flock  of  sheep.  In  this  narrative  he  rose  into 
such  a  warlike  enthusiasm,  that  he  hewed  down 
bottles  and  glasses,  brandishing  the  carving-knife 
like  a  lance,  and  in  the  fire  of  action  came  so 
near  his  messmate  with  it,  that  the  latter  was 
in  fright  for  his  nose  and  ears. 

It  grew  late,  but  no  sleep  came  into  the  eyes 
of  the  Ritter ;  he  seemed  to  be  in  his  proper 
element,  when  he  got  to  speak  of  his  Venetian 
campaigns.  The  vivacity  of  his  narration  in- 
creased with  every  cup  he  emptied  ;  and  Franz 
was  afraid  that  this  would  prove  the  prologue 
to  the  melodrama,  in  which  he  himself  was  to 
play  the  most  interesting  part.  To  learn  whe- 
ther it  was  meant  that  he  should  lodge  within 
the  Castle,  or  without,  he  demanded  a  bumper 
by  way  of  good-night.  Now,  he  thought,  his 
host  would  first  force  him  to  drink  more  wine, 
and  if  he  refused,  would,  under  pretext  of  a 
drinking  quarrel,  send  him  forth,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  house,  with  the  usual  viaticum. 
Contrary  to  his  expectation,  the  request  was 
granted  without  remonstrance ;  the  Ritter  in- 
stantly cut  asunder  the  thread  of  his  narrative, 
and  said  :  "  Time  will  wait  on  no  one ;  more  of 
it  to-morrow !" 

"Pardon  me,  Herr  Ritter,"  answered  Franz, 
"to-morrow  by  sunrise  I  must  over  hill  and 
dale ;  I  am  travelling  a  far  journey  to  Brabant, 
and  must  not  linger  here.  So  let  me  take  leave 
of  you  to-night,  that  my  departure  may  not  dis- 
turb you  in  the  morning." 

"Do  your  pleasure,"  said  the  Ritter;  "but 
depart  from  this  you  shall  not,  till  I  am  out  of 
the  feathers,  to  refresh  you  with  a  bit  of  bread, 
and  a  toothful  of  Dantzig,  then  attend  you  to 
the  door,  and  dismiss  you  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  house." 

Franz  needed    no   interpretation  of  these 


MUSAUS. 


169 


words.  Willingly  as  he  would  have  excused 
his  host  this  last  civility,  attendance  to  the  door, 
the  latter  seemed  determined  to  abate  no  whit 
of  the  established  ritual.  He  ordered  his  ser- 
vants to  undress  the  stranger,  and  put  him  in 
the  guest's-bed ;  where  Franz,  once  settled  on 
elastic  swan's-down,  felt  himself  extremely 
snug,  and  enjoyed  delicious  rest;  so  that  ere  he 
fell  asleep,  he  owned  to  himself  that,  for  such 
royal  treatment,  a  moderate  bastinado  was  not 
too  dear  a  price.  Soon  pleasant  dreams  came 
hovering  round  his  fancy.  He  found  his  charm- 
ing Meta  in  a  rosy  grove,  where  she  was  walk- 
ing with  her  mother,  plucking  flowers.  In- 
stantly he  hid  himself  behind  a  thick-leaved 
hedge,  that  the  rigorous  duenna  might  not  see 
him.  Again  his  imagination  placed  him  in  the 
alley,  and  by  his  looking-glass  he  saw  the 
snow-white  hand  of  the  maiden  busied  with 
her  flowers ;  soon  he  was  sitting  with  her  on 
the  grass,  and  longing  to  declare  his  heartfelt 
love  to  her,  and  the  bashful  shepherd  found  no 
words  to  do  it  in.  He  would  have  dreamed 
till  broad  mid-day,  had  he  not  been  roused  by 
the  sonorous  voice  and  clanking  spurs  of  the 
Ritter,  who,  with  the  earliest  dawn,  was  hold- 
ing a  review  of  kitchen  and  cellar,  ordering  a 
sufficient  breakfast  to  be  readied,  and  placing 
every  servant  at  his  post,  to  be  at  hand  when 
the  guest  should  awake,  to  dress  him,  and  wait 
upon  him. 

It  cost  the  happy  dreamer  no  small  struggling 
to  forsake  his  safe  and  hospitable  bed  ;  he  rolled 
to  this  side  and  to  that;  but  the  pealing  voice 
of  the  worshipful  Knight  came  heavy  on  his 
heart;  and  dally  as  he  might,  the  sour  apple 
must  at  last  be  bit.  So  he  rose  from  his  down; 
and  immediately  a  dozen  hands  were  busy 
dressing  him.  The  Ritter  led  him  into  the  par- 
lour, where  a  small  well-furnished  table  waited 
them ;  but  now,  when  the  hour  of  reckoning 
had  arrived,  the  traveller's  appetite  was  gone. 
The  host  endeavoured  to  encourage  him.  "Why 
do  you  not  get  to  ?  Come,  take  somewhat  for 
the  raw  foggy  morning." 

"  Herr  Ritter,"  answered  Franz,  "  my  stomach 
is  still  too  full  of  your  supper;  but  my  pockets 
are  empty ;  these  I  may  fill  for  the  hunger  that 
is  to  come." 

With  this  he  began  stoutly  cramming,  and 
stowed  himself  with  the  daintiest  and  best  that 
was  transportable,  till  all  his  pockets  were 
bursting.  Then  observing  that  his  horse,  well 
curried  and  equipt,  was  led  past,  he  took  a 
dram  of  Dantzig,  for  good-bye,  in  the  thought 
that  this  would  be  the  watch-word  for  his  host 
to  catch  him  by  the  neck,  and  exercise  his 
household  privileges. 

But,  to  his  astonishment,  the  Ritter  shook  him 
kindly  by  the  hand,  as  at  his  first  entrance, 
wished  him  luck  by  the  way,  and  the  bolted 
door  was  thrown  open.  He  loitered  not  in 
putting  spurs  to  his  nag ;  and,  tip  !  tap  !  he  was 
without  the  gate,  and  no  hair  of  him  harmed. 

A  heavy  stone  was  lifted  from  his  heart,  as 
w 


he  found  himself  in  safety,  and  saw  that  he  had 
got  away  with  a  whole  skin.  He  could  not  un- 
derstand how  the  landlord  had  trusted  him  the 
shot,  which,  as  he  imagined,  must  have  run 
pretty  high  on  the  chalk ;  and  he  embraced 
with  warm  love  the  hospitable  man,  whose 
club-law  arm  he  had  so  much  dreaded  ;  and  he 
felt  a  strong  desire  to  search  out,  at  the  foun- 
tain-head, the  reason  or  unreason  of  the  ill  report 
which  had  affrighted  him.  Accordingly,  he 
turned  his  horse,  and  cantered  back.  The 
Knight  was  still  standing  in  the  gate,  and  des- 
canting with  his  servants,  for  the  forwarding  of 
the  science  of  horse-flesh,  on  the  breed,  shape, 
and  character  of  the  nag  and  his  hard  pace;  he 
supposed  the  stranger  must  have  missed  some- 
thing in  his  travelling  gear,  and  he  already 
looked  askance  at  his  servants  for  such  negli- 
gence. 

"  What  is  it,  young  master,"  cried  he,  "  that 
makes  you  turn  again,  when  you  were  for  pro- 
ceeding ?" 

"  Ah!  yet  a  word,  valiant  Knight,"  cried  the 
traveller.  "An  ill  report  has  gone  abroad,  that 
injures  your  name  and  breeding.  It  is  said  that 
you  treat  every  stranger  that  calls  upon  you  with 
your  best ;  and  then,  when  he  leaves  you,  let 
Mm  feei  the  weight  of  your  strong  fists.  This 
story  I  have  credited,  and  spared  nothing  to  de- 
serve my  due  from  you.  I  thought  within  my- 
self, His  worship  will  abate  me  nothing;  I  will 
abate  him  as  little.  But  now  you  let  me  go, 
without  strife  or  peril ;  and  that  is  what  sur- 
prises me.  Pray,  tell  me,  is  there 1  any  shadow 
of  foundation  for  the  thing,  or  shall  I  call  the 
foolish  chatter  lies  next  time  I  hear  it  ?" 

The  Ritter  answered :  "  Report  has  nowise 
told  you  lies ;  there  is  no  saying,  that  circulates 
among  the  people,  but  contains  in  it  some  grain 
of  truth.  Let  me  tell  you  accurately  how  the 
matter  stands.  I  lodge  every  stranger  that  comes 
beneath  my  roof,  and  divide  my  morsel  with 
him,  for  the  love  of  God.  But  I  am  a  plain 
German  man,  of  the  old  cut  and  fashion  ;  speak 
as  it  lies  about  my  heart,  and  require  that  my 
guest  also  should  be  hearty  and  confiding ; 
should  enjoy  with  me  what  I  have,  and  tell 
frankly  what  he  wants.  Now,  there  is  a  sort  of 
people  that  vex  me  with  all  manner  of  grimaces; 
that  banter  me  with  smirkings,  and  bows,  and 
crouchings ;  put  all  their  words  to  the  torture ; 
make  a  deal  of  talk  without  sense  or  salt ;  think 
they  will  cozen  me  with  smooth  speeches ;  be- 
have at  dinner  as  women  at  a  christening.  If  I 
say,  Help  yourself!  out  of  reverence,  they  pick 
you  a  fraction  from  the  plate,  which  I  would 
not  offer  to  my  dog;  if  I  say,  Your  health!  they 
scarcely  wet  their  lips  from  the  full  cup,  as  if 
they  set  God's  gifts  at  nought.  Now,  when  the 
sorry  rabble  carry  things  too  far  with  me,  and  I 
cannot,  for  the  soul  of  me,  know  what  they 
would  be  at,  I  get  into  a  rage  at  last,  and  use 
my  household  privilege ;  catch  the  noodle  by 
the  spall,  thrash  him  sufficiently,  and  pack  him 
out  of  doors.  This  is  the  use  and  wont  with 
15 


170  MUSAUS. 


me,  and  I  do  so  with  every  guest  that  plagues 
me  with  these  freaks.  But  a  man  of  your  stamp 
is  always  welcome  :  you  told  me  plump  out  in 
plain  German  what  you  thought,  as  is  the  fashion 
with  the  Bremers.  Call  on  me  boldly  again,  if 
your  road  lead  you  hither.  And  so,  God  be  with 
you." 

Franz  now  moved  on,  with  a  joyful  humour, 
towards  Antwerp  ;  and  he  wished  that  he  might 
everywhere  find  such  a  reception  as  he  had  met 
with  from  the  Ritter  Eberhard  Bronkhorst.  On 
approaching  the  ancient  Queen  of  the  Flemish 
cities,  the  sail  of  his  hope  was  swelled  by  a 
propitious  breeze.  Riches  and  superfluity  met 
him  in  every  street;  and  it  seemed  as  if  scarcity 
and  want  had  been  exiled  from  the  busy  town. 
In  all  probability,  thought  he,  there  must  be 
many  of  my  father's  debtors  who  have  risen 
again,  and  will  gladly  make  me  full  payment 
whenever  I  substantiate  my  claims.  After  rest- 
ing for  a  while  from  his  fatigues,  he  set  about 
obtaining,  in  the  inn  where  he  was  quartered, 
some  preliminary  knowledge  of  the  situation  of 
his  debtors. 

"  How  stands  it  with  Peter  Martens  ?"  in- 
quired he  one  day,  of  his  companions  at  table ; 
"  is  he  still  living,  and  doing  much  business  ?" 

"  Peter  Martens  is  a  warm  man,"  answered 
one  of  the  party ;  "  has  a  brisk  commission  trade, 
and  draws  good  profit  from  it." 

"Is  Fabian  van  Plurs  still  in  good  circum- 
stances?" 

"  0  !  there  is  no  end  to  Fabian's  wealth.  He 
is  a  Councillor  5  his  woollen  manufactories  are 
thriving  incredibly." 

"  Has  Jonathan  Frischkier  good  custom  in  his 
trade  ?" 

"Ah!  Jonathan  were  now  a  brisk  fellow, 
had  not  Kaiser  Max  let  the  French  chouse  him 
out  of  his  Princess.*  Jonathan  had  got  the 
furnishing  of  the  lace  for  the  bride's  dress,  but 
the  Kaiser  has  left  poor  Frischkier  in  the 
lu  rch,  as  the  bride  has  left  himself.  If  you  have 
a  fair  one,  whom  you  would  remember  with  a 
bit  of  lace,  he  will  give  it  you  at  half  price." 

"Is  the  firm  Op  de  Butekant  still  standing, 
or  has  it  sunk?" 

"  There  was  a  crack  in  the  beams  there  some 
years  ago;  but  the  Spanish  caravelles  have  put 
a  new  prop  to  it,  and  it  now  holds  fast." 

Franz  inquired  about  several  other  in*  rchants, 
who  were  on  his  list;  found  that  most  of  them, 
though  in  his  father's  time  they  had  "failed," 
were  now  standing  firmly  on  their  legs ;  and 
inferred  from  this,  that  a  judicious  bankruptcy 
had,  as  from  of  old,  been  the  wine  of  future 
gains.  This  intelligence  refreshed  him  mightily  : 
he  hastened  to  put  his  documents  in  order,  and 
submit  them  to  the  proper  parties.  But  with 
the  Antwerpers,  he  fared  as  his  itinerating 
countrymen  do  with  shopkeepers  in  the  Ger- 
man towns;  they  find  everywhere  a  friendly 
welcome  at  their  first  appearance,  but  are  looked 


*  Anne  of  Britanny. 


upon  with  cheerfulness  nowhere,  when  they 
come  collecting  debts.  Some  would  have  no- 
thing to  do  with  these  former  sins;  and  were 
of  opinion,  that  by  the  tender  of  the  legal  five- 
per-cent  composition,  they  had  been  entirely 
abolished  :  it  was  the  creditor's  fault  if  he  had 
not  accepted  payment  in  time.  Others  could 
not  recollect  any  Melchior  of  Bremen;  opened 
their  Infallible  Books,  found  no  debtor-entry 
marked  for  this  unknown  name.  Others,  again, 
brought  out  a  strong  counter-reckoning ;  and 
three  days  had  not  passed,  till  Franz  was  sitting 
in  the  Debtors'  Ward,  to  answer  for  his  father's 
credit,  not  to  depart  till  he  had  paid  the  utter- 
most farthing. 

These  were  not  the  best  prospects  for  the 
young  man,  who  had  set  his  hope  and  trust 
upon  the  Antwerp  patrons  of  his  fortune,  and 
now  saw  the  fair  soap-bubble  vanish  quite 
away.  In  his  strait  confinement,  he  felt  him- 
self in  the  condition  of  a  soul  in  Purgatory,  now 
that  his  skiff  had  run  ashore  and  gone  to  pieces, 
in  the  middle  of  the  haven  where  he  thought 
to  find  security.  Every  thought  of  Meta  was  as 
a  thorn  in  his  heart;  there  was  now  no  shadow 
of  a  possibility,  that  from  the  whirlpool  which 
had  sunk  him,  he  could  ever  rise,  and  stretch 
out  his  hand  to  her ;  nor,  suppose  he  should  get 
his  head  above  water,  was  it  in  poor  Meta's 
power  to  pull  him  on  dry  land.  He  fell  into  a 
sullen  desperation ;  had  no  wish  but  to  die 
speedily,  and  give  his  woes  the  slip  at  once ; 
and,  in  fact,  he  did  attempt  to  kill  himself  by 
starvation.  But  this  is  a  sort  of  death  which  is 
not  at  the  beck  of  every  one,  so  ready  as  the 
shrunk  Pomponius  Atticus  found  it,  when  his 
digestive  apparatus  had  already  struck  work. 
A  sound  peptic  stomach  does  not  yield  so  tame- 
ly to  the  precepts  of  the  head  or  heart.  After 
the  moribund  debtor  had  abstained  two  days 
from  food,  a  ravenous  hunger  suddenly  usurped 
the  government  of  his  will,  and  performed,  of 
its  own  authority,  all  the  operations  which,  in 
other  cases,  are  directed  by  the  mind.  It 
ordered  his  hand  to  seize  the  spoon,  his  mouth 
to  receive  the  victual,  his  inferior  maxillary 
jaw  to  get  in  motion,  and  itself  accomplished 
the  usual  functions  of  digestion,  unordered. 
Thus  did  this  last  resolve  make  shipwreck,  on 
a  hard  bread-crust;  for,  in  the  seven-and-twen- 
tieth  year  of  life,  it  has  a  heroism  connected 
with  it,  which  in  the  seven-and-seventieth  is 
entirely  gone. 

At  bottom,  it  was  not  the  object  of  the  bar- 
barous Antwerpers  to  squeeze  money  from  the 
pretended  debtor,  but  only  to  pay  him  none,  as 
his  demands  were  not  admitted  to  be  liquid. 
Whether  it  were,  then,  that  the  public  Prayer 
in  Bremen  had  in  truth  a  little  virtue,  or  that 
the  supposed  creditors  were  not  desirous  of 
supporting  a  superfluous  boarder  for  life,  true  it 
is,  that  after  the  lapse  of  three  months,  Franz 
was  delivered  from  his  imprisonment,  under 
the  condition  of  leaving  the  city  within  four- 
and-twenty  hours,  and  never  again  setting  foot 


MUSAUS. 


171 


on  the  soil  and  territory  of  Antwerp.  At  the  j 
same  time,  he  received  five  crowns  for  travel- 
ling expenses  from  the  faithful  hands  of  Justice, 
which  had  taken  charge  of  his  horse  and  lug- 
gage, and  conscientiously  balanced  the  produce 
of  the  same  against  judicial  and  curatory  ex- 
penses. 

With  heavy-laden  heart,  in  the  humblest 
mood,  with  his  staff  in  his  hand,  he  left  the  rich 
city,  into  which  he  had  ridden  some  time  before 
with  high-soaring  hopes.  Broken  down,  and 
undetermined  what  to  do,  or  rather  altogether 
without  thought,  he  plodded  through  the  streets 
to  the  nearest  gate,  not  minding  whither  the 
road  into  which  chance  conducted  him  might 
lead.  He  saluted  no  traveller,  he  asked  for  no 
inn,  except  when  fatigue  or  hunger  forced  him 
to  lift  up  his  eyes,  and  look  around  for  some 
church-spire,  or  sign  of  human  habitation,  when 
he  needed  human  aid.  Many  days  he  had 
wandered  on,  as  if  unconsciously ;  and  a  secret 
instinct  had  still,  by  means  of  his  uncrazed  feet, 
led  him  right  forward  on  the  way  to  home  ; 
when,  all  at  once,  he  awoke  as  from  an  op- 
pressive dream,  and  perceived  on  what  road 
he  was  travelling. 

He  halted  instantly,  to  consider  whether  he 
should  proceed  or  turn  back.  Shame  and  con- 
fusion took  possession  of  his  soul,  when  he 
thought  of  skulking  about  in  his  native  town  as 
a  beggar,  branded  with  the  mark  of  contempt, 
and  claiming  the  charitable  help  of  his  towns- 
men, whom  of  old  he  had  eclipsed  by  his 
wealth  and  magnificence.  And  how  in  this 
form  could  he  present  himself  before  his  fair 
Meta,  without  disgracing  the  choice  of  her 
heart  %  He  did  not  leave  his  fancy  time  to  finish 
this  doleful  picture  ;  but  wheeled  about  to  take 
the  other  road,  as  hastily  as  if  he  had  been 
standing  even  then  at  the  gate  of  Bremen,  and 
the  ragged  apprentices  had  been  assembling  to 
accompany  him  with  jibes  and  mockery  through 
the  streets.  His  purpose  was  formed  ;  he  would 
make  for  the  nearest  seaport  in  the  Nether- 
lands; engage  as  a  sailor  in  a  Spanish  ship,  to 
work  his  passage  to  the  new  world  ;  and  not 
return  to  his  country,  till  in  the  Peruvian  land 
of  gold  he  should  have  regained  the  wealth, 
which  he  had  squandered  so  heedlessly,  before 
he  knew  the  worth  of  money.  In  the  shaping 
of  this  new  plan,  it  is  true,  the  fair  Meta  fell  so 
far  into  the  back -ground,  that  even  to  the 
sharpest  prophetic  eye  she  could  only  hover  as 
a  faint  shadow  in  the  distance ;  yet  the  wan- 
dering projector  pleased  himself  with  thinking 
that  she  was  again  interwoven  with  the  scheme 
of  his  life  ;  and  he  took  large  steps,  as  if  by  this 
rapidity  he  meant  to  reach  her  so  much  the 
sooner. 

Already  he  was  on  the  Flemish  soil  once 
more  ;  and  found  himself  at  sunset  not  far  from 
Rheinberg,  in  a  little  hamlet,  Rummelsburg  by 
name,  which  has  since,  in  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  been  utterly  destroyed.  A  caravan  of 
carriers  from  Lyke  had  already  filled  the  inn, 


so  that  Mine  Host  had  no  room  left,  and  re- 
ferred him  to  the  next  town  ;  the  rather  that  he 
did  not  draw  too  flattering  a  presage,  from  his 
present  vagabond  physiognomy,  and  held  him 
to  be  a  thieves'  purveyor,  who  had  views  upon 
the  Lyke  carriers.  He  was  forced,  notwith- 
standing his  excessive  weariness,  to  gird  him- 
self for  march,  and  again  to  take  his  bundle  on 
his  back. 

As  in  retiring,  he  was  muttering  between  his 
teeth  some  bitter  complaints  and  curses  of  the 
Landlord's  hardness  of  heart,  the  latter  seemed 
to  take  some  pity  on  the  forlorn  wayfarer,  and 
called  after  him,  from  the  door:  "Stay,  neigh- 
bour, let  me  speak  to  you :  if  you  wish  to  rest 
here,  I  can  accommodate  you  after  all.  In  that 
Castle  are  empty  rooms  enow,  if  they  be  not 
too  lonely;  it  is  not  inhabited,  and  I  have  got 
the  keys."  Franz  accepted  the  proposal  with 
joy,  praised  it  as  a  deed  of  mercy,  and  requested 
only  shelter  and  a  supper,  were  it  in  a  castle 
or  a  cottage.  Mine  Host,  however,  was  privily 
a  rogue,  whom  it  had  galled  to  hear  the  stranger 
drop  some  half-audible  contumelies  against  him, 
and  meant  to  be  avenged  on  him,  by  a  Hob- 
goblin that  inhabited  the  old  fortress,  and  had 
many  long  years  before  expelled  the  owners. 

The  Castle  lay  hard  by  the  hamlet,  on  a  steep 
rock,  right  opposite  the  inn,  from  which  it  was 
divided  merely  by  the  highway,  and  a  little 
gurgling  brook.  The  situation  being  so  agree- 
able, the  edifice  was  still  kept  in  repair,  and 
well  provided  with  all  sorts  of  house-gear ;  for 
it  served  the  owner  as  a  hunting-lodge,  where 
he  frequently  caroused  all  day  ;  and  so  soon  as 
the  stars  began  to  twinkle  in  the  sky,  retired 
with  his  whole  retinue,  to  escape  the  mischief 
of  the  Ghost,  who  rioted  about  in  it  the  whole 
night  over,  but  by  day  gave  no  disturbance. 
Unpleasant  as  the  owner  felt  this  spoiling  of 
his  mansion  by  a  bugbear,  the  nocturnal  sprite 
was  not  without  advantages,  for  the  great 
security  it  gave  from  thieves.  The  Count  could 
have  appointed  no  trustier  or  more  watchful 
keeper  over  the  Castle,  than  this  same  Spectre, 
for  the  rashest  troop  of  robbers  never  ventured 
to  approach  its  station.  Accordingly  he  knew 
of  no  safer  place  for  laying  up  his  valuables, 
than  this  old  tower,  in  the  hamlet  of  Rummels- 
burg, near  Rheinberg. 

The  sunshine  had  sunk,  the  dark  night  was 
coming  heavily  on,  when  Franz,  with  a  lantern 
in  his  hand,  proceeded  to  the  castle-gate,  under 
the  guidance  of  Mine  Host,  who  carried  in  his 
hand  a  basket  of  victuals,  with  a  flask  of  wine, 
which  he  said  should  not  be  marked  against 
him.  He  had  also  taken  along  with  him  a 
pair  of  candlesticks,  and  two  wax-lights;  for  in 
the  whole  Castle  there  was  neither  lamp  nor 
taper,  as  no  one  ever  staid  in  it  after  twilight. 
In  the  way,  Franz  noticed  the  creaking,  heavy- 
laden  basket,  and  the  wax-lights,  which  he 
thought  he  should  not  need,  and  yet  must  pay 
for.  Therefore  he  said :  «  What  is  this  super- 
fluity and  waste,  as  at  a  banquet?    The  light 


172  MUSAUS. 


in  the  lantern  is  enough  to  see  with,  till  I  go  to 
bed ;  and  when  I  awake,  the  sun  will  be  high 
enough,  for  I  am  tired  completely,  and  shall 
sleep  with  both  eyes." 

"  I  will  not  hide  from  you,"  replied  the  land- 
lord, "that  a  story  runs  of  there  being  mischief 
in  the  Castle,  and  a  Goblin  that  frequents  it. 
You,  however,  need  not  let  the  thing  disturb 
you;  we  are  near  enough,  you  see,  for  you  to 
call  us,  should  you  meet  with  aught  unnatural ; 
I  and  my  folks  will  be  at  your  hand  in  a  twink- 
ling, to  assist  you.  Down  in  the  house  there, 
we  keep  astir  all  night  through,  some  one  is 
always  moving.  I  have  lived  here  these  thirty 
years;  yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  seen 
aught.  If  there  be  now  and  then  a  little  hurly- 
bu dying  at  nights,  it  is  nothing  but  cats  and 
martens  rummaging  about  the  granary.  As  a 
precaution,  I  have  provided  you  with  candles : 
the  night  is  no  friend  of  man ;  and  the  tapers 
are  consecrated,  so  that  sprites,  if  there  be  such 
in  the  Castle,  will  avoid  their  shine." 

It  was  no  lying  in  Mine  Host  to  say  that  he 
had  never  seen  anything  of  spectres  in  the 
Castle ;  for  by  night  he  had  taken  special  care 
not  once  to  set  foot  in  it;  and  by  day,  the 
Goblin  did  not  come  to  sight.  In  the  present 
case,  too,  the  traitor  would  not  risk  himself 
across  the  border.  After  opening  the  door,  he 
handed  Franz  the  basket,  directed  him  what 
way  to  go,  and  wished  him  good-night.  Franz 
entered  the  lobby  without  anxiety  or  fear ;  be- 
lieving the  ghost  story  to  be  empty  tattle,  or  a 
distorted  tradition  of  some  real  occurrence  in 
the  place,  which  idle  fancy  had  shaped  into  an 
unnatural  adventure.  He  remembered  the  stout 
Ritter  Eberhard  Bronkhorst,  from  whose  heavy 
arm  he  had  apprehended  such  maltreatment, 
and  with  whom,  notwithstanding,  he  had  found 
so  hospitable  a  reception.  On  this  ground  be 
had  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  deduced  from  his 
travelling  experiences,  when  he  heard  any  com- 
mon rumour,  to  believe  exactly  the  reverse,  and 
left  the  grain  of  truth,  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  wise  Knight,  always  lies  in  such  reports, 
entirely  out  of  sight. 

Pursuant  to  Mine  Host's  direction,  he  as- 
cended the  winding  stone  stair;  and  reached  a 
bolted  door,  which  he  opened  with  his  key.  A 
long  dark  gallery,  where  his  footsteps  resound- 
ed, led  him  into  a  large  hall,  and  from  this,  a 
side-door,  into  a  suite  of  apartments,  richly  pro- 
vided with  all  furniture  for  decoration  or  con- 
venience. Out  of  these  he  chose  the  room  which 
had  the  friendliest  aspect,  where  he  found  a 
well-pillowed  bed  ;  and  from  the  window  could 
look  right  down  upon  the  inn,  and  catch  every 
loud  word  that  was  spoken  there.  He  lit  his 
wax-tapers,  furnished  his  table,  and  feasted 
with  the  coinmodiousness  and  relish  of  an 
Otaheitean  noble.  The  big-bellied  flask  was 
an  antidote  to  thirst.  So  long  as  his  teeth  were 
in  full  occupation,  he  had  no  time  to  think  of 
the  reported  devilry  in  the  Castle.  If  aught 
now  and  then  made  a  stir  in  the  distance,  and 


Fear  called  to  him.  "  Hark  !  hark  !  There  comes 
the  Goblin;"  Courage  answered:  "Stuff!  It  is 
cats  and  martens  bickering  and  caterwauling." 
But  in  the  digestive  half-hour  after  meat,  when 
the  sixth  sense,  that  of  hunger  and  thirst,  no 
longer  occupied  the  soul,  she  directed  her  atten- 
tion from  the  other  five  exclusively  upon  the 
sense  of  hearing;  and  already  Fear  was  whis- 
pering three  timid  thoughts  into  the  listener's 
ear,  before  Courage  had  time  to  answer  once. 

As  the  first  resource,  he  locked  the  door,  and 
bolted  it;  made  his  retreat  to  the  walled  seat 
in  the  vault  of  the  window.  He  opened  this, 
and  to  dissipate  his  thoughts  a  little,  looked  out 
on  the  spangled  sky,  gazed  at  the  corroded 
moon,  and  counted  how  often  the  stars  snuffed 
themselves.  On  the  road  beneath  him  all  was 
void  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  pretended  nightly 
bustle  in  the  inn,  the  doors  were  shut,  the  lights 
out,  and  everything  as  still  as  in  a  sepulchre. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  watchman  blew  his 
horn,  making  his  "List,  gentlemen!"  sound 
over  all  the  hamlet ;  and  for  the  composure  of 
the  timorous  astronomer,  who  still  kept  feasting 
his  eyes  on  the  splendour  of  the  stars,  uplifted 
a  rusty  evening-hymn  right  under  his  window; 
so  that  Franz  might  easily  have  carried  on  a 
conversation  with  him,  which,  for  the  sake  of 
company,  he  would  willingly  have  done,  had 
he  in  the  least  expected  that  the  watchman 
would  make  answer  to  him. 

In  a  populous  city,  in  the  middle  of  a  numer- 
ous household,  where  there  is  a  hubbub  equal 
to  that  of  a  bee-hive,  it  may  form  a  pleasant 
entertainment  for  the  thinker  to  philosophize 
on  Solitude,  to  decorate  her  as  the  loveliest 
playmate  of  the  human  spirit,  to  view  her  un- 
der all  her  advantageous  aspects,  and  long  for 
her  enjoyment  as  for  hidden  treasure.  But  in 
scenes,  where  she  is  no  exotic,  in  the  isle  of 
Juan  Fernandez,  where  a  solitary  eremite, 
escaped  from  shipwreck,  lives  with  her  through 
long  years;  or  in  the  dreary  night-time,  in  a 
deep  wood,  or  in  an  old  uninhabited  castle, 
where  empty  walls  and  vaults  awaken  horror, 
and  nothing  breathes  of  life,  but  the  moping 
owl  in  the  ruinous  turret ;  there,  in  good  sooth, 
she  is  not  the  most  agreeable  companion  for  the 
timid  anchorite  that  has  to  pass  his  time  in  her 
abode,  especially  if  he  is  every  moment  looking 
for  the  entrance  of  a  spectre  to  augment  the 
party.  In  such  a  case  it  may  easily  chance  that 
a  window  conversation  with  the  watchman 
shall  afford  a  richer  entertainment  for  the  spirit 
and  the  heart,  than  a  reading  of  the  most  attrac- 
tive eulogy  on  solitude.  If  Ritter  Zimmerman 
had  been  in  Franz's  place,  in  the  castle  of 
Rummelsburg,  on  the  Westphalian  marches,  he 
would  doubtless  in  this  position  have  struck  out 
the  fundamental  topics  of  as  interesting  a  trea- 
tise on  Society,  as,  inspired  to  all  appearance  by 
the  irksomeness  of  some  ceremonious  assembly, 
he  has  poured  out  from  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
in  praise  of  Solitude. 

Midnight  is  the  hour  at  which  the  world  of 


MUS  A  US. 


173 


spirits  acquires  activity  and  life,  when  hebe- 
tated animal  nature  lies  entombed  in  deep  slum- 
ber. Franz  inclined  getting  through  this  critical 
hour  in  sleep  rather  than  awake;  so  he  closed 
his  window,  went  the  rounds  of  his  room  once 
more,  spying  every  nook  and  crevice,  to  see 
whether  all  was  safe  and  earthly,  snuffed  the 
lights  to  make  them  burn  clearer  ;  and  without 
undressing  or  delaying,  threw  himself  upon  his 
bed,  with  which  his  wearied  person  felt  unusual 
satisfaction.  Yet  he  could  not  get  asleep  so  fast 
as  he  wished.  A  slight  palpitation  at  the  heart, 
which  he  ascribed  to  a  tumult  in  the  blood, 
arising  from  the  sultriness  of  the  day.  kept  him 
waking  for  a  while  ;  and  he  failed  not  to  employ 
this  respite  in  offering  up  such  a  pithy  evening 
prayer,  as  he  had  not  prayed  for  many  years. 
This  produced  the  usual  effect,  that  he  softly 
fell  asleep  while  saying  it. 

After  about  an  hour,  as  he  supposed,  he 
started  up  with  a  sudden  terror  ;  a  thing  not  at 
all  surprising  when  there  is  tumult  in  the  blood. 
He  was  broad  awake :  he  listened  whether  all 
was  quiet,  and  heard  nothing  but  the  clock 
strike  twelve ;  a  piece  of  news  which  the  watch- 
man forthwith  communicated  to  the  hamlet  in 
doleful  recitative.  Franz  listened  for  a  while, 
turned  on  the  other  side,  and  was  again  about 
to  sleep,  when  he  caught,  as  it  were,  the  sound 
of  a  door  grating  in  the  distance,  and  imme- 
diately it  shut  with  a  stifled  bang.  "Alack! 
Alack!"  bawled  Fright  into  his  ear;  "this  is 
the  Ghost  in  very  deed!"  —  "Tis  nothing  but 
the  wind,"  said  Courage  manfully.  But  quickly 
it  came  nearer,  nearer,  like  the  sound  of  heavy 
footsteps.  Clink  here,  clink  there,  as  if  a  cri- 
minal were  rattling  his  irons,  or  as  if  the  porter 
were  walking  about  the  Castle  with  his  bunch 
of  keys.  Alas,  here  was  no  wind  business! 
Courage  held  his  peace  ;  and  quaking  Fear  drove 
all  the  blood  to  the  heart,  and  made  it  thump 
like  a  smith's  forehammer. 

The  thing  was  now  beyond  jesting.  If  Fear 
would  still  have  let  Courage  get  a  word,  the 
latter  would  have  put  the  terror-struck  watcher 
in  mind  of  his  subsidiary  treaty  with  Mine  Host, 
and  incited  him  to  claim  the  stipulated  assist- 
ance loudly  from  the  window;  but  for  this  there 
was  a  want  of  proper  resolution.  The  quaking 
Franz  had  recourse  to  the  bed-clothes,  the  last 
fortress  of  the  timorous,  and  drew  them  close 
over  his  ears,  as  Bird  Ostrich  sticks  his  head  in 
the  grass,  when  he  can  no  longer  escape  the 
huntsman.  Outside  it  came  along,  door  up, 
door  to,  with  hideous  uproar ;  and  at  last  it 
reached  the  bed-room.  It  jerked  sharply  at  the 
lock,  tried  several  keys  till  it  found  the  right 
one ;  yet  the  bar  still  held  the  door,  till  a  bounce 
like  a  thunderclap  made  bolt  and  rivet  start, 
and  threw  it  wide  open.  Now  stalked  in  a 
long  lean  man,  with  a  black  beard,  in  ancient 
garb,  and  with  a  gloomy  countenance,  his  eye- 
brows hanging  down  in  deep  earnestness  from 
his  brow.  Over  his  right  shoulder  he  had  a 
scarlet  cloak  ;  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  peaked 


hat.  With  a  heavy  step,  he  walked  thrice  in 
silence  up  and  down  the  chamber;  looked  at 
the  consecrated  tapers,  and  snuffed  them  that 
they  might  burn  brighter.  Then  he  threw  aside 
his  cloak,  girded  on  a  scissor-pouch  which  he 
had  under  it,  produced  a  set  of  shaving-tackle, 
and  immediately  began  to  whet  a  sharp  razor 
on  the  broad  strap  which  he  wore  at  his 
girdle. 

Franz  perspired  in  mortal  agony  under  his 
coverlet;  recommended  himself  to  the  keeping 
of  the  Virgin;  and  anxiously  speculated  on  the 
object  of  this  manoeuvre,  not  knowing  whether 
it  was  meant  for  his  throat  or  his  beard.  To 
his  comfort,  the  Goblin  poured  some  water  from 
a  silver  flask  into  a  basin  of  silver,  and  with  his 
skinny  hand  lathered  the  soap  into  light  foam ; 
then  set  a  chair,  and  beckoned  with  a  solemn 
look  to  the  quaking  looker-on  to  come  forth  from 
his  recess. 

Against  so  pertinent  a  sign,  remonstrance  was 
as  bootless  as  it  is  against  the  rigorous  commands 
of  the  Grand  Turk,  when  he  transmits  an  exiled 
vizier  to  the  Angel  of  Death,  the  Capichi  Bashi 
with  the  Silken  Cord,  to  take  delivery  of  his 
head.  The  most  rational  procedure  that  can 
be  adopted  in  this  critical  case,  is  to  comply 
with  necessity,  put  a  good  face  on  a  bad  busi- 
ness, and  with  stoical  composure  let  one's  throat 
be  noosed.  Franz  honoured  the  Spectre's  order  ; 
the  coverlet,  began  to  move,  he  sprang  sharply 
from  his  couch,  and  took  the  place  pointed  out 
to  him  on  the  seat.  However  strange  this  quick 
transition  from  the  uttermost  terror  to  the  boldest 
resolution  may  appear,  I  doubt  not  but  Moritz 
in  his  Psychological  Journal  could  explain  the 
matter  till  it  seemed  quite  natural. 

Immediately  the  Goblin  Barber  tied  the  towel 
about  his  shivering  customer ;  seized  the  comb 
and  scissors,  and  clipped  off  his  hair  and  beard. 
Then  he  soaped  him  scientifically,  first  the  beard, 
next  the  eye-brows,  at  last  the  temples  and  the 
hind-head  ;  and  shaved  him  from  throat  to  nape, 
as  smooth  and  bald  as  a  Death's-head.  This 
operation  finished,  he  washed  his  head,  dried 
it  clean,  made  his  bow,  and  buttoned  up  his 
scissor-pouch  ;  wrapped  himself  in  his  scarlet 
mantle,  and  made  for  departing.  The  conse- 
crated tapers  had  burnt  with  an  exquisite  bright- 
ness through  the  whole  transaction;  and  Franz, 
by  the  light  of  them,  perceived  in  the  mirror 
that  the  shaver  had  changed  him  into  a  Chinese 
pagoda.  In  secret  he  heartily  deplored  the  loss 
of  his  fair  brown  locks;  yet  now  took  fresh 
breath,  as  he  observed  that  with  this  sacrifice 
the  account  was  settled,  and  the  Ghost  had  no 
more  power  over  him. 

So  it  was  in  fact;  Redcloak  went  towards 
the  door,  silently  as  he  had  entered,  without 
salutation  or  good-b'ye  ;  and  seemed  entirely  the 
contrast  of  his  talkative  guild -brethren.  But 
scarcely  was  he  gone  three  steps,  when  he 
paused,  looked  round  with  a  mournful  expres- 
sion at  his  well -served  customer,  and  stroked 
the  flat  of  his  hand  over  his  black  bushy  beard. 
13* 


174 


MUS  AUS. 


He  did  die  same  a  second  time;  and  again,  just 
as  he  was  in  the  act  of  stepping  out  at  the  door. 
A  thought  struck  Franz  that  the  Spectre  wanted 
something;  and  a  rapid  combination  of  ideas 
suggested,  that  perhaps  he  was  expecting  the 
very  service  he  himself  had  just  performed. 

As  the  Ghost,  notwithstanding  his  rueful  look, 
seemed  more  disposed  for  banter  than  for  se- 
riousness, and  bad  played  his  guest  a  scurvy 
trick,  not  done  him  any  real  injury,  the  panic 
of  the  latter  had  now  almost  subsided.  So  he 
ventured  the  experiment,  and  beckoned  to  the 
Ghost  to  take  the  seat  from  which  he  had  him- 
self just  risen.  The  Goblin  instantly  obeyed, 
threw  ofF  his  cloak,  laid  his  barber  tackle  on  the 
table,  and  placed  himself  in  the  chair,  in  the 
posture  of  a  man  that  wishes  to  be  shaved. 
Franz  carefully  observed  the  same  procedure 
which  the  Spectre  had  observed  to  him,  clipped 
his  beard  with  the  scissors,  cropt  away  his  hair, 
lathered  his  whole  scalp,  and  the  Ghost  all  the 
while  sat  steady  as  a  wig-block.  The  awkward 
journeyman  came  ill  at  handling  the  razor ;  he 
had  never  had  another  in  his  hand ;  and  he  shore 
the  beard  right  against  the  hair ;  whereat  the 
Goblin  made  as  strange  grimaces  as  Erasmus's 
Ape,  when  imitating  its  master's  shaving.  Nor 
was  the  unpractised  bungler  himself  well  at 
ease,  and  he  thought  more  than  once  of  the  sage 
aphorism,  What  is  not  thy  trade  make  not  thy 
business ;  yet  he  struggled  through  the  task,  the 
best  way  he  could,  and  scraped  the  Ghost  as 
bald  as  he  himself  was. 

Hitherto  the  scene  between  the  Spectre  and 
the  traveller  had  been  played  pantomimically ; 
the  action  now  became  dramatic.  "  Stranger," 
said  the  Ghost,  "  accept  my  thanks  for  the  ser- 
vice thou  hast  done  me.  By  thee  I  am  delivered 
from  the  long  imprisonment,  which  has  chained 
me  for  three  hundred  years  within  these  walls ; 
to  which  my  departed  soul  was  doomed,  till  a 
mortal  hand  should  consent  to  retaliate  on  me 
what  I  practised  on  others  in  my  lifetime. 

"  Know  that  of  old  a  reckless  scorner  dwelt 
within  this  tower,  who  took  his  sport  on  priests 
as  well  as  laics.  Count  Hardman,  such  his 
name,  was  no  philanthropist,  acknowledged  no 
superior  and  no  law,  but  practised  vain  caprice 
and  waggery,  regarding  not  the  sacredness  of 
hospitable  rights:  the  wanderer  who  came  be- 
neath his  roof,  the  needy  man  who  asked  a  cha- 
ritable alms  of  him,  he  never  sent  away  unvi- 
sited  by  wicked  joke.  I  was  his  Castle  Barber, 
still  a  willing  instrument,  and  did  whatever 
pleased  him.  Many  a  pious  pilgrim,  journeying 
past  us,  I  allured  with  friendly  speeches  to  the 
hall;  prepared  the  bath  for  him,  and  when  he 
thought  to  take  good  comfort,  shaved  him  smooth 
and  bald,  and  packed  him  out  of  doors.  Then 
would  Count  Hardman,  looking  from  the  win- 
dow, see  with  pleasure  how  the  foxes'  whelps 
of  children  gathered  from  the  hamlet  to  assail 
the  outcast,  and  to  cry  as  once  their  fellows  to 
Elijah:  'Baldhead!  Baldhead !'  In  this  the 
scoffer  took  his  pleasure,  laughing  with  a  devil- 


ish joy,  till  he  would  hold  his  pot-paunch,  and 
his  eyes  ran  down  with  water. 

"Once  came  a  saintly  man,  from  foreign 
lands  ;  he  carried,  like  a  penitent,  a  heavy  cross 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  had  stamped  five  nail- 
marks  on  his  hands,  and  feet,  and  side ;  upon 
his  head  there  was  a  ring  of  hair  like  to  the 
Crown  of  Thorns.  He  called  upon  us  here,  re- 
questing water  for  his  feet,  and  a  small  crust  of 
bread.  Immediately  I  took  him  to  the  bath,  to 
serve  him  in  my  common  way ;  respected  not 
the  sacred  ring,  but  shore  it  clean  from  off  him. 
Then  the  pious  pilgrim  spoke  a  heavy  malison 
upon  me :  '  Know,  accursed  man,  that  when 
thou  diest,  Heaven,  and  Hell,  and  Purgatory's 
iron  gate,  are  shut  against  thy  soul.  As  goblin 
it  shall  rage  within  these  walls,  till  unrequired, 
unbid,  a  traveller  come  and  exercise  retaliation 
on  thee.' 

"  That  hour  I  sickened,  and  the  marrow  in 
my  bones  dried  up  ;  I  faded  like  a  shadow.  My 
spirit  left  the  wasted  carcase,  and  was  exiled  to 
this  Castle,  as  the  saint  had  doomed  it.  In  vain 
I  struggled  for  deliverance  from  the  torturing 
bonds  that  fettered  me  to  Earth ;  for  thou  must 
know,  that  when  the  soul  forsakes  her  clay,  she 
panteth  for  her  place  of  rest,  and  this  sick  long- 
ing spins  her  years  to  aeons,  while  in  foreign 
elements  she  languishes  for  home.  Now  self- 
tormenting,  I  pursued  the  mournful  occupation 
I  had  followed  in  my  lifetime.  Alas !  my  up- 
roar soon  made  desolate  this  house  !  But  seldom 
came  a  pilgrim  here  to  lodge.  And  though  I 
treated  all  like  thee,  no  one  would  understand 
me,  and  perform,  as  thou,  the  service  which  has 
freed  my  soul  from  bondage.  Henceforth  shall 
no  hobgoblin  wander  in  this  Castle ;  I  return  to 
my  long-wished-for  rest.  And  now,  young  stran- 
ger, once  again  my  thanks,  that  thou  hast  loosed 
me !  Were  I  keeper  of  deep-hidden  treasures, 
they  were  thine  ;  but  wealth  in  life  was  not  my 
lot,  nor  in  this  Castle  lies  there  any  cash  en- 
tombed. Yet  mark  my  counsel.  Tarry  here 
till  beard  and  locks  again  shall  cover  chin  and 
scalp ;  then  turn  thee  homewards  to  thy  native 
town ;  and  on  the  Weser-bridge  of  Bremen,  at 
the  time  when  day  and  night  in  Autumn  are 
alike,  wait  for  a  Friend,  who  there  will  meet 
thee,  who  will  tell  thee  what  to  do,  that  it  be 
well  with  thee  on  Earth.  If  from  the  golden 
horn  of  plenty,  blessing  and  abundance  flow  to 
thee,  then  think  of  me ;  and  ever  as  the  day 
thou  freedst  me  from  the  curse  comes  round, 
cause  for  my  soul's  repose  three  masses  to  be 
said.  Now  fare  thee  well.  I  go,  no  more  re- 
turning."* 

With  these  words  the  Ghost,  having  by  his 
copiousness  of  talk  satisfactorily  attested  his  for- 
mer existence  as  court-barber  in  the  Castle  of 
Rummelsburg,  vanished  into  air,  and  left  his 
deliverer  full  of  wonder  at  the  strange  adven- 

*  I  know  not  whether  the  reader  has  observed  that  our 
Author  makes  the  Spectre  speak  in  iambics,  a  whim  which 
here  and  there  comes  over  him  in  other  tales  also.—  Wie- 
land. 


MUSAUS. 


lib 


ture.  He  stood  for  a  long  while  motionless  ;  in 
doubt  whether  the  whole  matter  had  actually- 
happened,  or  an  unquiet  dream  had  deluded 
his  senses ;  but  his  bald  head  convinced  him 
that  here  had  been  a  real  occurrence.  He  re- 
turned to  bed,  and  slept,  after  the  fright  he  had 
undergone,  till  the  hour  of  noon.  The  treacher- 
ous Landlord  had  been  watching  since  morning, 
when  the  traveller  with  the  scalp  was  to  come 
forth,  that  he  might  receive  him  with  jibing 
speeches  under  pretext  of  astonishment  at  his 
nocturnal  adventure.  But  as  the  stranger  loitered 
too  long,  and  mid-day  was  approaching,  the 
affair  became  serious ;  and  Mine  Host  began  to 
dread  that  the  Goblin  might  have  treated  his 
guest  a  little  harshly,  have  beaten  him  to  a  jelly 
perhaps,  or  so  frightened,  him  that  he  had  died 
of  terror ;  and  to  carry  his  wanton  revenge  to 
such  a  length  as  this  had  not  been  his  intention. 
He  therefore  rung  his  people  together,  hastened 
out  with  man  and  maid  to  the  tower,  and  reach- 
ed the  door  of  the  apartment  where  he  had 
observed  the  light  on  the  previous  evening.  He 
found  an  unknown  key  in  the  lock ;  but  the  door 
was  barred  within,  for  after  the  disappearance 
of  the  Goblin,  Franz  had  again  secured  it.  He 
knocked  with  a  perturbed  violence,  till  the  Se- 
ven Sleepers  themselves  would  have  awoke  at 
the  din.  Franz  started  up,  and  thought  in  his 
first  confusion  that  the  Ghost  was  again  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  to  favour  him  with  another  call. 
But  hearing  Mine  Host's  voice,  who  required 
nothing  more  but  that  his  guest  would  give  some 
sign  of  life,  he  gathered  himself  up  and  opened 
the  room. 

With  seeming  horror  at  the  sight  of  him,  Mine 
Host,  striking  his  hands  together,  exclaimed : 
"By  Heaven  and  all  the  saints!  Redcloak"  (by 
this  name  the  Ghost  was  known  among  them) 
"has  been  here,  and  has  shaved  you  bald  as  a 
block!  Now,  it  is  clear  as  day  that  the  old  story 
is  no  fable.  But  tell  me  how  looked  the  Goblin  : 
what  did  he  say  to  you1?  what  did  he  do?" 

Franz,  who  had  now  seen  through  the  ques- 
tioner, made  answer  :  "  The  Goblin  looked  like 
a  man  in  a  red  cloak ;  what  he  did  is  not  hidden 
from  you,  and  what  he  said  I  well  remember: 
1  Stranger,'  said  he,  '  trust  no  innkeeper  who  is 
a  Turk  in  grain.  What  would  befall  thee  here 
he  knew.  Be  wise  and  happy.  I  withdraw 
from  this  my  ancient  dwelling,  for  my  time  is 
run.  Henceforth  no  goblin  riots  here;  I  now 
become  a  silent  Incubus,  to  plague  the  Landlord  ; 
nip  him,  tweak  him,  harass  him,  unless  the 
Turk  do  expiate  his  sin ;  do  freely  give  thee 
prog  and  lodging  till  brown  locks  again  shall 
cluster  round  thy  head.''* 

The  Landlord  shuddered  at  these  words,  cut 
a  large  cross  in  the  air  before  him,  vowed  by 
the  Holy  Virgin  to  give  the  traveller  free  board 
so  long  as  he  liked  to  continue,  led  him  over  to 
his  house,  and  treated  him  with  the  best.  By 


*  Here,  too,  on  the  spectre's  score,  Franz  makes  extem- 
pore iambics.—  Wieland. 


this  adventure,  Franz  had  well  nigh  got  the  re- 
putation of  a  conjurer,  as  the  spirit  thenceforth 
never  once  showed  face.  He  often  passed  the 
night  in  the  tower ;  and  a  desperado  of  the  vil- 
lage once  kept  him  company,  without  having 
beard  or  scalp  disturbed.  The  owner  of  the 
place,  having  learned  that  Redcloak  no  longer 
walked  in  Rummelsburg,  was,  of  course,  de- 
lighted at  the  news,  and  ordered  that  the  stran- 
ger, who,  as  he  supposed,  had  laid  him,  should 
be  well  taken  care  of. 

By  the  time  when  the  clusters  were  beginning 
to  be  coloured  on  the  vine,  and  the  advancing 
autumn  reddened  the  apples,  Franz's  brown 
locks  were  again  curling  over  his  temples,  and 
he  girded  up  his  knapsack;  for  all  his  thoughts 
and  meditations  were  turned  upon  the  Weser- 
bridge,  to  seek  the  Friend,  who,  at  the  behest 
of  the  Goblin  Barber,  was  to  direct  him  how  to 
make  his  fortune.  When  about  taking  leave  of 
Mine  Host,  that  charitable  person  led  from  his 
stable  a  horse  well  saddled  and  equipt,  which 
the  owner  of  the  Castle  had  presented  to  the 
stranger,  for  having  made  his  house  again  habit- 
able ;  nor  had  the  Count  forgot  to  send  a  suffi- 
cient purse  along  with  it,  to  bear  its  travelling 
charges;  and  so  Franz  came  riding  back  into 
his  native  city,  brisk  and  light  of  heart,  as  he 
had  ridden  out  of  it  twelve  months  ago.  He 
sought  out  his  old  quarters  in  the  alley,  but 
kept  himself  quite  still  and  retired ;  only  in- 
quiring underhand  how  matters  stood  with  the 
fair  Meta,  whether  she  was  still  alive  and  un- 
wedded.  To  this  inquiry  he  received  a  satis- 
factory answer,  and  contented  himself  with  it 
in  the  meanwhile;  for,  till  his  fate  were  de- 
cided, he  would  not  risk  appearing  in  her  sight, 
or  making  known  to  her  his  arrival  in  Bremen. 

With  unspeakable  longing,  he  waited  the 
equinox ;  his  impatience  made  every  interven- 
ing day  a  year.  At  last  the  long-wished-for  term 
appeared.  The  night  before,  he  could  not  close 
an  eye,  for  thinking  of  the  wonders  that  were 
coming.  The  blood  was  whirling  and  beating 
in  his  arteries,  as  it  had  done  at  the  Castle  of 
Rummelsburg,  when  he  lay  in  expectation  of 
his  spectre  visitant.  To  be  sure  of  not  missing 
his  expected  Friend,  he  rose  by  day-break,  and 
proceeded  with  the  earliest  dawn  to  the  Weser- 
bridge,  which  as  yet  stood  empty,  and  untrod 
by  passengers.  He  walked  along  it  several 
times  in  solitude,  with  that  presentiment  of 
coming  gladness,  which  includes  in  it  the  real 
enjoyment  of  all  terrestrial  felicity;  for  it  is  not 
the  attainment  of  our  wishes,  but  the  undoubted 
hope  of  attaining  them,  which  offers  to  the 
human  soul  the  full  measure  of  highest  and 
most  heart-felt  satisfaction.  He  formed  many 
projects  as  to  how  he  should  present  himself  to 
his  beloved  Meta,  when  his  looked-for  happi- 
ness should  have  arrived  ;  whether  it  would  be 
better  to  appear  before  her  in  full  splendour,  or 
to  mount  from  his  former  darkness  with  the 
first  gleam  of  morning  radiance,  and  discover 
to  her  by  degrees  the  change  in  his  condition. 


176 


MUSAUS. 


Curiosity,  moreover,  put  a  thousand  questions 
to  Reason  in  regard  to  the  adventure.  Who  can 
the  Friend  he  that  is  to  meet  me  on  the  Weser- 
bridgel  Will  it  he  one  of  my  old  acquaintances, 
by  whom,  since  my  ruin,  I  have  been  entirely 
forgotten?  How  will  he  pave  the  way  to  me 
for  happiness?  And  will  this  way  be  short  or 
long,  easy  or  toilsome?  To  the  whole  of  which 
Reason,  in  spite  of  all  her  thinking  and  specu- 
lating, answered  not  a  word. 

In  about  an  hour,  the  Bridge  began  to  get 
awake;  there  was  riding,  driving,  walking  to 
and  fro  on  it;  and  much  commercial  ware 
passing  this  way  and  that.  The  usual  day- 
guard  of  beggars  and  importunate  persons  also 
by  degrees  took  up  this  post,  so  favourable  for 
their  trade,  to  levy  contributions  on  the  public 
benevolence ;  for  of  poor-houses  and  work- 
houses, the  wisdom  of  the  legislature  had  as 
yet  formed  no  scheme.  The  first  of  the  tatter- 
ed cohort  that  applied  for  alms  to  the  jovial 
promenader,  from  whose  eyes  gay  hope  laughed 
forth,  was  a  discharged  soldier,  provided  with 
the  military  badge  of  a  timber  leg,  which  had 
been  lent  him,  seeing  he  had  fought  so  stoutly 
in  former  days  for  his  native  country,  as  the 
recompense  of  his  valour,  with  the  privilege  of 
begging  where  he  pleased;  and  who  now,  in 
the  capacity  of  physiognomist,  pursued  the 
study  of  man  upon  the  Weser-bridge,  with  such 
success,  that  he  very  seldom  failed  in  his  at- 
tempts for  charity.  Nor  did  his  exploratory 
glance  in  anywise  mislead  him  in  the  present 
instance;  for  Franz,  in  the  joy  of  his  heart, 
threw  a  white  engelgroschen  into  the  cripple's 
hat. 

During  the  morning  hours,  when  none  but 
the  laborious  artisan  is  busy,  and  the  more 
exalted  townsman  still  lies  in  sluggish  rest,  he 
scarcely  looked  for  his  promised  Friend;  he 
expected  him  in  the  higher  classes,  and  took 
little  notice  of  the  present  passengers.  About 
the  council-hour,  however,  when  the  Proceres 
of  Bremen  were  driving  past  to  the  hall,  in 
their  gorgeous  robes  of  office,  and  about  ex- 
change-time, he  wras  all  eye  and  ear;  he  spied 
the  passengers  from  afar ;  and  when  a  right 
man  came  along  the  bridge,  his  blood  began  to 
flutter,  and  he  thought  here  was  the  creator  of 
his  fortune.  Meanwhile  hour  after  hour  passed 
on  ;  the  sun  rose  high ;  ere  long  the  noontide 
brought  a  pause  in  business ;  the  rushing  crowd 
faded  away ;  and  still  the  expected  Friend  ap- 
peared not.  Franz  now  walked  up  and  down 
the  Bridge  quite  alone;  had  no  society  in  view 
but  the  beggars,  who  were  serving  out  their 
cold  collations,  without  moving  from  the  place. 
He  made  no  scruple  to  do  the  same ;  and,  not 
being  furnished  with  provisions,  he  purchased 
some  fruit,  and  took  his  dinner  inter  ambulan- 
dum. 

The  whole  club  that  was  dining  on  the 
Weser-bridge  had  remarked  the  young  man, 
watching  here  from  early  morning  till  noon, 
without  addressing  any  one,  or  doing  any  sort 


of  business.  They  held  him  to  be  a  lounger; 
and  though  all  of  them  had  tasted  his  bounty, 
he  did  not  escape  their  critical  remarks.  In 
jest,  they  had  named  him  the  Bridge-bailiff. 
The  physiognomist  with  the  timber-toe,  how- 
ever, noticed  that  his  countenance  was  not  now 
so  gay  as  in  the  morning;  he  appeared  to  be 
reflecting  earnestly  on  something;  he  had  drawn 
his  hat  close  over  his  face  ;  his  movement  was 
slow  and  thoughtful  ;  he  had  nibbled  at  an  ap- 
ple-rind for  some  time,  without  seeming  to  be 
conscious  that  he  was  doing  so.  From  this  ap- 
pearance of  affairs,  the  man-spier  thought  he 
might  extract  some  profit;  therefore  he  put  his 
wooden  and  his  living  leg  in  motion,  and  stilted 
off  to  the  other  end  of  the  Bridge,  and  lay  in 
wait  for  the  thinker,  that  he  might  assail  him, 
under  the  appearance  of  a  new  arrival,  for  a 
fresh  alms.  This  invention  prospered  to  the 
full :  the  musing  philosopher  gave  no  heed  to 
the  mendicant,  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
mechanically,  and  threw  a  six-groat  piece  into 
the  fellow's  hat,  to  be  rid  of  him. 

In  the  afternoon,  a  thousand  new  faces  once 
more  came  abroad.  The  watcher  was  now 
tired  of  his  unknown  Friend's  delaying,  yet 
hope  still  kept  his  attention  on  the  stretch.  He 
stept  into  the  view  of  every  passenger,  hoped 
that  one  of  them  would  clasp  him  in  his  arms; 
but  all  proceeded  coldly  on  their  way  ;  the  most 
did  not  observe  him  at  all,  and  few  returned 
his  salute  with  a  slight  nod.  The  sun  was 
already  verging  to  decline,  the  shadows  were 
becoming  longer,  the  crowd  upon  the  Bridge 
diminished;  and  the  beggar-piquet  by  degrees 
drew  back  into  their  barracks  in  the  Matten- 
burg.  A  deep  sadness  sank  upon  the  hopeless 
Franz,  when  he  saw  his  expectation  mocked, 
and  the  lordly  prospect  which  had  lain  before 
him  in  the  morning,  vanish  from  his  eyes  at 
evening.  He  fell  into  a  sort  of  sulky  despera- 
tion ;  was  on  the  point  of  springing  over  the 
parapet,  and  dashing  himself  down  from  the 
Bridge  into  the  river.  But  the  thought  of  Meta 
kept  him  back,  and  induced  him  to  postpone 
his  purpose  till  he  had  seen  her  yet  once  more. 
He  resolved  to  watch  next  day  when  she  should 
go  to  church,  for  the  last  time  to  drink  delight 
from  her  looks,  and  then  forthwith  to  still  his 
warm  love  for  ever  in  the  cold  stream  of  the 
Weser. 

While  about  to  leave  the  Bridge,  he  was  met 
by  the  invalided  pikeman  with  the  wooden  leg, 
who,  for  pastime,  had  been  making  many 
speculations  as  to  what  could  be  the  young 
man's  object,  that  had  made  him  watch  upon 
the  Bridge  from  dawn  to  darkness.  He  him- 
self had  lingered  beyond  his  usual  time,  that  he 
might  wait  him  out ;  but  as  the  matter  hung  too 
long  upon  the  pegs,  curiosity  incited  him  to  turn 
to  the  youth  himself,  and  question  him  respect- 
ing it. 

"  No  offence,  young  gentleman,1'  said  he : 
"allow  me  to  ask  you  a  question." 

Franz,  who  was  not  in  a  very  talking  humour, 


MUSAUS. 


177 


and  was  now  meeting,  from  the  mouth  of  a 
cripple,  the  address  which  he  had  looked  for 
with  such  longing  from  a  friend,  answered 
rather  testily:  "  Well,  then,  what  is  it?  Speak, 
old  gray  beard !" 

"We  two,"  said  the  other,  "were  the  first 
upon  the  Bridge  to-day,  and  now,  you  see,  we 
are  the  last.  As  to  me  and  others  of  my  kidney, 
it  is  our  vocation  brings  us  hither,  our  trade  of 
alms-gathering;  but  for  you,  in  sooth  you  are 
not  of  our  guild  ;  yet  you  have  watched  here 
the  whole  blessed  day.  Now  I  pray  you,  tell 
me,  if  it  is  not  a  secret,  what  it  is  that  brings 
you  hither  ;  or  what  stone  is  lying  on  your  heart, 
that  you  wished  to  roll  away." 

"  What  good  were  it  to  thee,  old  blade,"  said 
Franz,  bitterly,  "  to  know  where  the  shoe  pinches 
me,  or  what  concern  is  lying  on  my  heart  ?  It 
will  give  thee  small  care." 

"  Sir,  I  have  a  kind  wish  towards  you,  be- 
cause you  opened  your  hand  to  me,  and  twice 
gave  me  alms,  for  which  God  reward  you;  but 
your  countenance  at  night  was  not  so  cheerful 
as  in  the  morning,  and  that  grieves  my  heart." 

The  kindly  sympathy  of  this  old  warrior 
pleased  the  misanthrope,  so  that  he  willingly 
pursued  the  conversation. 

"  Why,  then,"  answered  he,  "  if  thou  wouldst 
know  what  has  made  me  battle  here  all  day 
with  tedium,  thou  must  understand  that  I  was 
waiting  for  a  Friend,  who  appointed  me  hither, 
and  now  leaves  me  to  expect  in  vain." 

"  Under  favour,"  answered  Timbertoe,  "  if  I 
might  speak  my  mind,  this  Friend  of  yours,  be  he 
who  he  like,  is  little  better  than  a  rogue,  to  lead 
you  such  a  dance.  If  he  treated  me  so,  by  my 
faith,  his  crown  should  get  acquainted  with  my 
crutch  next  time  we  met.  If  he  could  not  keep 
bis  word,  he  should  have  let  you  know,  and  not 
bamboozled  you  as  if  you  were  a  child." 

"  Yet  I  cannot  altogether  blame  this  Friend," 
said  Franz,  "  for  being  absent :  he  did  not  pro- 
mise ;  it  was  but  a  dream  that  told  me  I  should 
meet  him  here." 

The  goblin  tale  was  too  long  for  him  to  tell, 
so  he  veiled  it  under  cover  of  a  dream. 

"Ah!  that  is  another  story,"  said  the  beggar; 
"if  you  build  on  dreams,  it  is  little  wonder  that 
your  hope  deceives  you.  I  myself  have  dream- 
ed much  foolish  stuff  in  my  time;  but  I  was 
never  such  a  madman  as  to  heed  it.  Had  I  all 
the  treasures  that  have  been  allotted  to  me  in 
dreams,  I  might  buy  the  city  of  Bremen,  were 
it  sold  by  auction.  But  I  never  credited  a  jot 
of  them,  or  stirred  hand  or  foot  to  prove  their 
worth  or  worthlessness :  I  knew  well  it  would 
be  lost.  Ha !  I  must  really  laugh  in  your  face, 
to  think  that  on  the  order  of  an  empty  dream, 
you  have  squandered  a  fair  day  of  your  life, 
which  you  might  have  spent  better  at  a  merry 
banquet." 

"  The  issue  shows  that  thou  art  right,  old 
man,  and  that  dreams  many  times  deceive. 
But,"  continued  Franz,  defensively,  "  I  dreamed 
so  vividly  and  circumstantially,  above  three 
x 


months  ago,  that  on  this  very  day,  in  this  very 
place,  I  should  meet  a  Friend,  who  would  tell 
me  things  of  the  deepest  importance,  that  it 
was  well  worth  while  to  come  and  see  if  it  would 
come  to  pass." 

"0,  as  for  vividness,"  said  Timbertoe,  "no 
man  can  dream  more  vividly  than  I.  There  is 
one  dream  I  had,  which  I  shall  never  in  my 
life  forget.  I  dreamed,  who  knows  how  many 
years  ago,  that  my  Guardian  Angel  stood  before 
my  bed  in  the  figure  of  a  youth,  with  golden 
hair,  and  two  silver  wings  on  his  back,  and  said 
to  me :  *  Berthold,  listen  to  the  words  of  my 
mouth,  that  none  of  them  be  lost  from  thy  heart. 
There  is  a,  treasure  appointed  thee,  which  thou 
shalt  dig,  to  comfort  thy  heart  withal  for  the  re- 
maining days  of  thy  life.  To-morrow,  about 
evening,  when  the  sun  is  going  down,  take  spade 
and  shovel  on  thy  shoulder ;  go  forth  from  the 
Mattenburg  on  the  right,  across  the  Tieber,  by 
the  Balkenbrucke,  past  the  Cloister  of  St.  John's, 
and  on  to  the  Great  Roland.*  Then  take  thy 
way  over  the  Court  of  the  Cathedral,  through 
the  Schusselkorb,  till  thou  arrive  without  the 
city  at  a  garden,  which  has  this  mark,  that  a 
stair  of  three  stone  steps  leads  down  from  the 
highway  to  its  gate.  Wait  by  a  side,  in  secret, 
till  the  sickle  of  the  moon  shall  shine  on  thee, 
then  push  with  the  strength  of  a  man  against 
the  weak-barred  gate,  which  will  resist  thee 
little.  Enter  boldly  into  the  garden,  and  turn 
thee  to  the  vine  trellices  which  overhang  the 
covered-walk ;  behind  this,  on  the  left,  a  tall 
apple-tree  overtops  the  lowly  shrubs.  Go  to  the 
trunk  of  this  tree,  thy  face  turned  right  against 
the  moon :  look  three  ells  before  thee  on  the 
ground,  thou  shalt  see  two  cinnamon-rose  bushes ; 
there  strike  in,  and  dig  three  spans  deep,  till 
thou  find  a  stone  plate ;  under  this  lies  the  trea- 
sure, buried  in  an  iron  chest,  full  of  money,  and 
money's  worth.  Though  the  chest  be  heavy  and 
clumsy,  avoid  not  the  labour  of  lifting  it  from 
its  bed ;  it  will  reward  thy  trouble  well,  if  thou 
seek  the  key  which  lies  hid  beneath  it.'  " 

In  astonishment  at  what  he  heard,  Franz 
stared  and  gazed  upon  the  dreamer,  and  could 
not  have  concealed  his  amazement,  had  not  the 
dusk  of  night  been  on  his  side.  By  every  mark 
in  the  description,  he  had  recognized  his  own 
garden,  left  him  by  his  father.  It  had  been  the 
good  man's  hobby  in  his  life ;  but  on  this  ac- 
count had  little  pleased  his  son;  according  to 
the  rule  that  son  and  father  seldom  sympathize 
in  their  favourite  pursuit,  unless  indeed  it  be  a 
vice,  in  which  case,  as  the  adage  runs,  the  apple 
often  falls  at  no  great  distance  from  the  trunk. 
Father  Melchior  had  himself  laid  out  this  gar- 


*  The  rude  figure  of  a  man  in  armour,  usually  erected 
in  the  public  square,  or  market  place  of  old  German 
towns,  is  called  the  Folandsaule,  or  Rutlandsiiule,  from 
its  supposed  reference  to  Roland  the  famous  Peer  of 
Charlemagne.  The  proper  and  ancient  name,  it  seems, 
is  Rugelandsdule,  or  Pillar  of  Judgment ;  and  the  stone 
indicated,  of  old,  that  the  town  possessed  an  independent 
jurisdiction.— .E<Z. 


178 


MUSAUS. 


den,  altogether  to  his  own  taste,  in  a  style  as 
wonderful  and  varied  as  that  of  his  great-great- 
grandson,  who  has  immortalized  his  paradise 
hy  an  original  description  in  Hirschfeldts  Garden- 
Calendar.  He  had  not,  it  is  true,  set  up  in  it 
any  painted  menagerie  for  the  deception  of  the 
eye  ;  but  he  kept  a  very  large  one,  notwithstand- 
ing, of  springing-horses,  winged-lions,  eagles, 
griffins,  unicorns,  and  other  wondrous  beasts, 
all  stamped  on  pure  gold,  which  he  carefully 
concealed  from  every  eye,  and  had  hid  in  their 
iron  case  beneath  the  ground.  This  paternal 
Tempe  the  wasteful  son,  in  the  days  of  his  ex- 
travagance, had  sold  for  an  old  song. 

To  Franz,  the  pikeman  had  at  once  become 
extremely  interesting,  as  he  perceived  that  this 
was  the  very  Friend,  to  whom  the  Goblin  in 
the  Castle  of  Rummelsburg  had  consigned  him. 
Gladly  could  he  have  embraced  the  veteran, 
and  in  the  first  rapture  called  him  friend  and 
father :  but  he  restrained  himself,  and  found  it 
more  advisable  to  keep  his  thoughts  about  this 
piece  of  news  to  himself.  So  he  said:  "Well, 
this  is  what  I  call  a  circumstantial  dream.  But 
what  didst  thou  do,  old  master,  in  the  morning, 
on  awakening?  Didst  thou  not  follow  whither 
thy  Guardian  Angel  beckoned  thee?" 

"  Pooh,"  said  the  dreamer,  "  why  should  I 
toil,  and  have  my  labour  for  my  pains  ?  It  was 
nothing,  after  all,  but  a  mere  dream.  If  my 
Guardian  Angel  had  a  fancy  for  appearing  to 
me,  I  have  had  enow  of  sleepless  nights  in  my 
time,  when  he  might  have  found  me  waking. 
But  he  takes  little  charge  of  me,  I  think,  else  I 
should  not,  to  his  shame,  be  going  hitching  here 
on  a  wooden  leg." 

Franz  took  out  the  last  piece  of  silver  he  had 
on  him:  "There,"  said  he,  "old  father,  take 
this  other  gift  from  me,  to  get  thee  a  pint  of 
wine  for  evening-cup  ;  thy  talk  has  scared  away 
my  ill  humour.  Neglect  not  diligently  to  fre- 
quent this  Bridge  ;  we  shall  see  each  other  here, 
I  hope,  again." 

The  lame  old  man  had  not  gathered  so  rich  a 
stock  of  alms  for  many  a  day,  as  he  was  now 
possessed  of;  he  blessed  his  benefactor  for  his 
kindness,  hopped  away  into  a  drinking-shop,  to 
do  himself  a  good  turn;  while  Franz,  enlivened 
with  new  hope,  hastened  off  to  his  lodging  in 
the  alley. 

Next  day  he  got  in  readiness  everything  that 
is  required  for  treasure-digging.  The  unessential 
equipments,  conjurations,  magic-formulas,  magic- 
girdles,  hieroglyphic  characters,  and  such  like, 
were  entirely  wanting :  but  these  are  not  indis- 
pensable, provided  there  be  no  failure  in  the 
three  main  requisites  :  shovel,  spade,  and  before 
all — a  treasure  underground.  The  necessary 
implements  he  carried  to  the  place  a  little  be- 
fore sunset,  and  hid  them  for  the  meanwhile  in 
a  hedge  ;  and  as  to  the  treasure  itself,  he  had 
the  firm  conviction  that  the  Goblin  in  the  Castle, 
and  the  Friend  on  the  Bridge,  would  prove  no 
liars  to  him.  With  longing  impatience  he  ex- 
pected the  rising  of  the  moon ;  and  no  sooner 


did  she  stretch  her  silver  horns  over  the  bushes, 
than  he  briskly  set  to  work,  observing  exactly 
everything  the  Invalid  had  taught  him;  and 
happily  accomplished  the  raising  of  the  trea- 
sure, without  meeting  any  adventure  in  the  pro- 
cess, without  any  black  dog  having  frightened 
him,  or  any  bluish  flame  having  lighted  him  to 
the  spot. 

Father  Melchior,  in  providently  burying  this 
penny  for  a  rainy  day,  had  nowise  meant  that 
his  son  should  be  deprived  of  so  considerable  a 
part  of  his  inheritance.  The  mistake  lay  in  this, 
that  Death  had  escorted  the  testator  out  of  the 
world  in  another  way  than  said  testator  had 
expected.  He  had  been  completely  convinced, 
that  he  should  take  his  journey,  old  and  full  of 
days,  after  regulating  his  temporal  concerns 
with  all  the  formalities  of  an  ordinary  sick-bed ; 
for  so  it  had  been  prophesied  to  him  in  his 
youth.  In  consequence  he  purposed,  when, 
according  to  the  usage  of  the  Church,  extreme 
unction  should  have  been  dispensed  to  him,  to 
call  his  beloved  son  to  his  bed-side,  having  pre- 
viously dismissed  all  bystanders ;  there  to  give 
him  the  paternal  blessing,  and  by  way  of  fare- 
well memorial  direct  him  to  this  treasure  buried 
in  the  garden.  All  this,  too,  would  have  hap- 
pened in  just  order,  if  the  light  of  the  good  old 
man  had  departed,  like  that  of  a  wick  whose 
oil  is  done;  but  as  Death  had  privily  snuffed 
him  out  at  a  feast,  he  undesignedly  took  along 
with  him  his  Mammon  secret  to  the  grave  ;  and 
almost  as  many  fortunate  concurrences  were 
required  before  the  secreted  patrimony  could 
arrive  at  the  proper  heir,  as  if  it  had  beeti  for- 
warded to  its  address  by  the  hand  of  Justice 
itself. 

With  immeasurable  joy  the  treasure-digger 
took  possession  of  the  shapeless  Spanish  pieces, 
which,  with  a  vast  multitude  of  other  finer 
coins,  the  iron  chest  had  faithfully  preserved. 
When  the  first  intoxication  of  delight  had  in 
some  degree  evaporated,  he  bethought  him  how 
the  treasure  was  to  be  transported,  safe  and 
unobserved,  into  the  narrow  alley.  The  burden 
was  too  heavy  to  be  carried  without  help  ;  thus, 
with  the  possession  of  riches,  all  the  cares  at- 
tendant on  them  were  awakened.  The  new 
Croesus  found  no  better  plan,  than  to  entrust  his 
capital  to  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  tree  that  stood 
behind  the  garden,  in  a  meadow  :  the  empty 
chest  he  again  huried  under  the  rose-bush,  and 
smoothed  the  place  as  well  as  possible.  In  the 
space  of  three  days,  the  treasure  had  been  faith- 
fully transmitted  by  instalments  from  the  hollow 
tree  into  the  narrow  alley;  and  now  the  owner 
of  it  thought  he  might  with  honour  lay  aside  his 
strict  incognito.  He  dressed  himself  with  the 
finest;  had  his  Prayer  displaced  from  the  church; 
and  required,  instead  of  it,  "  a  Christian  Thanks- 
giving for  a  Traveller,  on  returning  to  his  native 
town,  after  happily  arranging  his  affairs."  He 
hid  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  church,  where  he 
could  observe  the  fair  Meta,  without  himself 
being  seen ;  he  turned  not  his  eye  from  the 


MUSAUS. 


179 


maiden,  and  drank  from  her  looks  the  actual 
rapture,  which  in  foretaste  had  restrained  him 
from  the  hrealc-neck  somerset  on  the  Bridge  of 
the  Weser.  When  the  Thanksgiving  came  in 
hand,  a  glad  sympathy  shone  forth  from  all  her 
features,  and  the  cheeks  of  the  virgin  glowed 
with  joy.  The  customary  greeting  on  the  way 
homewards  was  so  full  of  emphasis,  that  even 
to  the  third  party  who  had  noticed  them,  it 
would  have  heen  intelligible. 

Franz  now  appeared  once  more  on  the  Ex- 
change ;  began  a  branch  of  trade,  which  in  a 
few  weeks  extended  to  the  great  scale ;  and  as 
his  wealth  became  daily  more  apparent,  Neigh- 
bour Grudge,  the  scandal-chewer,  was  obliged 
to  conclude,  that  in  the  cashing  of  his  old  debts, 
he  must  have  had  more  luck  than  sense.  He 
hired  a  large  house,  fronting  the  Roland,  in  the 
Market-place ;  engaged  clerks  and  warehouse- 
men, and  carried  on  his  trade  unweariedly. 
Now  the  sorrowful  populace  of  parasites  again 
diligently  handled  the  knocker  of  his  door  ;  ap- 
peared in  crowds,  and  suffocated  him  with 
assurances  of  friendship,  and  joy-wishings  on 
his  fresh  prosperity ;  imagined  they  should  once 
more  catch  him  in  their  robber  claws.  But  ex- 
perience had  taught  him  wisdom  ;  he  paid  them 
in  their  own  coin,  feasted  their  false  friendship 
on  smooth  words,  and  dismissed  them  with 
fasting  stomachs;  which  sovereign  means  for 
scaring  off  the  cumbersome  brood  of  pickthanks 
and  toad-eaters,  produced  the  intended  effect, 
that  they  betook  themselves  elsewhither. 

In  Bremen,  the  remounting  Melcherson  had 
become  the  story  of  the  day ;  the  fortune  which 
in  some  inexplicable  manner  he  had  realized, 
as  was  supposed,  in  foreign  parts,  was  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  all  conversations  at  formal  din- 
ners, in  the  Courts  of  Justice,  and  at  the  Ex- 
change. But  in  proportion  as  the  fame  of  his 
fortune  and  affluence  increased,  the  contented- 
ness  and  peace  of  mind  of  the  fair  Meta  dimin- 
ished. The  friend  in  petto  was  now,  in  her 
opinion,  well  qualified  to  speak  a  plain  word. 
Yet  still  his  Love  continued  Dumb ;  and  except 
the  greeting  on  the  way  from  church,  he  gave 
no  tidings  of  himself.  Even  this  sort  of  visit 
was  becoming  rarer;  and  such  aspects  were 
the  sign  not  of  warm,  but  of  cold  weather  in 
the  atmosphere  of  Love.  Jealousy,*  the  baleful 
Harpy,  fluttered  round  her  little  room  by  night, 
and  when  sleep  was  closing  her  blue  eyes, 
croaked  many  a  dolorous  presage  into  the  ear 
of  the  re-awakened  Meta.  "  Forego  the  flatter- 
ing hope  of  binding  an  inconstant  heart,  which, 
like  a  feather,  is  the  sport  of  every  wind.  He 
loved  thee,  and  was  faithful  to  thee,  while  his 
lot  was  as  thy  own:  like  only  draws  to  like. 
Now  a  propitious  destiny  exalts  the  Changeful 
far  above  thee.  Ah !  now  he  scorns  the  truest 
thoughts  in  mean  apparel,  now  that  pomp,  and 
wealth,  and  splendour  dazzle  him  once  more; 

*  Jealousy,  too,  (at  bottom  a  very  sad  spectre,  but  not 
here  introduced  as  one),  now  croaks  in  iambics,  us  the 
Goblin  Barber  lately  spoke  in  ihem.—Wielaud. 


and  courts,  who  knows  what  haughty  fair  one 
that  disdained  him  when  he  lay  among  the 
pots,  and  now  with  siren  call  allures  him  back 
to  her.  Perhaps  her  cozening  voice  has  turned 
him  from  thee,  speaking  with  false  words:  'For 
thee,  God's  garden  blossoms  in  thy  native  town  : 
friend,  thou  hast  now  thy  choice  of  all  our 
maidens  ;  choose  with  prudence,  not  by  the  eye 
alone.  Of  girls  are  many,  and  of  fathers  many, 
who  in  secret  lie  in  wait  for  thee;  none  will 
withhold  his  darling  daughter.  Take  happiness 
and  honour  with  the  fairest;  likewise  birth  and 
fortune.  The  councillor  dignity  awaits  thee, 
where  vote  of  friends  is  potent  in  the  city.'  " 

These  suggestions  of  Jealousy  disturbed  and 
tormented  her  heart  without  ceasing:  she  re- 
viewed her  fair  contemporaries  in  Bremen, 
estimated  the  ratio  of  so  many  splendid  matches 
to  herself  and  her  circumstances;  and  there- 
suit  was  far  from  favourable.  The  first  tidings 
of  her  lover's  change  of  situation  had  in  secret 
charmed  her ;  not  in  the  selfish  view  of  be- 
coming participatress  in  a  large  fortune  ;  but 
for  her  mother's  sake,  who  had  abdicated  all 
hopes  of  earthly  happiness,  ever  since  the  mar- 
riage project  with  neighbour  Hop-King  had 
made  shipwreck.  But  now  poor  Meta  wished 
that  Heaven  had  not  heard  the  Prayer  of  the 
Church,  or  granted  to  the  traveller  any  such 
abundance  of  success ;  but  rather  kept  him  by 
the  bread  and  salt,  which  he  would  willingly 
have  shared  with  her. 

The  fair  half  of  the  species  are  by  no  means 
calculated  to  conceal  an  inward  care :  Mother 
Brigitta  soon  observed  the  trouble  of  her 
daughter ;  and  without  the  use  of  any  great 
penetration,  likewise  guessed  its  cause.  The 
talk  about  the  re-ascending  star  of  her  former 
flax-negotiator,  who  was  now  celebrated  as  the 
pattern  of  an  orderly,  judicious,  active  trades- 
man, had  not  escaped  her,  any  more  than  the 
feeling  of  the  good  Meta  towards  him  ;  and  it 
was  her  opinion,  that  if  he  loved  in  earnest,  it 
was  needless  to  hang  off  so  long,  without  ex- 
plaining what  he  meant.  Yet  out  of  tender- 
ness to  her  daughter,  she  let  no  hint  of  this  dis- 
covery escape  her;  till  at  length  poor  Meta's 
heart  became  so  full,  that  of  her  own  accord 
she  made  her  mother  the  confident  of  her  sor- 
row, and  disclosed  to  her  its  true  origin.  The 
shrewd  old  lady  learned  little  more  by  this  dis- 
closure than  she  knew  already.  But  it  afforded 
opportunity  to  mother  and  daughter  for  a  full, 
fair,  and  free  discussion  of  this  delicate  affair. 
Brigitta  made  her  no  reproaches  on  the  subject; 
she  believed  that  what  was  done  could  not  be 
undone ;  and  directed  all  her  eloquence  to 
strengthen  and  encourage  the  dejected  Meta  to 
bear  the  failure  of  her  hopes  with  a  steadfast 
mi  rid. 

With  this  view,  she  spelt  out  to  her  the  ex- 
tremely reasonable  moral  a,  6,  ab  ;  discoursing 
thus:  "My  child,  thou  hast  already  said  a,  thou 
must  now  say  b  too;  thou  hast  scorned  thy  for- 
tune when  it  sought  thee,  now  thou  must  sub 


180 


MUSAUS. 


mit  when  it  will  meet  thee  no  longer.  Ex- 
perience has  taught  me,  that  the  most  confident 
Hope  is  the  first  to  deceive  us.  Therefore,  fol- 
low my  example;  abandon  the  fair  cozener 
utterly,  and  thy  peace  of  mind  will  no  longer 
be  disturbed  by  her.  Count  not  on  any  im- 
provement of  thy  fate  ;  and  thou  wilt  grow  con- 
tented with  thy  present  situation.  Honour  the 
spinning-wheel,  which  supports  thee :  what  are 
fortune  and  riches  to  thee,  when  thou  canst  do 
without  them  ?" 

Close  on  this  stout  oration  followed  a  loud 
humming  symphony  of  snap-reel  and  spinning- 
wheel,  to  makeup  for  the  time  lost  in  speaking. 
Mother  Brigitta  was  in  truth  philosophising 
from  the  heart.  After  her  scheme  for  the 
restoration  of  her  former  affluence  had  gone  to 
ruin,  she  had  so  simplified  the  plan  of  her  life, 
that  Fate  could  not  perplex  it  any  more.  But 
Metavvas  still  far  from  this  philosophical  centre 
of  indifference ;  and  hence  this  doctrine,  con- 
solation, and  encouragement,  affected  her  quite 
otherwise  than  had  been  intended :  the  con- 
scientious daughter  now  looked  upon  herself  as 
the  destroyer  of  her  mother's  fair  hopes,  and 
suffered  from  her  own  mind  a  thousand  re- 
proaches for  this  fault.  Though  she  had  never 
adopted  the  maternal  scheme  of  marriage,  and 
had  reckoned  only  upon  bread  and  salt  in  her 
future  wedlock ;  yet,  on  hearing  of  her  lover's 
riches  and  spreading  commerce,  her  diet-project 
had  directly  mounted  to  six  plates ;  and  it  de- 
lighted her  to  think,  that  by  her  choice  she 
should  still  realize  her  good  mother's  wish,  and 
see  her  once  more  planted  in  her  previous 
abundance. 

This  fair  dream  now  vanished  by  degrees, 
as  Franz  continued  silent.  To  make  matters 
worse,  there  spread  a  rumour  over  all  the  city, 
that  he  was  furnishing  his  house  in  the  most 
splendid  fashion  for  his  marriage  with  a  rich 
Antwerp  lady,  who  was  already  on  her  way  to 
Bremen.  This  Job*s-news  drove  the  lovely 
maiden  from  her  last  defence",  she  passed  on 
the  apostate  sentence  of  banishment  from  her 
heart :  and  vowed  from  that  hour  never  more 
to  think  of  him  ;  and  as  she  did  so,  wetted  the 
twining  thread  with  her  tears. 

In  a  heavy  hour  she  was  breaking  this  vow, 
and  thinking,  against  her  will,  of  the  faithless 
lover:  for  she  had  just  spun  off  a  rock  of  flax; 
and  there  was  an  old  rhyme  which  had  been 
taught  her  by  her  mother  for  encouragement  to 
diligence : 

Spin,  daughterkin,  spin, 
Thy  sweetheart 's  within ! 

which  she  always  recollected  when  her  rock 
was  done ;  and  along  with  it  the  memory  of 
the  Deceitful  necessarily  occurred  to  her.  In 
this  heavy  hour,  a  finger  rapped  with  a  most 
dainty  patter  at  the  door.  Mother  Brigitta  look- 
ed forth :  the  sweetheart  was  without.  And 
who  could  it  be]  Who  else  but  neighbour 
Franz,  from  the  alley?  He  had  decked  himself 
with  a  gallant  wooing-suit;  and  his  well-dress- 


ed, thick  brown  locks  shook  forth  perfume. 
This  stately  decoration  boded,  at  all  events, 
something  else  than  flax-dealing.  Mother  Bri- 
gitta started  in  alarm  :  she  tried  to  speak,  but 
words  failed  her.  Meta  rose  in  trepidation 
from  her  seat,  blushed  like  a  purple  rose,  and 
was  silent.  Franz,  however,  had  the  power  of 
utterance  ;  to  the  soft  adagio  which  he  had  in 
former  days  trilled  forth  to  her,  he  now  ap- 
pended a  suitable  text,  and  explained  his  dumb 
love  in  clear  words.  Thereupon  he  made 
solemn  application  for  her  to  the  mother ;  jus- 
tifying his  proposal  by  the  statement,  that  the 
preparations  in  his  house  had  been  meant  for 
the  reception  of  a  bride,  and  that  this  bride  was 
the  charming  Meta. 

The  pointed  old  lady,  having  brought  her 
feelings  once  more  into  equilibrium,  was  for 
protracting  the  affair  to  the  customary  term  of 
eight  days  for  deliberation  ;  though  joyful  tears 
were  running  down  her  cheeks,  presaging  no 
impediment  on  her  side,  but  rather  answer  of 
approval.  Franz,  however,  was  so  pressing  in 
his  suit,  that  she  fell  upon  a  middle  path  be- 
tween the  wooer's  ardour  and  maternal  use  and 
wont,  and  empowered  the  gentle  Meta  to  de- 
cide in  the  affair  according  to  her  own  good 
judgment.  In  the  virgin  heart  there  had  occur- 
red, since  Franz's  entrance,  an  important  revo- 
lution. His  presence  here  was  the  most  speak- 
ing proof  of  his  innocence  ;  and  as,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  it  distinctly  came  to  light,  that 
his  apparent  coldness  had  been  nothing  else 
than  zeal  and  diligence  in  putting  his  commer- 
cial affairs  in  order,  and  preparing  what  was 
necessary  for  the  coming  nuptials,  it  followed 
that  the  secret  reconciliation  would  proceed 
forthwith  without  any  stone  of  stumbling  in  its 
way.  She  acted  with  the  outlaw,  as  Mother 
Brigitta  with  her  disposted  spinning  gear,  or  the 
First-born  Son  of  the  Church  with  an  exiled 
Parliament;  recalled  him  with  honour  to  her 
high-beating  heart,  and  reinstated  him  in  all  his 
former  rights  and  privileges  there.  The  decisive 
three-lettered  little  word,  that  ratifies  the  happi- 
ness of  love,  came  gliding  with  such  unspeak- 
able grace  from  her  soft  lips,  that  the  answered 
lover  could  not  help  receiving  it  with  a  warm 
melting  kiss. 

The  tender  pair  had  now  time  and  opportu- 
nity for  deciphering  all  the  hieroglyphics  of  their 
mysterious  love ;  which  afforded  the  most  plea- 
sant, conversation  that  ever  two  lovers  carried 
on.  They  found,  what  our  commentators  ought 
to  pray  for,  that  they  had  always  understood 
and  interpreted  the  text  aright,  without  once 
missing  the  true  sense  of  their  reciprocal  pro- 
ceedings. It  cost  the  delighted  bridegroom  al- 
most as  great  an  effort  to  part  from  his  charming 
bride,  as  on  the  day  when  he  set  out  on  his  cru- 
sade to  Antwerp.  However,  he  had  an  impor- 
tant walk  to  take;  so  at  last  it  became  time  to 
withdraw. 

This  walk  was  directed  to  the  Weser-bridge, 
to  find  Timbertoe,  whom  he  had  not  forgotten, 


MUS  AUS. 


181 


though  he  had  long  delayed  to  keep  his  word 
to  him.  Sharply  as  the  physiognomist,  ever 
since  his  interview  with  the  open-handed 
Bridge-bailiff,  had  been  on  the  outlook,  he  could 
never  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  among  the  pas- 
sengers, although  a  second  visit  had  been  faith- 
fully promised.  Yet  the  figure  of  his  benefactor 
had  not  vanished  from  his  memory.  The  mo- 
ment he  perceived  the  fair  -  apparelled  youth 
from  a  distance,  he  stilted  towards  him,  and 
gave  him  kindly  welcome.  Franz  answered 
his  salutation,  and  said  :  "  Friend,  canst  thou 
take  a  walk  with  me  into  the  Neustadt,  to  trans- 
act a  small  affair?  Thy  trouble  shall  not  be 
unpaid." 

"Ah!  why  not?"  replied  the  old  blade; 
"  though  I  have  a  wooden  leg,  I  can  step  you 
with  it  as  stoutly  as  the  lame  dwarf  that  crept 
round  the  city-common  j*  for  the  wooden  leg, 
you  must  know,  has  this  good  property,  it  never 
tires.  But  excuse  me  a  little  while  till  Gray- 
cloak  is  come:  he  never  misses  to  pass  along 
the  Bridge  between  day  and  night." 

"  What  of  Graycloak  ?"  inquired  Franz  :  "  let 
me  know  about  him." 

"  Graycloak  brings  me  daily  about  nightfall  a 
silver  groschen,  I  know  not  from  whom.  It  is 
of  no  use  prying  into  things,  so  I  never  mind. 
Sometimes  it  occurs  to  me  Graycloak  must  be 
the  devil,  and  means  to  buy  my  soul  with  the 
money.  But,  devil  or  no  devil,  what  care  I? 
I  did  not  strike  him  on  the  bargain,  so  it  cannot 
hold." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  answered  Franz,  with 
a  smile,  "  if  Graycloak  were  a  piece  of  a  knave. 
But  do  thou  follow  me  :  the  silver  groschen  shall 
not  fail  thee." 

Timbertoe  set  forth,  hitched  on  briskly  after 
his  guide,  who  conducted  him  up  one  street 
and  down  another,  to  a  distant  quarter  of  the 
city,  near  the  wall ;  then  halted  before  a  neat 
little  new-built  house,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
When  it  was  opened  :  "  Friend,"  said  he,  "  thou 
madest  one  evening  of  my  life  cheerful ;  it  is 
just  that  I  should  make  the  evening  of  thy  life 
cheerful  also.     This  house,  with  its  appurte- 


*  There  is  an  old  tradition,  that  a  neighbouring  Coun- 
tess promised  in  jest  to  give  the  Bremers  as  much  land  as 
a  cripple,  who  was  just  asking  her  for  alms,  would  creep 
round  in  a  day.  They  took  her  at  her  word;  and  the 
cripple  crawled  so  well,  that  the  town  obtained  this  large 
common  by  means  of  him. 


nances,  and  the  garden  where  it  stands,  are 
thine;  kitchen  and  cellar  are  full;  an  attendant 
is  appointed  to  wait  upon  thee ;  and  the  silver 
groschen,  over  and  above,  thou  wilt  find  every 
noon  lying  under  thy  plate.  Nor  will  I  hide 
from  thee  that  Graycloak  was  my  servant,  whom 
I  sent  to  give  thee  daily  an  honourable  alms, 
till  I  had  got  this  house  made  ready  for  thee. 
If  thou  like,  thou  mayest  reckon  me  thy  proper 
Guardian  Angel,  since  the  other  has  not  acted 
to  thy  satisfaction." 

He  then  led  the  old  man  into  his  dwelling, 
where  the  table  was  standing  covered,  and 
everything  arranged  for  his  convenience  and 
comfortable  living.  The  grayhead  was  so  as- 
tonished at  his  fortune,  that  he  could  not  un- 
derstand or  even  believe  it.  That  a  rich  man 
should  take  such  pity  on  a  poor  one,  was  incom- 
prehensible :  he  felt  disposed  to  take  the  whole 
affair  for  magic  or  jugglery,  till  Franz  removed 
his  doubts.  A  stream  of  thankful  tears  flowed 
down  the  old  man's  cheeks ;  and  his  benefactor, 
satisfied  with  this,  did  not  wait  till  he  should 
recover  from  his  amazement  and  thank  him  in 
words,  but,  after  doing  this  angel-message,  va- 
nished from  the  old  man's  eyes,  as  angels  are 
wont ;  and  left  him  to  piece  together  the  affair 
as  he  best  could. 

Next  morning,  in  the  habitation  of  the  lovely 
Meta,  all  was  as  a  fair.  Franz  despatched  to 
her  a  crowd  of  merchants,  jewellers,  milliners, 
lace-dealers,  tailors,  sutors,  and  semstresses,  in 
part  to  offer  her  all  sorts  of  wares,  in  part  their 
own  good  services.  She  passed  the  whole  day 
in  choosing  stuffs,  laces,  and  other  requisites  for 
the  condition  of  a  bride,  or  being  measured  for 
her  various  new  apparel.  The  dimensions  of 
her  dainty  foot,  her  beautifully-formed  arm,  and 
her  slim  waist,  were  as  often  and  as  carefully 
meted,  as  if  some  skilful  statuary  had  been  tak- 
ing from  her  the  model  for  a  Goddess  of  Love. 
Meanwhile,  the  bridegroom  went  to  appoint  the 
bans;  and  before  three  weeks  were  past,  he  led 
his  bride  to  the  altar,  with  a  solemnity  by  which 
even  the  gorgeous  wedding-pomp  of  the  Hop- 
King  was  eclipsed.  Mother  Brigitta  had  the 
happiness  of  twisting  the  bridal-garland  for  her 
virtuous  Meta  ;  she  completely  attained  her  wish 
of  spending  her  woman's-summer  in  propitious 
affluence ;  and  deserved  this  satisfaction,  as  a 
recompense  for  one  praiseworthy  quality  which 
she  possessed :  She  was  the  most  tolerable  mo- 
ther-in-law that  has  ever  been  discovered. 


16 


MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS. 


Born  1740. 

This  writer,  better  known  in  Germany  by 
the  assumed  name  of  Asrnus,  is  not  usually 
numbered  with  the  Classics  of  his  country,  but 
enjoyed  a  wider  popularity  than  many  who  are 
so  ranked.  He  is  eminently  a  writer  of  and  for 
the  people,  and  would  seem  in  some  cases  to 
affect  a  certain  "Jack  Downing"  rudeness  for 
the  sake  of  rendering  himself  acceptable  to  un- 
cultivated readers.  But  this  sort  of  petulance, 
with  him,  never  degenerates  into  gross  vul- 
garity; and  though  we  feel  the  want  of  refine- 
ment in  all  his  productions,  he  never  positively 
disgusts.  The  coarseness  is  in  the  manner, 
never  in  the  thought.  For  the  rest,  he  is  tho- 
roughly healthy,  and  acts  with  tonic  effect  on 
mind  and  heart.  He  is  a  humorist,  never  grace- 
ful, but  always  genial,  hearty,  downright.  He 
resembles  Jean  Paul  in  childlike  freshness  of 
feeling  and  nobility  of  sentiment;  and  com- 
mends himself  '  to  every  man's  conscience'  by 
the  pure  morality  and  moral  purpose  which 
pervade  his  writings;  as  also  by  his  independent 


Died  1815. 

confession  and  defence  of  the  popular  religion, 
in  a  period  of  which  Tieck  says,  that  religion 
was  then  a  contraband  article  in  literature,  and 
was  pardoned  in  Asmus  only  on  account  of  his 
genuine  Germanism. 

He  was  born  at  Reinfeld  in  Holstein,  studied 
at  Jena,  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
as  private  citizen  at  Wandsbeck,  where,  under 
the  name  of  Asmus,  he  wrote  for  the  Wands- 
becker  Bote,  (Wandsbeck  Messenger).  In  1776, 
he  received  the  appointment  of  "  Upper  Land- 
Commissioner"  at  Darmstadt,  where  he  was 
expected  to  edit  a  popular  newspaper.  But  not 
liking  the  situation  he  resigned  it  the  following 
year,  and  returned  to  Wandsbeck.  In  1778, 
he  was  made  first  inspector  of  the  Schleswig- 
Holstein  bank  at  Altona,  with  the  privilege  of 
residing  at  Wandsbeck.  He  died,  aged  seventy- 
five,  at  the  house  of  his  son-in-law,  the  book- 
seller Friedrich  Perthes:  Hamburg,  January 
21st,  1815. 


DEDICATION  TO  FRIEND  HAIN  * 

I  have  the  honour,  Sir,  to  be  acquainted  with 
Mister,  your  brother;  he  is  my  good  friend  and 
patron.  I  have  also,  it  may  be,  other  introduc- 
tions to  you  ;  but  I  think  it  best  to  come  to  you 
directly,  in  person.  You  are  not  in  favour  of 
introductions,  and  are  not  used  to  make  many 
compliments. 

I  am  told  there  are  people  —  they  are  called 
men  of  strong  minds  —  who  never,  in  their  life, 
have  troubled  themselves  about  Hain ;  and  who, 
behind  his  back,  even  mock  at  him  and  his  thin 
legs.  I  am  not  a  man  of  strong  mind.  To  tell 
the  truth,  my  blood  runs  cold  whenever  I  look 
at  you,  Sir.  And  yet  I  am  willing  to  believe 
that  you  are  a  good  man,  when  one  is  sufficiently 
acquainted  with  you  ;  and  yet  I  seem  to  have  a 
kind  of  home-sickness  and  longing  after  thee, 
thou  old  porter,  Ruprecht, —  that  thou  rnayest 
one  day  come  and  loose  my  girdle  and  lay  me 
safely  to  rest  in  the  place  appointed,  in  expecta- 
tion of  better  times. 

*  Death.  Tr. 


Here  I 've  been  writing  a  little  book,  and  I 
bring  it  to  you.  It 's  poetry  and  prose.  Don't 
know  whether  you  are  fond  of  poems.  Should 
hardly  think  you  were,  since,  as  a  general  thing, 
you  don't  like  jokes,  and  the  times  are  past 
when  poems  were  anything  more  than  jokes. 
There  are  some  things  in  the  book  which  I  hope 
will  not  be  wholly  displeasing  to  you.  The 
greater  part  is  mere  setting,  and  trifling  enter- 
tainment.   Do  what  you  please  with  it. 

Your  hand,  dear  Hain!  And  when  you  draw 
near  at  last,  be  not  too  hard  upon  me  and  my 
friends. 


ADVERTISEMENT  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS. 

I  am  going  to  collect  my  works,  like  other 
folks,  and  publish  them.  No  one  has  asked  me 
to  do  so,  it  is  true,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  ;  and 
I  know  better  than  any  benevolent  reader,  how 
little  would  be  lost  if  my  works  should  remain 
as  unknown  as  I  am  myself.  But  then  sub- 
scribing and  publishing  is  so  nice,  and  such  a 

(182) 


DIUS. 


183 


pleasure  and  honour  for  me  and  my  old  aunt! 
Besides,  it  is  every  man's  own  choice  whether 
he  will  subscribe  or  not.  Therefore,  I  mean  to 
publish  them  with  the  title,  "  Asmus  omnia  sua 
secum  portans,  or  Complete  works  of  the  Wands- 
beck  Carrier."  ***** 

I  meant,  at  first,  to  have  the  portraits  of  all 
the  subscribers  engraved  in  the  frontispiece. 
But  they  told  me  that  would  be  inconvenient ; 
so  I  gave  it  up.  ***** 

Finally,  benevolent  readers  know,  from  the 
Gbttinger  Muscn-Almanach,  where  I  sometimes 
give  myself  another  name,  and  particularly  from 
the  Wandsbeck  Carrier,  what  they  are  to  expect ; 
and  it  is  not  my  fault  if  any  one  subscribes  and 
afterwards  is  dissatisfied. 

Nov.  8th,  1774.  Asmus. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  NEW-YEARS'  DAY. 

A  happy  new  year !  A  happy  new  year  to 
my  dear  country,  the  land  of  old  integrity  and 
truth !  A  happy  new  year  to  friends  and  ene- 
mies, Christians  and  Turks,  Hottentots  and 
Cannibals!  To  all  on  whom  God  permits  his 
sun  to  rise  and  his  rain  to  fall !  Also  to  the  poor 
negro  slaves  who  have  to  work  all  day  in  the 
hot  sun.  It 's  wholly  a  glorious  day, — the  new- 
years'  day !  At  other  times,  I  can  bear  that  a 
man  should  be  a  little  bit  patriotic,  and  not  make 
court  to  other  nations.  True,  one  must  not  speak 
evil  of  any  nation.  The  wiser  part  are,  every- 
where, silent;  and  who  would  revile  a  whole 
nation  for  the  sake  of  the  loud  ones  ?  As  I  said, 
I  can  bear  at  other  times,  that  a  man  should  be 
a  little  patriotic ;  but  on  new-year's  day  my 
patriotism  is  dead  as  a  mouse ;  and  it  seems  to 
me  on  that  day  as  if  we  were  all  brothers,  and 
had  one  Father  who  is  in  heaven;  as  if  all  the 
goods  of  the  world  were  water  which  God  has 
created  for  all  men,  as  I  once  heard  it  said,  &c. 

And  so  I  am  accustomed,  every  new-years' 
morning,  to  sit  down  on  a  stone  by  the  way- 
side, to  scratch  with  my  staff  in  the  sand  before 
me,  and  to  think  of  this  and  of  that.  Not  of  my 
readers.  I  hold  them  in  all  honour  ;  but  on  new- 
years'  morning,  on  the  stone  by  the  way-side,  I 
think  not  of  them  ;  but  I  sit  there  and  think  that 
during  the  past  year  I  saw  the  sun  rise  so  often, 
and  the  moon,  —  that  I  saw  so  many  rainbows 
and  flowers,  and  breathed  the  air  so  often,  and 
drank  from  the  brook,  —  and  then  I  do  not  like 
to  look  up,  and  I  take,  with  both  hands,  my  cap 
from  my  head  and  look  into  that. 

Then  I  think  also  of  my  acquaintance  who 
have  died  during  the  year;  and  how  they  can 
talk  now  with  Socrates  and  Numa,  and  other 
men  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much  good,  and 
with  John  Huss.  And  then  it  seems  as  if  graves 
opened  round  about  me,  and  shadows  with  bald 
crowns  and  long  gray  beards  came  out  of  them 
and  shook  the  dust  out  of  their  beards.  That 
must  be  the  work  of  the  "  Everlasting  Hunts- 


man," who  has  his  doings  about  the  twelfth. 
The  old  pious  long-beards  would  fain  sleep. 
But  a  glad  new  year  to  your  memory  and  to  the 
ashes  in  your  graves!! 


THE  SORROWS  OF  YOUNG  WERTHER. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PART.    LEIPZIG.  1774. 

Don't  know  whether  it 's  history  or  poetry. 
It  is  all  very  natural,  and  has  a  way  of  drawing 
the  tears  from  one's  head  right  movingly.  Well, 
love  is  a  strange  thing!  It  will  not  be  played 
with  like  a  bird.  I  know  it,  how  it  goes  through 
body  and  life,  and  beats  and  rages  in  every  vein, 
and  plays  tricks  with  the  head  and  reason. 

Poor  Werther !  He  had  else  such  fine  con- 
ceits and  thoughts.  Had  he  but  taken  a  journey 
to  Paris  or  to  Pekin !  But  no  !  He  would  not 
leave  the  fire  and  the  spit,  and  went  round  and 
round  it  till  he  went  to  pieces. 

And  there 's  the  misery,  that  one  can  have 
such  talents  and  gifts,  and  yet  be  so  weak. 
Therefore  they  ought  to  make  a  turf-seat  by  his 
grave  under  the  Linden-tree  by  the  church-yard 
wall,  that  one  might  sit  down  upon  it  and  lay 
his  head  in  his  hand,  and  weep  over  human 
weakness.  But  when  thou  hast  finished  weep- 
ing, good  gentle  youth !  when  thou  hast  finished 
weeping,  lift  up  thy  head  with  joy,  and  place 
thy  hand  against  thy  side!  For  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  Virtue.  That  too  goes  through  body 
and  life,  and  beats  and  rages  in  every  vein.  She 
is  said  not  to  be  attainable  without  much  earnest- 
ness and  conflict,  and  therefore  not  to  be  much 
known  or  loved.  But  he  who  has  her  has  a  rich 
reward  in  sunshine  and  frost  and  rain,  and 
when  Friend  Hain  comes  with  his  scythe. 


ON  PRAYER. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  "  TO  MY  FRIEND  ANDREW." 

To  distort  one's  eyes  in  prayer  does  not  seem 
to  me  necessary;  I  hold  it  better  to  be  natural. 
But  then  one  must  not  blame  a  man  on  that  ac- 
count, provided  he  is  no  hypocrite.  But  that  a 
man  should  make  himself  great  and  broad  in 
prayer, — that,  it  seems  to  me,  deserves  reproach, 
and  is  not  to  be  endured.  One  may  have  cou- 
rage and  confidence,  but  he  must  not  be  con- 
ceited and  wise  in  his  own  conceit;  for  if  one 
knows  how  to  counsel  and  help  himself,  the 
shortest  way  is  to  do  it.  Folding  the  hands  is  a 
fine  external  decorum,  and  looks  as  if  one  sur- 
rendered himself  without  capitulation,  and  laid 
down  his  arms.  But  the  inward,  secret  yearning, 
billow-heaving,  and  wishing  of  the  heart, — that, 
in  my  opinion,  is  the  chief  thing  in  prayer ;  and 
therefore  I  cannot  understand  what  people  mean 
who  will  not  have  us  pray.  It  is  just  as  if  they 
said  one  should  not  wish,  or  one  should  have  no 


184 


CLAUDIUS. 


beard  and  no  ears.  That  must  be  a  blockhead 
of  a  boy  who  should  have  nothing  to  ask  of  his 
father,  and  who  should  deliberate  the  whole 
day  whether  he  will  let  it  come  to  that  extre- 
mity. When  the  wish  within  you  concerns  you 
nearly,  Andrew,  and  is  of  a  warm  complexion, 
it  will  not  question  long;  it  will  overpower  you 
like  a  strong  and  armed  man.  It  will  just  hurry 
on  a  few  rags  of  words,  and  knock  at  the  door 
of  heaven.  ****** 
******* 

Whether  the  prayer  of  a  moved  soul  can  ac- 
complish and  effect  anything,  or  whether  the 
Nexus  Rerum  does  not  allow  of  that,  as  some 
learned  gentlemen  think  —  on  that  point  I  shall 
enter  into  no  controversy.  I  have  great  respect 
for  the  Nexus  Rerum,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking 
of  Samson  who  left  the  Nexus  of  the  gate-leaves 
uninjured  and  carried  the  whole  gate,  as  every 
one  knows,  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  And,  in  short, 
Andrew,  I  believe  that  the  rain  comes  when  it 
is  dry,  and  that  the  heart  does  not  cry  in  vain 
after  fresh  water,  if  we  pray  aright  and  are 
rightly  disposed. 

"  Our  Father"  is  once  for  all  the  best  prayer, 
for  you  know  who  made  it.  But  no  man  on 
God's  earth  can  pray  it  after  him,  precisely  as 
he  meant  it.  We  cripple  it  with  a  distant  imita- 
tion ;  and  each  more  miserably  than  the  other. 
But  that  matters  not,  Andrew,  if  we  only  mean 
well;  the  dear  God  must  do  the  best  part  at 
any  rate,  and  he  knows  how  it  ought  to  be. 
Because  you  desire  it,  I  will  tell  you  sincerely 
how  I  manage  with  "  Our  Father."  But  it  seems 
to  me  a  very  poor  way,  and  I  would  gladly  be 
taught  a  better. 

Do  you  see,  when  I  am  going  to  pray,  I  think 
first  of  my  late  father,  how  he  was  so  good  and 
loved  so  well  to  give  to  me.  And  then  I  picture 
to  myself  the  whole  world  as  my  Father's  house, 
and  all  the  people  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa  and 
America,  are  then,  in  my  thoughts,  my  brothers 
and  sisters  ;  and  God  is  sitting  in  heaven  on  a 
golden  chair,  and  has  his  right  hand  stretched 
out  over  the  sea  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and 
his  left  full  of  blessing  and  good  ;  and  all  around 
the  mountain-tops  smoke — and  then  I  begin:  — 

Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven. 
Hallowed  be  thy  name. 
Here  I  am  already  at  fault.  The  Jews  are 
said  to  have  known  special  mysteries  respect- 
ing the  name  of  God.  But  I  let  all  that  be,  and 
only  wish  that  the  thought  of  God  and  every 
trace  by  which  we  can  recognise  him,  may  be 
great  and  holy  above  all  things,  to  me  and  all 
men. 

Thy  kingdom  come. 
Here  I  think  of  myself,  how  it  drives  hither 
and  thither  within  me,  and  now  this  governs 
and  now  that;  and  that  all  is  sorrow  of  heart 
and  I  can  light  on  no  green  branch.  And  then 
I  think  how  good  it  would  be  for  me,  if  God 
would  put  an  end  to  all  discord  and  govern  me 
himself. 


Thy  will  be  done  as  in  heaven  so  on  earth. 

Here  I  picture  to  myself  heaven  and  the  holy 
angels  who  do  his  will  with  joy,  and  no  sorrow 
touches  them,  and  they  know  not  what  to  do 
for  love  and  blessedness,  and  frolic  night  and 
day;  and  then  I  think:  if  it  were  only  so  here 
on  the  earth ! 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread. 
Everybody  knows  what  daily  bread  means, 
and  that  one  must  eat  as  long  as  one  is  in  the 
world,  and  also  that  it  tastes  good.  I  think  of 
that.  Perhaps  too,  my  children  occur  to  me, 
how  they  love  to  eat  and  are  so  lively  and  joyful 
at  table.  And  then  1  pray  that  the  dear  God 
would  only  give  us  something  to  eat. 

Forgive  us  our  debt  as  we  forgive  our  debtors. 

It  hurts  when  one  receives  an  affront;  and 
revenge  is  sweet  to  man.  It  seems  so  to  me, 
too,  and  my  inclination  leads  that  way.  But 
then  the  wicked  servant  in  the  gospel  passes 
before  my  eyes  and  my  heart  fails,  and  I  resolve 
that  I  will  forgive  my  fellow-servant  and  not 
say  a  word  to  him  about  the  hundred  pence. 

And  lead  us  not  into  temptation. 

Here  I  think  of  various  instances  where  peo- 
ple, in  such  and  such  circumstances,  have  stray- 
ed from  the  good  and  have  fallen ;  and  that  it 
would  be  no  better  with  me. 

But  deliver  us  from  evil. 

Here  I  still  think  of  temptations  and  that  man 
is  so  easily  seduced  and  may  stray  from  the 
straight  path.  But  at  the  same  time  1  think  of 
all  the  troubles  of  life,  of  consumption  and  old 
age,  of  the  pains  of  child-birth,  of  gangrene  and 
insanity  and  the  thousand-fold  misery  and  heart- 
sorrow  that  is  in  the  world  and  that  plagues  and 
tortures  poor  mortals,  and  there  is  none  to  help. 
And  you  will  find,  Andrew  !  if  tears  have  not 
come  before,  they  will  be  sure  to  come  here ; 
and  one  can  feel  such  a  hearty  yearning  to  be 
away  and  can  be  so  sad  and  cast  down  in  one's 
self,  as  if  there  were  really  no  help  at  all.  But 
then  one  must  pluck  up  courage  again,  lay  the 
hand  upon  the  mouth  and  continue,  as  it  were, 
in  triumph : 

For  thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power  and  the 
glory  forever.  Amen. 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

BETWEEN  ME  AND  MY  COUSIN  RESPECTING  ORTHODOXY  AND  IM- 
PROVEMENTS IN  RELIGION. 

Highly  Lamed, 

Highly  to  be  honoured  Mr.  Cousin,— 
I  have  heard,  for  some  time  past,  so  much 
about  the  religion  of  reason  and  the  religion  of 
the  bible,  about  orthodox  and  philosophical 
Theologians,  that  my  head  turns  round,  and  I 
know  no  longer  who  is  right  and  who  is  wrong. 


CLAUDIUS. 


180 


To  mend  religion  with  reason, — that,  to  be  sure, 
seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  undertake  to  correct 
the  sun  by  my  old  wooden  house-clock.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  philosophy  seems  to  me  a 
good  thing,  too;  and  much  that  is  objected  to 
the  orthodox  strikes  me  as  true.  Mr.  Cousin 
wfll  do  me  a  real  favour,  if  he  will  expound 
this  matter  to  me.  Especially  whether  phi- 
losophy is  a  broom  to  sweep  the  filth  out  of  the 
temple;  and  whether  I  must  take  my  hat  off" 
with  a  more  profound  reverence  to  an  orthodox 
or  to  a  philosophical  Herr  Pastor. 

I  have  the  honour  to  remain  with  special 
esteem, 

My  highly  lamed, 

Highly  to  be  honoured  Mr.  Cousin's 
obedient  servant  and  Cousin, 
Asmus. 

Answer. 

Dear  Cousin, — 

Philosophy  is  good  and  people  are  wrong 
who  treat  it  with  scorn.  But  revelation  relates 
to  philosophy,  not  as  more  and  less  but  as 
heaven  and  earth,  upper  and  under.  I  cannot 
explain  it  to  you  better  than  by  the  chart  which 
you  once  made  of  the  pond  behind  your  late 
father's  garden.  You  used  to  be  fond  of  sailing 
on  the  pond,  cousin,  and  so  you  had  constructed, 
with  your  own  hand,  a  chart  of  all  the  depths 
and  shallows  of  the  pond ;  and  according  to 
that  you  sailed  about,  and  it  answered  very 
well.  But  if  now  a  whirlwind,  or  the  Queen 
of  Otaheite,  or  a  water-spout  had  taken  you, 
with  your  boat  and  your  chart,  and  had  set  you 
down  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  Cousin,  and 
you  had  attempted  to  sail  there  too  by  your 
chart,  it  would  not  have  answered.  The  fault 
is  not  in  the  chart;  it  was  a  very  good  chart  for 
the  pond  ;  but  the  pond  is  not  the  ocean,  you 
see.  Here  you  would  have  to  make  another 
chart;  but  that  other  chart  would  remain,  for 
the  most  part,  blank,  because  the  sand-banks 
here  lie  very  deep.  And,  Cousin,  sail  away 
there  without  fear ;  you  may  meet  with  sea- 
wonders,  but  you  will  not  run  ashore. 

Hence,  you  may  judge,  yourself,  how  far  phi- 
losophy is  a  broom  to  sweep  the  cobwebs  from 
the  temple.  In  a  certain  sense,  it  may  be  such 
a  broom.  Or  you  may  call  it  a  hare's  foot  to 
brush  the  dust  from  the  sacred  statues.  But 
whoso  should  undertake  therewith  to  carve  and 
whittle  at  the  statues  himself, —  look  you!  he 
expects  more  of  the  hare's  foot  than  it  is  equal 
to.  And  that  is  highly  ridiculous  and  a  scandal 
to  behold. 

******* 

That  Christianity  is  to  level  all  heights,  that 
it  is  not  merely,  like  virtue,  to  modify  and  regu- 
late, but,  like  corruption,  to  carry  away  every 
peculiar  form  and  beauty,  in  order  that  some- 
thing new  may  be  born  out  of  it:  that,  indeed, 
will  not  appear  to  Reason.  Nor  need  it,  if  only 
it  be  true.  When  Abraham  was  commanded 
to  leave  his  country  and  his  kindred  and  his 
y 


father's  house  and  to  go  out  into  a  country  which 
was  afterward  to  be  made  known  to  him,  do 
you  not  think  that  his  natural  feeling  rebelled 
and  that  Reason  had  all  sorts  of  well-grounded 
scruples  and  stately  doubts  to  oppose  to  such  a 
journey?  But  Abraham  believed  the  word  and 
went  out.  And  there  is  and  was  no  other  way. 
For  he  could  not  see  the  promised  land  from 
Haran  ;  and  "Niebuhr's  Travels"  was  not  pub- 
lished then.  If  Abraham  had  debated  the 
matter  with  his  reason,  he  would  certainly  have 
remained  in  his  country  and  with  his  kindred 
and  would  have  taken  his  ease.  The  promised 
land  would  have  lost  nothing,  in  that  case;  but 
he  would  not  have  entered  it.  See,  Cousin,  so 
it  is,  and  so  it  stands  in  the  Bible. 

Since  then,  the  sacred  statues  cannot  be  re- 
stored by  the  help  of  Reason,  it  is  patriotic,  in 
a  high  sense  of  the  word,  to  leave  the  ancient 
form  uninjured  and  to  let  one's-self  be  slain  for 
a  tittle  of  the  Law.  And  if  that  is  what  is 
meant  by  an  orthodox  Herr  Pastor,  you  cannot 
bow  too  low  to  such  an  one.  But  they  call 
other  things  orthodox,  besides  that. 

Now  farewell,  dear  Cousin,  and  wish  for 
peace.  But,  for  the  rest,  do  not  let  the  strife 
and  the  field-cry  harm  a  hair  of  your  head  ;  and 
use  religion  more  wisely  than  they.  Touching 
that  matter,  I  have  Potiphar's  wife  before  my 
eyes.  You  know  the  Potiphar  ?  That  sanguine 
and  rheumatic  person  seized  the  mantle,  and 
Joseph  fled.  Regarding  the  point  saillant,  the 
spirit  of  religion,  it  is  idle  to  dispute ;  because, 
according  to  the  Scripture,  no  one  knows  that 
but  he  who  receives  it ;  and  then  there  is  no 
time  to  doubt  and  to  dispute. 

To  sum  up  all,  Cousin,  Truth  is  a  giant  who 
lies  by  the  wayside  and  sleeps.  They  who 
pass  by,  see  well  his  giant  form,  but  him  they 
see  not,  and  in  vain  they  lay  the  finger  of  their 
vanity  on  the  nose  of  their  reason.  When  he 
puts  off  the  veil,  then  you  will  see  his  face. 
Until  then,  our  consolation  must  be  that  he  is 
under  the  veil.  And  do  you  go  reverently  and 
tremblingly  by;  and  be  not  over  wise,  dear 
Cousin,  &c. 


ON  KLOPSTOCK  S  ODES  * 

No,  they  're  not  verses ;  verses  must  rhyme 
together, — that's  what  Master  Ahrens  used  to 
tell  us  at  school.  He  would  set  me  before  him 
when  he  said  so,  and  pull  me  by  the  ears,  and 
say :  Here  an  ear,  and  there  an  ear, — that  rhymes, 
and  so  must  verses. — And  then,  too,  I  can  read 
a  matter  of  two  hundred  verses  an  hour,  and 
very  often  it  affects  me  no  more  than  wading 
through  the  water :  the  rhymes,  too,  play  about 
one's  head,  as  the  waves  do  about  one's  heels ; 
but  here  I  can't  stir  from  the  spot,  and  it  seems 
as  if  all  the  time  shapes  were  putting  themselves 
in  my  way,  that  I  have  seen  before  in  dreams. 

*  Translated  by  Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks. 
16* 


186 


CLAUDIUS. 


To  be  sure,  it 's  printed  like  verse,  and  there 's 
a  deal  of  melody  and  harmony  in  it,  and  yet  it 
can't  be  verse,  anyhow.    Some  time  I  '11  ask 

cousin  about  it.  

Cousin  says  they  are  verses,  too,  and  that  al- 
most every  verse  is  a  bold  steed  with  free  neck, 
that  scents  the  warm-seated  rider  afar  off  and 
neighs  inspiration.  I  had  understood  from 
Master  Ahrens  that  verses  were  a  sort  of  sound- 
ing, foamy  substance,  that  must  rhyme  ;  but  Herr 
Ahrens  !  Herr  Ahrens  !  you  have  operated  on  my 
eye-teeth  there.  Cousin  says  it  must  not  foam  at 
all,  but  must  be  clear  as  a  dew-drop,  and  pene- 
trating as  a  sigh  of  love,  and  that  in  this  dewy 
clearness  and  in  warm-breathing  tenderness  lies 
the  whole  merit  of  modern  poetry.  He  took 
the  book  out  of  my  hand,  and  read  (page  41) 
from  the  piece  called  "  The  Comforter." 
*        *        *         ***  ** 

"Does  that  foam,  cousin?  How  do  you  feel 
under  it?'- — How  do  I  feel?  It  stirs  up  a  Hal- 
lelujah in  me,  too,  but  I  daren't  express  it,  be- 
cause I 'm  such  a  common  churl ;  I  could  pluck 
the  stars  from  heaven  and  strew  them  at  the 
Comforter's  feet,  and  then  sink  into  the  earth. 
That 's  how  I  feel !  "  Bravo  !  cousin  !  Those 
must  be  verses,  that  infect  you  with  such  an 
itching  to  pluck  the  stars.  Read  the  book 
through;  you'll  relish  it,  and  for  the  rest,  don't 
be  ashamed  of  the  Hallelujah  that  stirs  in  you. 
Common!  what 's  common ?  With  odes  there 's 
no  respect  of  persons ;  you  or  a  king,  one 's 
as  good  as  t'other!  And,  cousin,  let  me  tell 
you,  the  fairest  seraph,  in  the  dreadful  solemn 
pomp  of  his  six  wings,  is  only  a  poor  vulgar 
churl  in  the  sight  of  God  !  But,  as  I  said,  read 
the  book  through." — Have  read  it,  and  now  I  '11 
tell  you  how  it  went  with  me.  When  you  read 
one  of  the  pieces  for^the  first  time,  you  come 
out  of  the  bright  day  into  a  glimmering  chamber 
full  of  paintings;  at  first  you  see  little  or  no- 
thing, but  when  you  have  been  there  a  while, 
by-and-bye  the  paintings  begin  to  be  visible  and 
to  take  right  hold  of  you,  and  then  you  shut-to 
the  door  and  lock  yourself  in,  and  walk  up  and 
down,  and  find  yourself  mightily  quickened 
with  the  pictures,  and  the  rose-clouds,  and  fine 
rainbows,  and  light  Graces  with  soft  sensibility 
in  their  looks,  and  all  that.  Here  and  there 
I  've  hit  upon  passages,  where  I  felt  quite  giddy, 
and  it  seemed  just  as  if  an  eagle  set  out  to  fly 
right  up  to  heaven,  and  now  had  got  so  high, 
that  you  could  only  see  motion,  but  couldn't  tell 
whether  the  eagle  made  it  or  whether  it  was 
only  a  lusus  acris,  a  play  of  the  air.  Then  I  like 
to  put  the  book  down,  and  take  a  whiff  with 
Uncle  Toby. 


About  the  dove-tailing  of  the  words,  too,  in 
these  Odes,  I 've  often  had  my  own  notions,  and 
about  the  metre,  and  I  d  be  willing  to  bet, 
there 's  some  special  trick  there,  too,  if  one  only 
understood  it  right.  The  metre  isn't  the  same 
in  all  the  Odes :  not  at  all ;  in  some  it's  like  the 
roaring  of  a  storm  through  a  great  forest,  *in 
others  soft  as  the  moon  walking  through  the 
sky ;  and  this  don't  seem  to  have  come  so  acci- 
dentally either. 

THE  EARLY  GRAVES. 

"  All  hail  to  thee,  silvery  moon, 
Lovely,  lonely  companion  of  night ! 

Dost  thou  llee  ?   Haste  thee  not ;  linger,  friend  of  thought ! 
Lo,  she  abides !  'twas  the  cloud,  only, swept  by. 

"  Naught  but  the  waking  of  May 
Sweeter  is  than  the  summer  night, 
When  the  dew,  pure  as  light,  trickles  from  his  locks, 
And  o'er  the  brow  of  the  hill  redly  he  climbs. 

"  Ye  nobler  ones,  ah,  even  now 
Sober  moss  on  your  grave-stones  grows. 
Oh  how  blest  was  I  once,  when  with  you  I  saw 
Redden  the  dawn  of  the  day.  glimmer  the  night !" 

There — I  should  like  to  have  made  that,  or, 
at  least,  to  be  sleeping  with  the  rest  of  'em  under 
a  stone  all  overgrown  with  "sober  moss,"  and 
hear,  overhead,  such  a  sigh  from  a  good  youth, 
whom  in  life  I  had  held  dear.  My  handful  of 
dust  would  stir  in  the  grave,  and  my  shade 
would  come  up  through  the  moss  to  the  good 
youth,  give  him  a  hearty  grip  of  the  paw,  and 
smack  awhile  at  his  neck  in  the  moonshine. 

And  then  the  Titles  over  the  pieces !  yes,  they 
are  always  so  short  and  well  given,  and  a  good 
title  over  a  piece  is  like  a  good  face  to  a  man. 
The  Dedication,  too,  is  brave — "To  Bernstorf," 
and  nothing  more.  And  in  fact  what  use  of 
such  a  long  talk  about  Maecenas  and  grace  and 
gracious?  The  great  man  don't  relish  it,  and 
it  eats  up  the  little  one's  stomach. 

On  the  whole  this  book  has  shed  me  a  real 
light  on  Herr  Ahrens  and  verse-making.  I  figure 
the  poet  to  myself  as  a  noble,  tender-hearted 
youth,  who  at  certain  hours  grows  as  plethoric- 
ally desperate,  as  when  one  of  us  is  ridden  by 
the  nightmare,  and  then  comes  on  a  fever  which 
makes  the  fine,  tender-hearted  youth  hot  and 
sick,  until  the  materia  peccans  secretes  itself  in 
the  shape  of  an  ode,  elegy,  or  something  of  the 
sort;  and  whoever  comes  near  him,  catches  the 
infection: 

Braga  comes  down  through  the  oak  foliage  to 
impregnate  the  soul  of  the  patriot-poet,  that  it 
may  bring  to  light  in  its  time  a  ripe  and  vigor- 
ous fruit ;  but  he  who  is  wanton  and  flirts  with 
foreigners,  lays  wind  eggs. 

The  author  is  said  to  be  one  Klopstock;  — 
should  like  right  well  to  see  him  some  day. 


JOHANN  CASPAR  LAVATER. 

Born  1741.  Died  1801. 


Switzerland  comes  in  for  a  share  in  the 
literary  honors  of  Germany,  whose  language 
extends  beyond  the  Rhine,  and  whose  litera- 
ture rejoices  in  the  contributions  of  such  men 
as  Bodmer,  Gessner,  Lavater,  von  Zimmerman, 
von  Salis,  Pestalozzi. 

Among  these,  the  name  of  Lavater  stands 
first  in  cosmopolitan  significance,  denoting  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  his  time ;  wor- 
shipped by  one-half  the  world,  and  flouted  by 
the  other ;  a  man  in  whom  strength  and  weak- 
ness, depth  and  simplicity,  liberality  and  nar- 
rowness were  singularly  blended.  On  the 
whole,  an  original  mind  and  a  true  philosopher. 
His  physiognomical  essays,  by  which  he  is 
principally  known  at  the  present  day,  consti- 
tute but  a  small  part  of  his  literary  labors.  He 
wrote  with  acceptance  on  a  great  variety  of 
subjects,  and  on  none  more  effectively  than  on 
questions  of  theology.  He  was  also  a  maker 
of  poems.  Among  those  who  knew  him  best, 
he  was  distinguished  more  by  his  moral  traits 
than  by  his  intellectual  gifts ;  by  his  purity  of 
heart,  his  deep  humility,  his  fervent  piety,  his 
Christian  charity  and  zeal  for  mankind.  A 
more  thoroughly  good  man  the  annals  of  litera- 
ture do  not  exhibit,  nor  a  more  devoted  Chris- 
tian. 

Lavater*  was  born  at  Zurich,  on  the  14th 
November,  1741.  His  father,  Henry  Lavater, 
was  Doctor  of  Medicine,  and  Member  of  the 
Government  of  Zurich ;  a  man  of  universally 
acknowledged  integrity,  of  unwearied  applica- 
tion, and  a  sound  understanding  ;  an  excellent 
economist.  His  mother,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Regula  Escher,  was  a  woman  of  marked 
character  and  extraordinary  gifts.  Whatever 
of  genius  he  inherited,  must  have  come  from 
that  side  of  the  house. 

His  childhood  promised  poorly.  He  repre- 
sents himself  as  excelling,  at  that  period,  in 
nothing  but  awkwardness  and  stupidity ;  "  any- 
thing but  apt  to  learn,  very  inattentive,  change- 
ful, impatient,  pettish,  thoughtless,  and  simple. 

*  The  following  sketch  is  taken  principally  from  the 
Memoir,  by  Thomas  Holcroft,  prefixed  to  his  translation 
of  Lavater's  Essays  on  Physiognomy.  There  is  a  bio- 
graphy  of  him,  by  his  son-in-law,  G.  Gessner. 


The  slightest  tendency  to  pleasantry  or  wit 
was  never  discovered  in  me.  I  recollect  how 
much  I  suffered,  at  this  early  period  of  my  life, 
from  timidity  and  bashfulness.  I  observed  and 
felt,  but  could  never  communicate  my  feelings 
and  observations ;  or  if  I  attempted  such  a  com- 
munication, the  manner  in  which  I  did  it  was 
so  absurd  and  drew  upon  me  so  much  ridicule, 
that  I  soon  found  myself  incapable  of  uttering 
another  word." 

His  imagination  appears  to  have  been,  at  this 
season,  the  most  active  of  his  mental  powers. 
"  My  imagination  was  continually  at  work  to 
conceive  and  plan  what  might  appear  uncom- 
mon and  extraordinary.  Every  building  ap- 
peared to  me  too  small,  every  tower  too  low, 
every  animal  too  diminutive."  *  * 
"  My  indefatigably  inventive  imagination  was 
frequently  occupied  with  two  singular  subjects, 
— with  framing  plans  for  impenetrable  prisons, 
and  with  the  idea  of  becoming  the  chief  of  a 
troop  of  banditti.  In  the  latter  case,  however, 
it  is  to  be  understood  that  not  the  least  tincture 
of  cruelty  or  violence  entered  into  my  thoughts. 
I  meant  neither  to  murder  nor  distress;  my 
timid  and  good  heart  shuddered  at  such  an 
idea.  But  to  steal  with  ingenious  artifice  and 
then  bestow  the  stolen  property  with  similar 
adroitness  and  privacy  on  another  who  might 
want  it  more ;  to  do  no  serious  injury,  but  to 
produce  extraordinary  changes  and  visible  ef- 
fects, while  I  myself  remained  invisible,  was 
one  of  my  favorite  conceptions."  Notwith- 
standing these  mental  vagaries,  his  religious 
feelings  were  early  developed  and  very  intense. 
He  was,  through  life,  a  firm  believer  in  the 
power  of  faith  and  the  immediate,  objective 
efficacy  of  prayer,  of  which  he  conceived  him- 
self to  have  had  extraordinary  personal  ex- 
perience. "  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  conceive 
the  strength  of  my  faith  in  these  years,  when 
I  was  in  difficulty  and  trouble.  If  I  could 
pray,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  already  ob- 
tained the  object  of  my  prayer.  Once,  when 
I  had  given  in  a  Latin  exercise  on  which  much 
depended,  I  recollected,  after  it  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  master,  that  I  had  written  relata 

(187) 


188 


LAVATER. 


instead  of  revelata.  Can  there  be  a  stronger 
proof  of  the  simplicity  and  strength  of  my 
childish  faith  than  that  I  prayed  to  God  that 
he  would  correct  the  word  and  write  ve  above 
it  with  black  ink !  The  ve  was  written  above 
in  another  hand  with  black  ink,  somewhat 
blacker  than  mine,  and  my  exercise  was  ad- 
judged faultless.  I  believe  the  correction  was 
made  by  the  master,  from  the  partial  kindness 
he  entertained  for  me,  and  I  think  it  was 
anxiety  and  presentiment  on  my  part  which 
assumed  the  form  of  prayer." 

While  at  school  in  Zurich,  he  conceived  the 
idea  of  being  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  It  was 
suggested  to  him  in  the  following  manner: 
"  Mr.  Caspar  Ulrich,  minister  at  Fraumiinster, 
and  one  of  the  superintendents  of  the  gym- 
nasium or  college,  came  one  day  into  the  school 
and  exclaimed  among  the  scholars,  "Which 
of  you  will  be  a  minister  ?"  Young  Lavater, 
without  ever  having  thought  of  such  a  thing 
before,  cried  out  so  hastily  and  loudly  that  all 
his  companions  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  "  I ! 
I!"  He  answered  thus  without  any  considera- 
tion, or  inclination.  But  scarcely  had  the  word 
passed  his  lips  when  he  began  to  feel  a  desire 
which  soon  became  a  wish,  and  that  wish  a 
firm  resolution." 

In  1755,  Lavater  left  the  grammar-school 
and  entered  the  college  in  his  native  city, 
where  he  contracted  an  intimate  friendship 
with  Fuseli,  afterwards  so  celebrated  as  a 
painter.  In  1759  he  was  received  into  the 
theological  class  under  Zimmerman,  professor 
of  divinity;  and  in  1762,  was  ordained  a 
minister. 

About  this  time,  he  distinguished  himself,  as 
a  friend  of  the  oppressed,  by  his  efforts,  in  con- 
junction with  his  friends  Fuseli  and  Pestalozzi, 
to  bring  to  justice  the  bailiff  of  Griiningen,  one 
of  the  bailiwicks  of  Zurich ;  Felix  Grebel,  a 
man  "  who  grossly  abused  his  authority  as  a 
magistrate  and  was  notoriously  guilty  of  acts 
of  oppression  and  extortion,  but  whose  victims 
being  poor,  dared  not  complain  to  the  magis- 
trates of  Zurich,  because  the  burgo-master 
was  father-in-law  of  the  delinquent." 

In  June,  1766,  he  married  Miss  Anna  Schinz, 
the  daughter  of  a  respectable  merchant,  who 
held  an  office  in  the  civil  magistracy.  The 
following  year,  he  published  his  Swiss  Songs 
which  passed  through  a  greater  number  of 
editions  than  any  other  of  his  numerous  works. 


In  1769  he  was  appointed  deacon  and 
preacher  to  the  orphan-house  at  Zurich.  In 
this  situation  he  was  unwearied  in  acts  of 
benevolence.  In  the  great  dearth  which  oc- 
curred in  Switzerland,  in  the  years  1770  and 
1771,  a  large  portion  of  his  own  small  income 
was  given  in  charity,  which,  with  his  personal 
applications  at  the  houses  of  the  rich,  caused 
him  to  be  long  remembered  as  the  benefactor 
of  the  poor. 

His  first  work  on  physiognomy  was  publish- 
ed in  1772;  in  1775  the  first  volume  of  his 
celebrated  Physiognomical  Fragments  for  the 
Promotion  of  the  Knowledge  and  Love  of  Man- 
kind. In  1775  Lavater  was  made  pastor  or 
first  preacher  to  the  orphan-house,  and,  ten 
years  after,  pastor  of  the  church  of  St.  Peter, 
which  office  he  held  till  his  death. 

When  the  French  took  possession  of  Switzer- 
land in  1798,  he  protested  against  their  ravages 
in  a  publication  addressed  to  the  Directory, 
entitled,  "Words  of  a  free  Switzer  to  the 
Great  Nation,"  which  gained  him  the  applause 
of  Europe  for  its  high-toned  courage.  The 
following  year,  he  was  seized  and  carried 
prisoner  to  Basel,  on  the  charge  of  a  con- 
spiracy against  the  French,  but  was  released, 
after  a  confinement  of  several  weeks,  for  want 
of  evidence. 

In  September,  1799,  he  received  a  gun-shot 
wound  from  a  French  soldier  while  standing 
before  his  door,  which,  though  it  healed  for  a 
while,  proved  ultimately  fatal.  The  last  year 
of  his  life  was  one  of  great  bodily  suffering 
occasioned  by  his  wound  which  he  bore  with 
admirable  patience,  praying  for  the  man  who 
had  wounded  him,  "  that  he  might  never  suffer 
the  pains  he  had  caused  him  to  endure."  In 
the  intervals  of  suffering  his  mental  activity 
continued  unabated,  and  several  small  works 
were  published,  during  this  period.  On  one 
occasion,  he  caused  himself  to  be  carried  to 
church  and  addressed  an  affectionate  farewell 
exhortation  to  his  beloved  flock. 

About  a  fortnight  before  his  death,  he  finished 
his  last  literary  production,  which  was  a  poem  (!) 
written  with  great  spirit,  and  entitled  "  Zurich 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century." 
On  the  last  of  December  he  was  so  much  ex- 
hausted that  what  he  said  could  only  be  heard 
by  applying  the  ear  to  his  lips.  Yet  even  in 
this  condition  he  dictated  some  verses  (German 
hexameters)  for  his  colleague  to  read  to  his 


LAVATER. 


189 


congregation  on  the  morning  of  the  new  year's 
day. 

He  died  Friday,  January  2d,  1801. 

As  a  physiognomist,  the  character  to  which 
he  is  principally  indebted  for  his  fame,  Lavater 
has  shown  himself  an  original  observer,  and 
may  even  claim  to  be  called,  in  some  sense,  a 
discoverer.  He  differed  from  all  who  had  pre- 
ceded him  in  this  science,  in  directing  his  at- 
tention rather  to  the  firm  and  stationary — "  the 
defined  and  definable" — parts  of  the  counte- 
nance than  to  those  which  are  movable  and 
accidental.  He  distinguished  between  what  is 
superficial  in  the  character, — the  passions  and 
accidental  determinations  of  the  individual, — 
and  the  original  self.  The  former  he  supposed 
to  be  indicated  by  the  movable  and  muscular 
parts  of  the  countenance,  the  latter  by  the  firm 
and  bony.  In  order  to  form  an  opinion  of  the 
character  from  the  face,  he  required  to  see  the 
face  at  rest,  —  in  sleep  or  in  an  unconscious 
state.  "  The  greater  pa  rt  of  the  physiogno- 
mists," he  says,  "  speak  only  of  the  passions,  or 
rather  of  the  exterior  signs  of  the  passions,  and 
the  expression  of  them  in  the  muscles.  But 
these  exterior  signs  are  only  transient  circum- 
stances, which  are  easily  discoverable.  It  has 
therefore  always  been  my  object  to  consider  the 
general  and  fundamental  character  of  the  man, 
from  which,  according  to  the  state  of  his  exte- 
rior circumstances  and  relations,  all  his  passions 
arise  as  from  a  root."* 

The  following  anecdote  is  related  by  his  son- 
in-law,  G.  Gessner,  as  an  instance  of  his  prac- 
tical skill  in  this  science.  "  A  person  to  whom 
he  was  an  entire  stranger  was  once  announced 
and  introduced  to  him  as  a  visitor.  The  first 
idea  that  rose  in  his  mind,  the  moment  he  saw 
him,  was :  '  This  man  is  a  murderer.'  He  how- 
ever immediately  suppressed  the  thought  as 
unjustifiably  hasty  and  severe,  and  conversed 
with  the  person  with  his  accustomed  civility. 
The  cultivated  understanding,  extensive  infor- 
mation and  ease  of  manner  which  he  discovered 
in  his  visitor,  inspired  him  with  the  highest  re- 
spect for  his  intellectual  endowments ;  and  his 
esteem  for  these,  added  to  his  natural  candor 
and  benevolence,  induced  him  to  disregard  the 
unfavorable  impression  he  had  received  from 
his  first  appearance,  with  respect  to  his  moral 

*  From  a  conversation  with  the  Emperor  Joseph  II., 
quoted  by  Holcroft. 


character.  The  next  day  he  dined  with  him 
by  invitation ;  but  soon  after  it  was  known  that 
this  accomplished  gentleman  was  one  of  the 
assassins  of  the  late  king  of  Sweden  ;  and  he 
found  it  advisable  to  leave  the  country  as  soon 
as  possible." 

The  following  extracts  from  Goethe's  remi- 
niscences of  Lavater,  contained  in  the  "  Dicht- 
ung  und  Wahrheit"  give  us  the  reflection  of 
his  personality  in  a  mind  of  a  very  different 
order  from  his  own. 

"  Not  long  after  this,  I  came  into  connection 
with  Lavater  also.  The  '  Letter  of  a  Pastor 
to  his  Colleagues'*  had  been  very  luminous  to 
him,  in  passages ;  for  there  was  much  in  it  that 
fully  coincided  with  his  own  sentiments.  With 
his  ceaseless  driving,  our  correspondence  soon 
became  very  brisk.  He  was  just  making  ear- 
nest preparations  for  his  larger  Physiognomik. 
He  called  upon  everybody  to  send  him  draw- 
ings, profiles,  but  especially  pictures  of  Christ; 
and  although  what  I  could  render  in  this  way 
amounted  to  almost  nothing,  he  insisted  upon 
it,  once  for  all,  that  he  would  have  a  Saviour 
drawn  according  to  my  conception  of  him. 
Such  requisitions  of  the  impossible  gave  rise  to 
many  jests,  and  I  knew  no  other  way  of  defend- 
ing myself  against  his  peculiarities  but  by  turn- 
ing out  my  own."  *  *  *  "He  had  com- 
missioned a  not  unskilful  painter  in  Frankfort 
to  send  him  the  profiles  of  several  individuals 
whom  he  mentioned.  The  sender  allowed 
himself  the  jest  of  sending  Bahrdt's  portrait  at 
first,  instead  of  mine ;  whereupon  came  back  a 
pleasant  indeed,  but  a  thundering  epistle,  with 
all  sorts  of  trumps  and  asseverations  that  this 
could  not  be  my  picture,  and  with  whatever  else 
Lavater,  on  such  an  occasion,  might  have  to 
say  in  confirmation  of  his  physiognomical  doc- 
trine." "The  idea  of  humanity  which  had 
formed  itself  in  him  from  his  own  humanity 
was  so  intimately  connected  with  the  concep- 
tion of  Christ,  which  he  carried  living  within 
him,  that  it  was  inconceivable  to  him,  how  a 
man  could  live  and  breathe  without  being  a 
Christian."  "  One  must  either  be  a  Christian 
with  him,  a  Christian  after  his  sort,  or  one  must 
draw  him  over  to  one's  self,  and  convince  him, 
too,  of  the  truth  of  that  in  which  one  found  re- 
pose. This  requisition,  so  immediately  opposed 
to  the  liberal,  cosmopolitan  feeling  to  which  I 
gradually  confessed  myself,  had  not  the  best 

*  One  of  Goethe's  youthful  productions. 


190 


LAVA  TER. 


effect  with  me.  All  attempts  at  conversion, 
when  they  are  unsuccessful,  render  the  intended 
proselyte  obstinate  and  hardened ;  and  this  was 
my  case ;  the  rather  when  Lavater  came  for- 
ward at  last  with  the  hard  dilemma;  'Either 
Christian  or  atheist'  I  replied  to  this,  that  if 
he  would  not  leave  me  my  Christianity,  as  I 
had  hitherto  cherished  it,  I  could  perhaps  make 
up  my  mind  to  atheism ;  especially,  since  I  saw 
that  no  one  knew  exactly  what  was  meant  by 
either." 

"  Our  first  meeting  was  hearty;  we  embraced 
in  the  most  friendly  manner,  and  I  immediately 
found  him  as  he  had  been  represented  to  me  in 
so  many  pictures.  An  individual,  unique,  dis- 
tinguished in  a  way  which  has  not  been  seen 
and  will  not  be  seen  again,  I  saw  living  and 
effective  before  me.  He,  on  the  contrary,  be- 
trayed in  the  first  moment,  by  sundry  singular 
exclamations,  that  he  had  expected  me  other- 
wise. Whereupon  I  told  him,  agreeably  to  my 
inborn  and  incultivated  realism,  that  since  God 
and  Nature  had  once  for  all  been  pleased  to 
make  me  so,  we  too  would  content  ourselves 
with  that.  Now,  the  most  important  points 
upon  which  we  had  been  least  able  to  agree  in 
our  letters,  came  indeed  into  immediate  discus- 
sion ;  but  space  was  not  allowed  us  for  a  tho- 
rough treatment  of  them,  and  I  experienced 
what  had  never  occurred  to  me  before. 

"  We  others,  when  we  wished  to  discuss  mat- 
ters of  the  mind  and  heart,  were  accustomed  to 
withdraw  ourselves  from  the  crowd,  and  even 
from  society ;  because,  with  the  manifold  ways 
of  thinking  and  different  stages  of  culture,  it  is 
difficult  to  come  to  an  understanding  even  with 
a  few.  But  Lavater  was  of  quite  a  different 
mind.  He  loved  to  extend  his  operations  far 
and  wide.  He  was  never  at  home  but  in  the 
congregation,  for  the  instruction  and  entertain- 
ment of  which  he  had  a  special  talent,  based 
on  his  great  physiognomical  gift.  To  him  was 
given  a  correct  discernment  of  persons  and  of 
spirits ;  so  that  he  saw  in  each  one  quickly  what 
was  the  probable  state  of  his  mind."  "  The 
profound  meekness  of  his  look,  the  determined 
loveliness  of  his  lips,  even  his  true-hearted 
Swiss  dialect  which  sounded  through  his  High 
German, — and  how  much  else  that  distinguish- 
ed him  —  imparted  to  every  one  with  whom  he 
conversed  the  most  agreeable  repose  of  mind. 
Even  his  somewhat  forward  bending  position 
of  the  body — a  consequence  of  his  flat  chest — 
contributed  not  a  little  to  equalize  the  prepon- 


derance of  his  presence  with  the  rest  of  the 

company. 

"Toward  assumption  and  conceit  he  knew 
how  to  bear  himself  very  quietly  and  dexter- 
ously. For  while  he  seemed  to  evade,  he  turned 
forth  suddenly  some  great  view,  which  the  nar- 
row-minded opponent  could  never  have  thought 
of,  like  a  diamond  shield ;  and  yet  knew  then 
how  to  temper  the  light  which  flashed  from  it 
so  agreeably,  that  men  of  this  kind  generally 
felt  themselves  instructed  and  convinced,  at 
least  in  his  presence.  Perhaps  the  impression 
may  have  continued  with  many ;  for  selfish  men 
may  be  good  too,  at  the  same  time.  All  that  is 
required  is  that  the  hard  shell  which  encloses 
the  fruitful  kernel  should  be  dissolved  by  a  gen- 
tle influence." 

"  For  me  the  intercourse  with  Lavater  was 
highly  important  and  instructive."  "  Very  re- 
markable and  rich  in  results  for  me  were  the 
conversations  of  Lavater  with  the  Fraulein  von 
Klettenberg.  Here  now  stood  two  decided 
Christians  over  against  each  other,  and  it  was 
plain  to  see  how  the  same  confession  changes 
its  aspect  with  the  sentiments  of  different  indi- 
viduals,"—  "how  men  and  women  need  a  dif- 
ferent Savior.  Fraulein  von  Klettenberg  related 
to  her's,  as  to  a  lover  to  whom  one  yields  one- 
self unconditionally."  "  Lavater,  on  the  other 
hand,  treated  his  as  a  friend  whom  one  emulates 
without  envy,  and  full  of  love." 

"Notwithstanding  the  religious  and  moral, 
but  by  no  means  anxious  tendency  of  his  mind, 
he  was  not  insensible  when  the  spirits  were 
stimulated  to  cheerfulness  and  mirth  by  the 
events  of  life.  He  was  sympathizing,  ingenious 
and  witty,  and  loved  the  same  in  others,  pro- 
vided it  remained  within  the  bounds  which  his 
delicate  feelings  prescribed  to  him.  If  one 
ventured  beyond  these,  he  used  to  pat  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  call  the  offender  to  order 
with  a  true-hearted  "  Behave  now  !"* 

"  One  became  virginal  by  his  side,  in  order 
not  to  touch  him  with  anything  disgusting." 

"  Lavater's  mind  was  altogether  imposing. 
In  his  neighborhood  one  could  not  resist  a  de- 
cided influence." 

"He  who  feels  a  synthesis  right  pregnant 
within  himself,  has  properly  the  right  to  ana- 
lyze ;  because,  in  external  particulars,  he  proves 
and  legitimates  his  inward  whole.  Of  Lavater's 
manner  of  proceeding  in  this  matter  be  one  only 

*  "  Bisch  guet"  "  be  good."   Swiss  dialect. 


LAVATER. 


191 


example  given.  Sundays,  after  the  sermon,  he 
was  required,  as  minister,  to  present  the  short- 
handled  velvet  bag  to  each  one  who  came  out, 
and  to  receive  the  alms  with  a  blessing.  Now 
he  would  impose  it  upon  himself  e.  g.  this  Sun- 
day, to  look  no  one  in  the  face,  but  only  to 
watch  the  hands,  and  to  interpret  to  himself 
their  form.  And  not  only  the  form  of  the  fingers, 
but  their  expression  in  dropping  the  gift,  did 
not  escape  his  attention ;  and  he  had  much  to 
communicate  to  me  about  it  afterward.  How 
instructive  and  stimulating  must  such  commu- 
nications be  to  me  who  was  also  on  the  way  to 
qualify  myself  for  a  painter  of  men  !" 

"  Lavater's  mind  inclined  strictly  to  realism. 
He  knew  nothing  ideal,  except  under  a  moral 
form.    If  we  hold  fast  this  idea,  we  shall  best 


understand  a  rare  and  singular  man."  "  Scarcely 
ever  was  there  one  more  passionately  concerned 
to  be  rightly  known  than  he ;  and  it  was  this, 
especially,  which  qualified  him  for  a  teacher." 

"  The  realization  of  the  person  of  Christ  was 
his  favourite  object." 

"  Every  talent,  which  is  founded  in  a  decided 
natural  tendency,  appears  to  us  to  have  some- 
thing magical,  because  we  cannot  classify  it  or 
its  effects,  under  an  idea.  And,  really,  Lava- 
ter's insight  into  individual  men  transcended 
all  ideas.  It  was  astounding  to  hear  him,  when 
he  spoke  confidentially  of  this  or  that  person ; 
nay,  it  was  fearful  to  live  in  the  vicinity  of  a 
man  by  whom  every  limit,  with  which  Nature 
has  been  pleased  to  limit  us  individuals,  was 
clearly  perceived !" 


ON  THE  NATURE  OF  MAN,  WHICH  IS 
THE  FOUNDATION  OF  THE  SCIENCE 
OF  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

Of  all  earthly  creatures  man  is  the  most  per- 
fect, the  most  imbued  with  the  principles  of 
life. 

Each  particle  of  matter  is  an  immensity ;  each 
leaf  a  world;  each  insect  an  inexplicable  com- 
pendium. Who  then  shall  enumerate  the  grada- 
tions between  insect  and  man?  In  him  all  the 
powers  of  nature  are  united.  He  is  the  essence 
of  creation.  The  son  of  earth,  he  is  the  earth's 
lord;  the  summary  and  central  point  of  all  exist- 
ence, of  all  powers,  and  of  all  life,  on  that  earth 
which  he  inhabits. 

Of  all  organized  beings  with  which  we  are 
acquainted,  man  alone  excepted,  there  are  none 
in  which  are  so  wonderfully  united  the  three 
different  kinds  of  life,  the  animal,  the  intellectual, 
and  the  moral.  Each  of  these  lives  is  the  com- 
pendium of  various  faculties,  most  wonderfully 
compounded  and  harmonized. 

To  know,  to  desire,  to  act,  or  accurately  to 
observe  and  meditate ;  to  perceive  and  to  wish ; 
to  possess  the  powers  of  motion  and  of  resist- 
ance ;  these  combined,  constitute  man  an  animal, 
intellectual,  and  moral  being. 

Man,  endowed  with  these  faculties,  with  this 
triple  life,  is  in  himself  the  most  worthy  subject 
of  observation,  as  he  likewise  is  himself  the 
most  worthy  observer.  Under  whatever  point 
of  view  he  may  be  considered,  what  is  more 
worthy  of  contemplation  than  himself?  In  him 
each  species  of  life  is  conspicuous ;  yet  never 
can  his  properties  be  wholly  known,  except  by 
the  aid  of  his  external  form,  his  body,  his  super- 
ficies. How  spiritual,  how  incorporeal  soever, 
his  internal  essence  may  be,  still  is  he  only  visi- 
ble and  conceivable  from  the  harmony  of  his 
constituent  parts.  From  these  he  is  inseparable. 


He  exists  and  moves  in  the  body  he  inhabits, 
as  in  his  element.  This  material  man  must  be- 
come the  subject  of  observation.  All  the  know- 
ledge we  can  obtain  of  man  must  be  gained 
through  the  medium  of  our  senses. 

This  threefold  life,  which  man  cannot  be  de- 
nied to  possess,  necessarily  first  becomes  the 
subject  of  disquisition  and  research,  as  it  pre- 
sents itself  in  the  form  of  body,  and  in  such  of 
his  faculties  as  are  apparent  to  sense. 

There  is  no  object  in  nature,  the  properties 
and  powers  of  which  can  be  manifest  to  us  in 
any  other  manner  than  by  such  external  ap- 
pearances as  affect  the  senses.  By  these  all 
beings  are  characterized.  They  are  the  founda- 
tions of  all  human  knowledge.  Man  must 
wander  in  the  darkest  ignorance,  equally  with 
respect  to  himself  and  the  objects  that  surround 
him,  did  he  not  become  acquainted  with  their 
properties  and  powers  by  the  aid  of  their  ex- 
ternals ;  and  had  not  each  object  a  character 
peculiar  to  its  nature  and  essence,  which  ac- 
quaints us  with  what  it  is,  and  enables  us  to 
distinguish  it  from  what  it  is  not. 

All  bodies  which  we  survey  appear  to  sight 
under  a  certain  form  and  superficies.  We  be- 
hold those  outlines  traced  which  are  the  result 
of  their  organization.  I  hope  I  shall  be  pardoned 
the  repetition  of  such  commonplace  truths,  since 
on  these  are  built  the  science  of  physiognomy, 
or  the  proper  study  of  man.  However  true  these 
axioms,  with  respect  to  visible  objects,  and  par- 
ticularly to  organized  bodies,  they  are  still  more 
extensively  true  when  applied  to  man,  and  his 
nature.  The  organization  of  man  peculiarly 
distinguishes  him  from  all  other  earthly  beings; 
and  his  physiognomy,  that  is  to  say,  the  superfi- 
cies and  outlines  of  this  organization,  show  him 
to  be  infinitely  superior  to  all  those  visible  be- 
ings by  which  he  is  surrounded. 

We  are  unacquainted  with  any  form  equally 


.92 


LAVATER. 


noble,  equally  majestic,  with  that  of  man,  and 
in  which  so  many  kinds  of  life,  so  many  powers, 
so  many  virtues  of  action  and  motion,  unite,  as 
in  a  central  point.  With  firm  step  he  advances 
over  the  earth's  surface,  and  with  erect  body 
raises  his  head  toward  heaven.  He  looks  for- 
ward to  infinitude ;  he  acts  with  facility,  and 
swiftness  inconceivable,  and  his  motions  are 
the  most  immediate  and  the  most  varied.  By 
whom  may  their  varieties  be  enumerated?  He 
can  at  once  both  suffer  and  perform  infinitely 
more  than  any  other  creature.  He  unites  flexi- 
bility and  fortitude,  strength  and  dexterity,  acti- 
vity and  rest.  Of  all  creatures  he  can  the  soonest 
yield,  and  the  longest  resist.  None  resemble 
him  in  the  variety  and  harmony  of  his  powers. 
His  faculties,  like  his  form,  are  peculiar  to  him- 
self. 

How  much  nobler,  more  astonishing,  and  more 
attractive  will  this  form  become,  when  we  dis- 
cover that  it  is  itself  the  interpreter  of  all  the 
high  powers  it  possesses,  active  and  passive! 
Only  in  those  parts  in  which  animal  strength 
and  properties  reside  does  it  resemble  animals. 
But  how  much  is  it  exalted  above  the  brute  in 
those  parts  in  which  are  the  powers  of  superior 
origin,  the  powers  of  mind,  of  motion! 

The  form  and  proportion  of  man,  his  superior 
height,  capable  of  so  many  changes,  and  such 
variety  of  motion,  prove  to  the  unprejudiced 
observer  his  supereminent  strength,  and  asto- 
nishing facility  of  action.  The  high  excellence 
and  physiological  unity  of  human  nature  are 
visible  at  the  first  glance.  The  head,  especially 
the  face,  and  the  formation  of  the  firm  parts, 
compared  to  the  firm  parts  of  other  animals, 
convince  the  accurate  observer,  who  is  capable 
of  investigating  truth,  of  the  greatness  and  su- 
periority of  his  intellectual  qualities.  The  eye, 
the  look,  the  cheeks,  the  mouth,  the  forehead, 
whether  considered  in  a  state  of  entire  rest  or 
during  their  innumerable  varieties  of  motion, 
in  fine,  all  that  is  understood  by  physiognomy, 
is  the  most  expressive,  the  most  convincing 
picture  of  interior  sensation,  desires,  passions, 
will,  and  of  all  those  properties  which  so  much 
exalt  moral  above  animal  life. 

Although  the  physiological,  intellectual,  and 
moral  life  of  man,  with  all  their  subordinate 
powers  and  their  constituent  parts,  so  eminently 
unite  in  one  being;  although  these  tlv.ee  kinds 
of  life  do  not.  like  three  distinct  families,  reside 
in  separate  parts,  or  stories  of  the  body ;  but  co- 
exist in  one  point,  and  by  their  combination 
form  one  whole  ;  yet  is  it  plain  that  each  of 
these  powers  of  life  has  its  peculiar  station, 
where  it  more  especially  unfolds  itself,  and  acts. 

It  is  beyond  contradiction  evident  that,  though 
physiological  or  animal  life  displays  itself 
through  all  the  body,  and  especially  through  all 
the  animal  parts,  yet  does  it  act  most  conspicu- 
ously in  the  arm,  from  the  shoulder  to  the  ends 
of  the  fingers. 

It  is  equally  clear  that  intellectual  life,  or  the 
powers  of  the  understanding  and  the  mind, 


make  themselves  most  apparent  in  the  circum- 
ference and  form  of  the  solid  parts  of  the  head, 
especially  the  forehead ;  though  they  will  dis- 
cover themselves  to  an  attentive  and  accurate 
eye  in  every  part  and  point  of  the  human  body, 
by  the  congeniality  and  harmony  of  the  various 
parts,  as  will  be  frequently  noticed  in  the  course 
of  this  work.  Is  there  any  occasion  to  prove 
that  the  power  of  thinking  resides  neither  in  the 
foot,  in  the  hand,  nor  in  the  back ;  but  in  the 
head,  and  its  internal  parts? 

The  moral  life  of  man,  particularly,  reveals 
itself  in  the  lines,  marks,  and  transitions  of  the 
countenance.  His  moral  powers  and  desires, 
his  irritability,  sympathy,  and  antipathy ;  his 
facility  of  attracting  or  repelling  the  objects  that 
surround  him  ;  these  are  all  summed  up  in,  and 
painted  upon,  his  countenance  when  at  rest. 
When  any  passion  is  called  into  action,  such 
passion  is  depicted  by  the  motion  of  the  mus- 
cles, and  these  motions  are  accompanied  by  a 
strong  palpitation  of  the  heart.  If  the  counte- 
nance be  tranquil,  it  always  denotes  tranquillity 
in  the  region  of  the  heart  and  breast. 

This  threefold  life  of  man,  so  intimately  in- 
terwoven through  his  frame,  is  still  capable  of 
being  studied  in  its  different  appropriate  parts; 
and  did  Mre  live  in  a  less  depraved  world  we 
should  find  sufficient  data  for  the  science  of 
physiognomy. 

The  animal  life,  the  lowest  and  most  earthly, 
would  discover  itself  from  the  rim  of  the  belly 
to  the  organs  of  generation,  which  would  become 
its  central  or  focal  point.  The  middle  or  moral 
life  would  be  seated  in  the  breast,  and  the  heart 
would  be  its  central  point.  The  intellectual 
life,  which  of  the  three  is  supreme,  would  reside 
in  the  head,  and  have  the  eye  for  its  centre.  If 
we  take  the  countenance  as  the  representative 
and  epitome  of  the  three  divisions,  then  will  the 
forehead,  to  the  eyebrows,  be  the  mirror,  or 
image,  of  the  understanding;  the  nose  and 
cheeks  the  image  of  the  moral  and  sensitive 
life;  and  the  mouth  and  chin  the  image  of  the 
animal  life ;  while  the  eye  will  be  to  the  whole 
as  its  summary  and  centre.  I  may  also  add 
that  the  closed  mouth  at  the  moment  of  most 
perfect  tranquillity  is  the  central  point  of  the 
radii  of  the  countenance.  It  cannot  however 
too  often  be  repeated  that  these  three  lives,  by 
their  intimate  connection  with  each  other,  are 
all,  and  each,  expressed  in  every  part  of  the 
body. 

What  we  have  hitherto  said  is  so  clear,  so 
well  known,  so  universal,  that  we  should  blush 
to  insist  upon  such  common-place  truths,  were 
they  not,  first,  the  foundation  on  which  we  must 
build  all  we  have  to  propose ;  and,  again,  had 
not  these  truths  (can  it  be  believed  by  futurity?) 
in  this  our  age  been  so  many  thousand  times 
mistaken  and  contested,  with  the  most  incon- 
ceivable affectation. 

The  science  of  physiognomy,  whether  under- 
stood in  the  most  enlarged  or  most  confined 
sense,  indubitably  depends  on  these  general  and 


LAVATER. 


193 


incontrovertible  principles;  yet,  incontrovertible 
as  they  are,  they  have  not  been  without  their 
opponents.  Men  pretend  to  doubt  of  the  most 
striking,  the  most  convincing,  the  most  self-evi- 
dent truths;  although,  were  these  destroyed, 
neither  truth  nor  knowledge  would  remain. 
They  do  not  profess  to  doubt  concerning  the 
physiognomy  of  other  natural  objects,  yet  do 
they  doubt  the  physiognomy  of  human  nature ; 
the  first  object,  the  most  worthy  of  contempla- 
tion, and  the  most  animated  which  the  realms 
of  nature  contain. 

OF  THE  TRUTH  OF  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

All  countenances,  all  forms,  all  created  beings, 
are  not  only  different  from  each  other  in  their 
classes,  races,  and  kinds,  but  are  also  individu- 
ally distinct. 

Each  being  differs  from  every  other  being  of 
its  species.  However  generally  known,  it  is  a 
truth  the  most  important  to  our  purpose,  and 
necessary  to  repeat,  that,  "  There  is  no  rose  per- 
fectly similar  to  another  rose,  no  egg  to  an  egg, 
no  eel  to  an  eel,  no  lion  to  a  lion,  no  eagle  to  an 
eagle,  no  man  to  a  man." 

Confining  this  proposition  to  man  only,  it  is 
the  first,  the  most  profound,  most  secure,  and 
unshaken  foundation-stone  of  physiognomy  that, 
however  intimate  the  analogy  and  similarity  of 
the  innumerable  forms  of  men,  no  two  men  can 
be  found  who,  brought  together,  and  accurately 
compared,  will  not  appear  to  be  very  remark- 
ably different. 

Nor  is  it  less  incontrovertible  that  it  is  equally 
impossible  to  find  two  minds,  as  two  counte- 
nances, which  perfectly  resemble  each  other. 

This  consideration  alone  will  be  sufficient  to 
make  it  received  as  a  truth,  not  requiring  farther 
demonstration,  that  there  must  be  a  certain  na- 
tive analogy  between  the  external  varieties  of 
the  countenance  and  form,  and  the  internal  va- 
rieties of  the  mind.  Shall  it  be  denied  that  this 
acknowledged  internal  variety  among  all  men 
is  the  cause  of  the  external  variety  of  their  forms 
and  countenances  ?  Shall  it  be  affirmed  that 
the  mind  does  not  influence  the  body,  or  that 
the  body  does  not  influence  the  mind? 

Anger  renders  the  muscles  protuberant;  and 
shall  not  therefore  an  angry  mind  and  protube- 
rant muscles  be  considered  as  cause  and  effect  ? 

After  repeated  observation  that  an  active  and 
vivid  eye  and  an  active  and  acute  wit  are  fre- 
quently found  in  the  same  person,  shall  it  be 
supposed  that  there  is  no  relation  between  the 
active  eye  and  the  active  mind1?  Is  this  the 
effect  of  accident  ?  Of  accident !  Ought  it  not 
rather  to  be  considered  as  sympathy,  an  inter- 
changeable and  instantaneous  effect,  when  we 
perceive  that,  at  the  very  moment  the  under- 
standing is  most  acute  and  penetrating  and  the 
wit  the  most  lively,  the  motion  and  fire  of  the 
eye  undergo,  at  that  moment,  the  most  visible 
change  ? 

Shall  the  open,  friendly,  and  unsuspecting 
eye  and  the  open,  friendly,,  and  unsuspecting 
z 


heart  be  united  in  a  thousand  instances,  and 
shall  we  say  the  one  is  not  the  cause,  the  other 
the  effect? 

Shall  nature  discover  wisdom  and  order  in 
all  things;  shall  corresponding  causes  and  ef- 
fects be  everywhere  united  ;  shall  this  be  the 
most  clear,  the  most  indubitable  of  truths;  and 
in  the  first,  the  most  noble  of  the  works  of  na- 
ture, shall  she  act  arbitrarily,  without  design, 
without  law?  The  human  countenance,  that 
mirror  of  the  Divinity,  that  noblest  of  the  works 
of  the  Creator,  —  shall  not  motive  and  action, 
shall  not  the  correspondence  between  the  inte- 
rior and  the  exterior,  the  visible  and  the  invisi- 
ble, the  cause  and  the  effect,  be  there  apparent? 

Yet  this  is  all  denied  by  those  who  oppose 
the  truth  of  the  science  of  physiognomy. 

Truth,  according  to  them,  is  ever  at  variance 
with  itself.  Eternal  order  is  degraded  to  a  jug- 
gler, whose  purpose  it  is  to  deceive. 

Calm  reason  revolts  at  the  supposition  that 
Newton  or  Leibnitz  ever  could  have  the  coun- 
tenance and  appearance  of  an  idiot,  incapable 
of  a  firm  step,  a  meditating  eye  ;  of  compre- 
hending the  least  difficult  of  abstract  proposi- 
tions, or  of  expressing  himself  so  as  to  be  un- 
derstood ;  that  one  of  these  in  the  brain  of  a 
Laplander  conceived  his  Theodica ;  and  that 
the  other  in  the  head  of  an  Esquimaux,  who 
wants  the  power  to  number  farther  than  six, 
and  affirms  all  beyond  to  be  innumerable,  had 
dissected  the  rays  of  light,  and  weighed  worlds. 

Calm  reason  revolts  when  it  is  asserted  that  the 
strong  man  may  appear  perfectly  like  the  weak, 
the  man  in  full  health  like  another  in  the  last 
stage  of  a  consumption,  or  that  the  rash  and 
irascible  may  resemble  the  cold  and  phlegmatic. 
It  revolts  to  hear  it  affirmed  that  joy  and  grief, 
pleasure  and  pain,  love  and  hatred,  all  exhibit 
themselves  under  the  same  traits;  that  is  to 
say,  under  no  traits  whatever,  on  the  exterior 
of  man.  Yet  such  are  the  assertions  of  those 
who  maintain  physiognomy  to  be  a  chimerical 
science.  They  overturn  all  that  order  and  com- 
bination by  which  eternal  wisdom  so  highly 
astonishes  and  delights  the  understanding.  It 
cannot  be  too  emphatically  repeated,  that  blind 
chance  and  arbitrary  disorder  constitute  the 
philosophy  of  fools ;  and  that  they  are  the  bane 
of  natural  knowledge,  philosophy  and  religion. 
Entirely  to  banish  such  a  system  is  the  duty  of 
the  true  inquirer,  the  sage,  and  the  divine. 

All  men,  (this  is  indisputable),  absolutely  all 
men,  estimate  all  tilings  whatever  by  their 
physiognomy,  their  exterior,  temporary  superfi- 
cies. By  viewing  these  on  every  occasion,  they 
draw  their  conclusions  concerning  their  internal 
properties. 

What  merchant,  if  he  be  unacquainted  with 
the  person  of  whom  he  purchases,  does  not 
estimate  his  wares  by  the  physiognomy  or  ap- 
pearance of  those  wares  ?  If  he  purchase  of  a 
distant  correspondent,  what  other  means  does 
he  use  in  judging  whether  they  are  or  are  not 
equal  to  his  expectation  ?  Is  not  his  judgment 
17  


194 


LAVATER. 


determined  by  the  colour,  the  fineness,  the  su- 
perficies, the  exterior,  the  physiognomy?  Does 
he  not  judge  money  by  its  physiognomy?  Why 
does  he  take  one  guinea  and  reject  another  ? 
Why  weigh  a  third  in  his  hand?  Does  he  not 
determine  according  to  its  colour,  or  impression; 
its  outside,  its  physiognomy  ?  If  a  stranger 
enter  his  shop,  as  a  buyer  or  seller,  will  he  not 
observe  him  ?  Will  he  not  draw  conclusions 
from  his  countenance?  Will  he  not,  almost 
before  he  is  out  of  hearing,  pronounce  some 
opinion  upon  him,  and  say :  '  This  man  has  an 
honest  look,'  'That  man  has  a  pleasing,  or  for- 
bidding, countenance?'  What  is  it  to  the  pur- 
pose whether  his  judgment  be  right  or  wrong? 
He  judges.  Though  not  wholly,  he  depends  in 
part  upon  the  exterior  form,  and  thence  draws 
inferences  concerning  the  mind. 

How  does  the  farmer,  walking  through  his 
grounds,  regulate  his  future  expectations  by  the 
colour,  the  size,  the  growth,  the  exterior  ;  that  is 
to  say,  by  the  physiognomy  of  the  bloom,  the 
stalk,  or  the  ear,  of  his  corn;  the  stem,  and 
shoots  of  his  vine-tree  ?  '  This  ear  of  corn  is 
blighted,'  'That  wood  is  full  of  sap;  this  will 
grow,  that  not,'  affirms  he,  at  the  first  or  second 
glance.  'Though  these  vine-shoots  look  well, 
they  will  bear  but  few  grapes.'  And  where- 
fore ?  He  remarks,  in  their  appearance,  as  the 
physiognomist  in  the  countenances  of  shallow 
men,  the  want  of  native  energy.  Does  not  he 
judge  by  the  exterior? 

Does  not  the  physician  pay  more  attention  to 
the  physiognomy  of  the  sick  than  to  all  the  ac- 
counts that  are  brought  him  concerning  his 
patient?  Zimmermann,  among  the  living,  may 
be  brought  as  a  proof  of  the  great  perfection  at 
which  this  kind  of  judgment  has  arrived;  and 
among  the  dead,  Kempf,  whose  son  has  written 
a  treatise  on  Temperament. 

The  painter  Yet  of  him  I  will  say  no- 
thing ;  his  art  too  evidently  reproves  the  childish 
and  arrogant  prejudices  of  those  who  pretend  to 
disbelieve  physiognomy. 

The  traveller,  the  philanthropist,  the  misan- 
thrope, the  lover,  (and  who  not?)  all  act  ac- 
cording to  their  feelings  and  decisions,  true  or 
false,  confused  or  clear,  concerning  physiognomy. 
These  feelings,  these  decisions,  excite  compas- 
sion, disgust,  joy,  love,  hatred,  suspicion,  confi- 
dence, reserve,  or  benevolence. 

Do  we  not  daily  judge  of  the  sky  by  its  phy- 
siognomy? No  food,  not  a  glass  of  wine  or 
beer,  not  a  cup  of  coffee  or  tea,  comes  to  table, 
which  is  not  judged  by  its  physiognomy,  its  ex- 
terior, and  of  which  we  do  not  thence  deduce 
some  conclusion  respeciing  its  interior,  good  or 
bad  properties. 

Is  not  all  nature  physiognomy,  superficies 
and  contents;  body,  and  spirit;  exterior  effect 
and  internal  power ;  invisible  beginning  and 
visible  ending? 

f  What  knowledge  is  there,  of  which  man  is 
capable,  that  is  not  founded  on  the  exterior ; 
the  relation  that  exists  between  visible  and 


invisible,  the  perceptible  and  the  impercepti- 
ble ? 

Physiognomy,  whether  understood  in  its  most 
extensive  or  confined  signification,  is  the  origin 
of  all  human  decisions,  efforts,  actions,  expecta- 
tions, fears,  and  hopes;  of  all  pleasing  and  un- 
pleasing  sensations,  which  are  occasioned  by 
external  objects. 

From  the  cradle  to  the-grave,  in  all  conditions 
and  ages,  throughout  all  nations,  from  Adam  to 
the  last  existing  man,  from  the  worm  we  tread 
on  to  the  most  sublime  of  philosophers,  (and 
why  not  to  the  angel,  why  not  to  the  Mediator 
Christ?)  physiognomy  is  the  origin  of  all  we  do 
and  suffer. 

Each  insect  is  acquainted  with  its  friend  and 
its  foe ;  each  child  loves  and  fears,  although  it 
knows  not  why.  Physiognomy  is  the  cause ; 
nor  is  there  a  man  to  be  found  on  earth  who  is 
not  daily  influenced  by  physiognomy;  not  a 
man  who  cannot  figure  to  himself  a  countenance 
which  shall  to  him  appear  exceedingly  lovely, 
or  exceedingly  hateful;  not  a  man  who  does 
not  more  or  less,  the  first  time  he  is  in  company 
with  a  stranger,  observe,  estimate,  compare, 
and  judge  him,  according  to  appearances,  al- 
though he  might  never  have  heard  of  the  word 
or  thing  called  physiognomy ;  not  a  man  who 
does  not  judge  of  all  things  that  pass  through 
his  hands,  by  their  physiognomy;  that  is,  of 
their  internal  worth  by  their  external  appear- 
ance. 

The  art  of  dissimulation  itself,  which  is  ad- 
duced as  so  insuperable  an  objection  to  the  truth 
of  physiognomy,  is  founded  on  physiognomy. 
Why  does  the  hypocrite  assume  the  appearance 
of  an  honest  man,  but  because  that  he  is  con- 
vinced, though  not  perhaps  from  any  systematic 
reflection,  that  all  eyes  are  acquainted  with  the 
characteristic  marks  of  honesty. 

What  judge,  wise  or  unwise,  whether  he  con- 
fess or  deny  the  fact,  does  not  sometimes  in  this 
sense  decide  from  appearances  ?  Who  can,  is, 
or  ought  to  be,  absolutely  indifferent  to  the 
exterior  of  persons  brought  before  him  to  be 
judged  ?*  What  king  would  choose  a  minister 
without  examining  his  exterior,  secretly  at  least, 
and  to  a  certain  extent?  An  officer  will  not 
enlist  a  soldier  without  thus  examining  his  ap- 
pearance, his  height  out  of  the  question.  What 
master  or  mistress  of  a  family  will  choose  a  ser- 
vant without  considering  the  exterior  ;  no  matter 
whether  their  judgment  be  or  be  not  just,  or 
whether  it  be  exercised  unconsciously? 

I  am  wearied  of  citing  instances  so  numerous, 
and  so  continually  before  our  eyes,  to  prove  that 
men,  tacitly  and  unanimously,  confess  the  influ- 
ence which  physiognomy  has  over  their  sensa- 
tions and  actions.  I  feel  disgust  at  being  obliged 
to  write  thus,  in  order  to  convince  the  learned 

*  Franciscus  Valesius  says— Sed  legibus  etiam  civilibus, 
in  quibus  iniquum  sit  censere  esse  aliquid  futile  aut  va- 
rium,  cautum  est  ;  lit  si  duo  homines  inciderent  in  crimi- 
nis  suspicionem,  is  primum  torqueatur  qui  sit  aspectu 
deformior. 


LAVATER. 


105 


of  truths  with  which  every  child  is  or  may  be 
acquainted. 

He  that  hath  eyes  to  see,  let  him  see ;  but 
should  the  light,  by  being  brought  too  close  to 
his  eyes,  produce  phrenzy,  he  may  burn  him- 
self by  endeavouring  to  extinguish  the  torch  of 
truth.  I  use  such  expressions  unwillingly,  but 
I  dare  do  my  duty,  and  my  duty  is  boldly  to 
declare  that  I  believe  myself  certain  of  what  I 
now  and  hereafter  shall  aifirm  ;  and  that  I  think 
myself  capable  of  convincing  all  real  lovers  of 
truth,  by  principles  which  are  in  themselves  in- 
controvertible. It  is  also  necessary  to  confute 
the  pretensions  of  certain  literary  despots,  and 
to  compel  them  to  be  more  cautious  in  their 
decisions.  It  is  therefore  proved,  not  because 
I  say  it,  but  because  it  is  an  eternal  and  mani- 
fest truth,  and  would  have  been  equally  truth, 
had  it  never  been  said,  that,  whether  they  are 
or  are  not  sensible  of  it,  all  men  are  daily  in- 
fluenced by  physiognomy ;  that,  as  Sultzer  has 
affirmed,  every  man,  consciously  or  inconscious- 
ly,  understands  something  of  physiognomy;  nay, 
that  there  is  not  a  living  being  that  does  not, 
at  least  after  its  manner,  draw  some  inferences 
from  the  external  to  the  internal ;  that  does 
not  judge  concerning  that  which  is  not,  by  that 
which  is,  apparent  to  the  senses. 

This  universal,  though  tacit  confession,  that 
the  exterior,  the  visible,  the  superficies  of  ob- 
jects, indicates  their  nature,  their  properties, 
and  that  every  outward  sign  is  the  symbol  of 
some  inherent  quality,  I  hold  to  be  equally 
certain  and  important  to  the  science  of  physi- 
ognomy. 

I  must  once  more  repeat,  when  each  apple, 
each  apricot,  has  a  physiognomy  peculiar  to 
itself,  shall  man,  the  lord  of  earth,  have  none  ? 
The  most  simple  and  inanimate  object  has  its 
characteristic  exterior,  by  which  it  is  not  only 
distinguished  as  a  species,  but  individually; 
and  shall  the  first,  noblest,  best  harmonized, 
and  most  beauteous  of  beings  be  denied  all 
characteristic. 

But  whatever  may  be  objected  against  the 
truth  and  certainty  of  the  science  of  physiog- 
nomy, by  the  most  illiterate,  or  the  most  learn- 
ed ;  how  much  soever  he  who  openly  professes 
faith  in  this  science,  may  be  subject  to  ridicule, 
to  philosophic  pity  and  contempt;  it  still  cannot 
be  contested  that  there  is  no  object,  thus  con- 
sidered, more  important,  more  worthy  of  obser- 
vation, more  interesting  than  man,  nor  any 
occupation  superior  to  that  of  disclosing  the 
beauties  and  perfections  of  human  nature. 

Such  were  my  opinions  six  or  eight  years 
ago.  Will  it  in  the  next  century  be  believed 
that  it  is  still,  at  this  time,  necessary  to  repeat 
these  things ;  or  that  numerous  obscure  witlings 
continue  to  treat  with  ridicule  and  contempt 
the  general  feelings  of  mankind,  and  observa- 
tions which  not  only  may  be,  but  are  demon- 
strated ;  and  that  they  act  thus  without  having 
refuted  any  one  of  the  principles  at  which  they 
laugh  ;  yet  that  they  are,  notwithstanding,  con- 


tinually repeating  the  words,  philosophy  and 
enlightened  age  1 

OF  THE  UNIVERSALITY   OF  PHYSIOGNOMONIC At 
SENSATION. 

By  physiognomonical  sensation,  I  here  un- 
derstand "  those  feelings  which  are  produced 
at  beholding  certain  countenances,  and  the  con- 
jectures concerning  the  qualities  of  the  mind, 
which  are  produced  by  the  state  of  such  coun- 
tenances, or  of  their  portraits  drawn  or  paint- 
ed." 

This  sensation  is  very  universal ;  that  is  to 
say,  as  certainly  as  eyes  are  in  any  man  or  any 
animal,  so  certainly  are  they  accompanied  by 
physiognomonical  sensations.  Different  sensa- 
tions are  produced  in  each  by  the  different 
forms  that  present  themselves. 

Exactly  similar  sensations  cannot  be  gene- 
rated by  forms  that  are  in  themselves  dif- 
ferent. 

Various  as  the  impressions  maybe  which  the 
same  object  makes  on  various  spectators,  and 
opposite  as  the  judgments  which  may  be  pro- 
nounced on  one  and  the  same  form,  yet  there 
are  certain  extremes,  certain  forms,  physiogno- 
mies, figures,  and  lineaments,  concerning  which 
all,  who  are  not  idiots,  will  agree  in  their  opin- 
ions. So  will  men  be  various  in  their  decisions 
concerning  certain  portraits,  yet  will  be  unani- 
mous concerning  certain  others ;  will  say,  "  this 
is  so  like  it  absolutely  breathes,''  or,  "  this  is 
totally  unlike."  Of  the  numerous  proofs  which 
might  be  adduced  of  the  universality  of  phy- 
siognomonical sensation,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
select  a  few,  to  demonstrate  the  fact. 

I  shall  not  here  repeat  what  I  have  already 
noticed,  on  the  instantaneous  judgment  which 
all  men  give,  when  viewing  exterior  forms.  I 
shall  only  observe  that,  let  any  person,  but  for 
two  days,  remark  all  that  he  hears  or  reads, 
among  men,  and  he  will  everywhere  hear  and 
read,  even  from  the  very  adversaries  of  phy- 
siognomy, physiognomonical  judgments  concern- 
ing men  ;  will  continually  hear  expressions  like 
these :  "  You  might  have  read  it  in  his  eyes," 
"The  look  of  the  man  is  enough,"  "He  has 
an  honest  countenance,"  "  His  manner  sets 
every  person  at  his  ease,"  "He  has  evil  eyes," 
"  You  read  honesty  in  his  looks,"  "  He  has  an 
unhealthy  countenance,"  "I  will  trust  him  for 
his  honest  face,"  "  Should  he  deceive  me,  I 
will  never  trust  man  more,"  "That  man  has 
an  open  countenance,"  "I  suspect  that  insi- 
dious smile,"  "He  cannot  look  any  person  in 
the  face."  The  very  judgments  that  should 
seem  to  militate  against  the  science  are  but 
exceptions  which  confirm  the  universality  of 
physiognomonical  sensation.  "His  appearance 
is  against  him,"  "This  is  what  I  could  not 
have  read  in  his  countenance,"  "  He  is  better 
or  worse  than  his  countenance  bespeaks." 

If  we  observe  mankind,  from  the  most  finish- 
ed courtier,  to  the  lowest  of  the  vulgar,  and 
listen  to  the  remarks  they  make  on  each  other, 


196 


LAVATER. 


we  shall  be  astonished  to  find  how  many  of 
them  are  entirely  physiognomonical. 

I  have  lately  had  such  frequent  occasion  of 
observing  this  among  people  who  do  not  know 
that  I  have  published  any  such  work  as  the 
present,  people,  who  perhaps  never  heard  the 
word  physiognomy,  that  I  am  willing,  at  any 
time,  to  risk  my  veracity  on  the  proof  that  all 
men,  unconsciously,  more  or  less,  are  guided  by 
physiognomonical  sensation. 

Another,  no  less  convincing,  though  not  suf- 
ficiently noticed,  proof  of  the  universality  of 
physiognomonical  sensation,  that  is  to  say,  of 
the  confused  feeling  of  the  agreement  between 
the  internal  character  and  the  external  form,  is 
the  number  of  physiognomonical  terms  to  be 
found  in  all  languages,  and  among  all  nations ; 
or,  in  other  words,  the  number  of  moral  terms, 
which,  in  reality,  are  all  physiognomonical ;  but 
this  is  a  subject  that  deserves  a  separate  trea- 
tise. How  important  would  such  a  treatise  be 
in  extending  the  knowledge  of  languages,  and 
determining  the  precise  meaning  of  words! 
How  new  !    How  interesting! 

Here  I  might  adduce  physiognomonical  pro- 
verbs ;  but  I  have  neither  sufficient  learning  nor 
leisure  to  cite  them  from  all  languages,  so  as 
properly  to  elucidate  the  subject.  To  this  might 
be  added  the  numerous  physiognomonical  traits, 
characters,  and  descriptions,  which  are  so  fre- 
quent in  the  writings  of  the  greatest  poets,  and 
which  so  much  delight  all  readers  of  taste, 
sensibility,  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and 
philanthropy. 

Physiognomonical  sensation  is  not  only  pro- 
duced by  the  sight  of  man,  but  also  by  that 
of  paintings,  drawings,  shades,  and  outlines. 
Scarcely  is  there  a  man  in  a  thousand  who,  if 
such  sketches  were  shown  him,  would  not  of 
himself  form  some  judgment  concerning  them, 
or,  at  least,  who  would  not  readily  attend  to  the 
judgment  formed  by  others. 

ON  FREEDOM  AND  NECESSITY. 

My  opinion,  on  this  profound  and  important 
question,  is,  that  man  is  as  free  as  the  bird  in 
the  cage  ;  he  has  a  determinate  space  for  action 
and  sensation,  beyond  which  he  cannot  pass. 
As  each  man  has  a  particular  circumference  of 
body,  so  has  he  likewise  a  certain  sphere  of 
action.  One  of  the  unpardonable  sins  of  Hel- 
vetius,  against  reason  and  experience,  is,  that 
he  has  assigned  to  education  the  sole  power  of 
forming,  or  deforming  the  mind.  I  doubt  if  any 
philosopher  of  the  present  century  has  imposed 
any  doctrine  upon  the  world  so  insulting  to 
common  sense.  Can  it  be  denied  that  certain 
minds,  certain  frames,  are  by  nature  capable,  or  in- 
capable, of  certain  sensations,  talents,  and  actions'? 

To  force  a  man  to  think  and  feel  like  me,  is 
equal  to  forcing  him  to  have  my  exact  forehead 
and  nose ;  or  to  impart  unto  the  eagle  the  slow- 
ness of  the  snail,  and  to  the  snail  the  swiftness 
of  the  eagle  :  yet  this  is  the  philosophy  of  our 
modern  wits. 


Each  individual  can  but  what  he  can,  is  but 
what  he  is.  He  may  arrive  at,  but  cannot  ex- 
ceed, a  certain  degree  of  perfection,  which 
scourging,  even  to  death  itself,  cannot  make 
him  surpass.  Each  man  must  give  his  own 
standard.  We  must  determine  what  his  pow- 
ers are,  and  not  imagine  what  the  powers  of 
another  might  effect  in  a  similar  situation. 

When,  oh  !  men  and  brethren,  children  of  the 
common  Father,  when  will  you  begin  to  judge 
each  other  justly  7  When  will  you  cease  to  re- 
quire, to  force,  from  the  man  of  sensibility  the 
abstraction  of  the  cold  and  phlegmatic  ;  or  from 
the  cold  and  phlegmatic  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
man  of  sensibility?  When  cease  to  require 
nectarines  from  an  apple-tree,  or  figs  from  the 
vine  ?  Man  is  man,  nor  can  wishes  make  him  an 
angel;  and  each  man  is  an  individual  self,  with 
as  little  ability  to  become  another  self  as  to  be- 
come an  angel.  So  far  as  my  own  sphere  ex- 
tends, I  am  free  ;  within  that  circle  I  can  act.  I, 
to  whom  one  talent  only  has  been  intrusted, 
cannot  act  like  him  who  has  two.  My  talent, 
however,  may  be  well  or  ill  employed.  A  cer- 
tain quantity  of  power  is  bestowed  on  me, 
which  I  may  use,  and  by  use  increase,  by 
want  of  use  diminish,  and  by  misuse  totally 
lose.  But  I  never  can  perform,  with  this  quan- 
tity of  power,  what  might  be  performed  with  a 
double  portion,  equally  well  applied.  Industry 
may  make  near  approaches  to  ingenuity,  and 
ingenuity  to  genius,  wanting  exercise,  or  oppor- 
tunity of  unfolding  itself,  or  rather  may  seem 
to  make  these  approaches;  but  never  can  indus- 
try supply  total  absence  of  genius  or  ingenuity. 
Each  must  remain  what  he  is,  nor  can  he  extend 
or  enlarge  himself  beyond  a  certain  size ;  each 
man  is  a  sovereign  prince,  but,  whether  small 
or  great,  only  in  his  own  principality.  This  he 
may  cultivate  so  as  to  produce  fruits  equal  to 
one  twice  as  large,  that  shall  be  left  half  uncul- 
tivated. But,  though  he  cannot  extend  his  prin- 
cipality, yet,  having  cultivated  it  well,  the  lord 
of  his  neighbours  may  add  that  as  a  gift.  Such 
being  freedom  and  necessity,  it  ought  to  render 
each  man  humble  yet  ardent,  modest  yet  active. 
Hitherto  and  no  farther.  Truth,  physiognomy, 
and  the  voice  of  God,  proclaim  aloud  to  man, 
Be  what  thou  art,  and  become  what  thou  canst. 

The  character  and  countenance  of  every  man 
may  suffer  astonishing  changes;  yet  only  to  a 
oertain  extent.  Each  has  room  sufficient :  the 
least  has  a  large  and  good  field,  which  he  may 
cultivate,  according  to  the  soil ;  but  he  can  only 
sow  such  seed  as  he  has,  nor  can  he  cultivate 
any  other  field  than  that  on  which  he  is  sta- 
tioned. In  the  mansion  of  God,  there  are,  to 
his  glory,  vessels  of  wood,  of  silver,  and  of  gold. 
All  are  serviceable,  all  profitable,  all  capable  of 
divine  uses,  all  the  instruments  of  God  :  but  the 
wood  continues  wood,  the  silver,  silver,  the  gold, 
gold.  Though  the  golden  should  remain  unused, 
still  they  are  gold.  The  wooden  may  be  made 
more  serviceable  than  the  golden,  but  they  con- 
tinue wood.     No  addition,  no  constraint,  no 


LAVATER, 


197 


effort  of  the  mind,  can  give  to  man  another  na- 
ture. Let  each  be  what  he  is,  so  will  he  be 
sufficiently  good,  for  man  himself,  and  God. 
The  violin  cannot  have  the  sound  of  the  flute, 
nor  the  trumpet  of  the  drum.  But  the  violin, 
differently  strung,  differently  fingered,  and  dif- 
ferently bowed,  may  produce  an  infinite  variety 
of  sounds,  though  not  the  sound  of  the  flute. 
Equally  incapable  is  the  drum  to  produce  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet,  although  the  drum  be 
capable  of  infinite  variety. 

I  cannot  write  well  with  a  bad  pen,  but  with 
a  good  one  I  can  write  both  well  and  ill.  Being 
foolish  I  cannot  speak  wisely,  but  I  may  speak 
foolishly  although  wise.  He  who  nothing  pos- 
sesses, can  nothing  give ;  but,  having,  he  may 
give,  or  he  may  refrain.  Though,  with  a  thou- 
sand florins,  I  cannot  buy  all  I  wish,  yet  am  I 
at  liberty  to  choose,  among  numberless  things, 
any  whose  value  does  not  exceed  that  sum.  In 
like  manner  am  I  free,  and  not  free.  The  sum 
of  my  powers,  the  degree  of  my  activity  or  in- 
activity, depend  on  my  internal  and  external 
organization;  on  incidents,  incitements,  men, 
books,  good  or  ill  fortune,  and  the  use  I  may 
make  of  the  quantity  of  power  I  possess.  "  It  is 
not  of  him  that  willeth,  or  of  him  that  runneth, 
but  of  God  that  showeth  mercy.  Nor  may  the 
vessel  say  to  the  potter,  Why  hast  thou  made  me 
thus  ?  But  the  righteous  lord  reapeth  not  where 
he  hath  not  sowed,  nor  gather eth  where  he  hath 
not  strewed.  Yet,  with  justice,  he  demandeth 
five  other  talents  from  him  who  received  five, 
two  from  him  who  received  two,  and  one  from 
him  who  received  one." 

OF  THE  UNIVERSAL   EXCELLENCE   OF  THE  FORM 
OF  MAST. 

The  title  of  this  fragment  is  expressive  of  the 
contents,  or  rather  of  the  very  soul,  of  the  whole 
work ;  therefore,  what  I  may  here  say,  in  a 
separate  section,  may  be  accounted  as  nothing ; 
yet  how  vast  a  subject  of  meditation  may  it 
afford  to  man ! 

Each  creature  is  indispensable  in  the  immen- 
sity of  the  creations  of  God ;  but  each  creature 
does  not  know  it  is  thus  indispensable.  Man 
alone,  of  all  earth's  creatures,  rejoices  in  his 
indispensability. 

No  man  can  render  any  other  man  dispensa- 
ble. The  place  of  no  man  can  be  supplied  by 
another. 

This  belief  of  the  indispensability,  and  indi- 
viduality, of  all  men,  and  in  our  own  metaphy- 
sical indispensability  and  individuality,  is,  again, 
one  of  the  unacknowledged,  the  noble  fruits  of 
physiognomy;  a  fruit  pregnant  with  seeds  most 
precious,  whence  shall  spring  lenity  and  love ! 
Oh!  may  posterity  behold  them  flourish;  may 
future  ages  repose  under  their  shade !  The 
worst,  the  most  deformed,  the  most  corrupt  of 
men,  is  still  indispensable  in  this  world  of  God, 
and  is  more  or  less  capable  of  knowing  his  own 
individuality,  and  unsuppliable  indispensability. 
The  wickedest,  the  most  deformed  of  men,  is 


still  more  noble  than  the  most  beauteous,  most 
perfect  animal. — Contemplate,  oh  man!  what 
thy  nature  is,  not  what  it  might  be,  not  what  is 
wanting.  Humanity,  amid  all  its  distortions,  will 
ever  remain  wondrous  humanity! 

Incessantly  might  I  repeat  doctrines  like  this! 
— Art  thou  better,  more  beauteous,  nobler,  than 
many  others  of  thy  fellow -creatures?  If  so, 
rejoice,  and  ascribe  it  not  to  thyself,  but  to  him 
who,  from  the  same  clay,  formed  one  vessel  for 
honour,  another  for  dishonour;  to  him  who, 
without  thy  advice,  without  thy  prayer,  without 
any  desert  of  thine,  caused  thee  to  be  what  thou 
art. 

Yea,  to  Him  ! — "For  what  hast  thou,  oh  man, 
that  thou  didst  not  receive  ?  Now  if  thou  didst 
receive,  why  dost  thou  glory  as  if  thou  hadst 
not  received?"  "Can  the  eye  say  to  the  hand, 
I  have  no  need  of  thee?"  "He  that  op- 
pressed! the  poor,  reproacheth  his  Maker." 
"  God  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  nations  of 
men." 

Who  feels,  more  deeply,  more  internally,  all 
these  divine  truths  than  the  physiognomist? 
The  true  physiognomist,  who  is  not  merely  a 
man  of  literature,  a  reader,  an  author,  but — a 
man. 

Yes,  I  own,  the  most  humane  physiognomist, 
he  who  so  eagerly  searches  for  whatever  is  good, 
beautiful,  and  noble  in  nature,  who  delights  in 
the  Ideal,  who  duly  exercises,  nourishes,  refines 
his  taste,  with  humanity  more  improved,  more 
perfect,  more  holy,  even  he  is  in  frequent  dan- 
ger, at  least  is  frequently  tempted  to  turn  from 
the  common  herd  of  depraved  men  ;  from  the 
deformed,  the  foolish,  the  apes,  the  hypocrites, 
the  vulgar  of  mankind  ;  in  danger  of  forgetting 
that  the  misshapen  forms,  these  apes,  these  hy- 
pocrites, also  are  men;  and  that,  notwithstand- 
ing all  his  imagined  or  his  real  excellence,  all 
his  noble  feelings,  the  purity  of  his  views,  (and 
who  has  cause  to  boast  of  these?)  all  the  firm- 
ness, the  soundness,  of  his  reason,  the  feelings 
of  his  heart,  the  powers  with  which  he  is  en- 
dowed, although  he  may  appear  to  have  ap- 
proached the  sublime  ideal  of  Grecian  art,  still 
he  is,  very  probably,  from  his  own  moral  defects, 
in  the  eyes  of  superior  beings,  in  the  eyes  of  his 
much  more  righteous  brother,  as  distorted  as  the 
most  ridiculous,  most  depraved,  moral  or  physi- 
cal monster  appears  to  be  in  his  eyes. 

Liable  as  we  are  to  forget  this,  to  be  reminded 
thereof  is  necessary,  both  to  the  writer  and  the 
reader  of  this  work.  Forget  not  that  even  the  wisest 
of  men  are  men.  Forget  not  how  much  positive 
good  may  be  found,  even  in  the  worst;  and  that 
they  are  as  necessary,  as  good  in  their  place,  as 
thou  art.  Are  they  not  equally  indispensable, 
equally  unsuppliable  ?  They  possess  not,  either 
in  mind  or  body,  the  smallest  thing  exactly  as 
thou  dost.  Each  is  wholly  and  in  every  part 
as  individual  as  thou  art. 

Consider  each  as  if  he  were  single  in  the 
universe.  Then  wilt  thou  discover  powers 
and  excellencies  in  him  which,  abstractedly  of 
17* 


198 


LAVATER. 


comparison,  deserve  all  attention  and  admi- 
ration. 

Compare  him,  afterward,  with  others;  his 
similarity,  his  dissimilarity,  to  so  many  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  How  must  this  awaken  thy 
amazement !  How  wilt  thou  value  the  indivi- 
duality, the  indispensability  of  his  being !  How 
wilt  thou  wonder  at  the  harmony  of  his  parts, 
each  contributing  to  form  one  whole,  at  their 
relation,  the  relation  of  his  million-fold  indivi- 
duality, to  such  a  multitude  of  other  individuals ! 
Yes !  We  wonder  and  adore  the  so  simple  yet 
so  infinitely  varied  expression  of  almighty 
power  inconceivable,  so  especially  and  so  glo- 
riously revealed  in  the  nature  of  man. 

No  man  ceases  to  be  a  man,  how  low  soever 
he  may  sink  beneath  the  dignity  of  human  na- 
ture. Not  being  beast,  lie  still  is  capable  of 
amendment,  of  approaching  perfection.  The 
worst  of  faces  still  is  a  human  face.  Humanity 
ever  continues  the  honour  and  ornament  of  man. 

It  is  as  impossible  for  a  brute  animal  to  be- 
come man,  although  he  may,  in  many  actions, 
approach,  or  almost  surpass  him,  as  for  man  to 
become  a  brute,  although  many  men  indulge 
themselves  in  actions  which  we  cannot  view  in 
brutes  without  abhorrence. 

But  the  very  capacity  of  voluntarily  debasing 
himself  in  appearance,  even  below  brutality,  is 
the  honour  and  privilege  of  man.  This  very 
capacity  of  imitating  all  things  by  an  act  of  his 
will,  and  the  power  of  his  understanding, — this 
very  capacity  man  only  has,  beasts  have  not. 
The  countenances  of  beasts  are  not  susceptible 
of  any  remarkable  deterioration,  nor  are  they 
capable  of  any  remarkable  amelioration,  or 
beautifying.  The  worst  of  the  countenances  of 
men  may  be  still  more  debased,  but  they  may, 
also,  to  a  certain  degree,  be  improved  aud  en- 
nobled. 

The  degree  of  perfection  or  degradation,  of 
which  man  is  capable,  cannot  be  described. 

For  this  reason,  the  worst  countenance  has  a 
well-founded  claim  to  the  notice,  esteem,  and 
hope  of  all  good  men. 

Again  ;  in  every  human  countenance,  how- 
ever debased,  humanity  still  is  visible,  that  is, 
the  image  of  the  Deity. 

I  have  seen  the  worst  of  men,  in  their  worst 
of  moments,  yet  could  not  all  their  vice,  blas- 
phemy, and  oppression  of  guilt,  extinguish  the 
light  of  good  that  shone  in  their  countenances ; 
the  spirit  of  humanity,  the  ineffaceable  traits  of 
internal,  eternal  perfectibility. — The  sinner  we 
would  exterminate,  the  man  we  must  embrace. 

Oh  physiognomy !  What  a  pledge  art  thou 
of  the  everlasting  clemency  of  God  toward  man  ! 

Therefore,  inquire  into  nature,  inquire  what 
actually  is. — Therefore,  0  man,  be  man,  in  all  thy 
researches;  form  not  to  thyself  ideal  beings,  for 
thy  standard  of  comparison. 

Wherever  power  is,  there  is  subject  of  admi- 
ration;  and  human,  or,  if  so  you  would  rather, 
divine  power,  is  in  all  men.  Man  is  a  part  of 
the  family  of  men  ;  thou  art  man,  and  every 


other  man  is  a  branch  of  the  same  tree,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  same  body,  is  what  thou  art,  and  is 
more  deserving  regard  than  if  he  were  perfectly 
similar,  had  exactly  the  same  goodness,  the 
same  degree  of  worth  thou  hast;  for  he  would 
then  no  longer  be  the  single,  indispensable,  un- 
suppliable  individual  which  he  now  is.  —  Oh 
man !  Rejoice  with  whatever  rejoices  in  its  ex- 
istence, and  contemn  no  being  whom  God  doth 
not  contemn. 

OF  THE   CONGE XI ALTTT  OF  THE  HUMAJT  FORM. 

In  organization  nature  continually  acts  from 
within  outwards,  from  the  centre  to  the  cir- 
cumference. The  same  vital  powers  that  make 
the  heart  beat  give  the  finger  motion ;  that 
which  roofs  the  scull  arches  the  finger-nail.  Art 
is  at  variance  with  itself;  not  so  nature.  Her 
creation  is  progressive.  From  the  head  to  the 
back,  from  the  shoulder  to  the  arm,  from  the  arm 
to  the  hand,  from  the  hand  to  the  finger,  from 
the  root  to  the  stem,  the  stem  to  the  branch,  the 
branch  to  the  twig,  the  twig  to  the  blossom  and 
fruit,  each  depends  on  the  other,  and  all  on  the 
root;  each  is  similar  in  nature  and  form.  No 
apple  of  one  branch  can,  with  all  its  properties, 
be  the  apple  of  another  ;  not  to  say  another  tree. 
There  is  a  determinate  effect  of  a  determinate 
power.  Through  all  nature  each  determinate 
power  is  productive  only  of  such  and  such  deter- 
minate effects.  The  finger  of  one  body  is  not 
adapted  to  the  hand  of  another  body.  Each  part 
of  an  organized  body  is  an  image  of  the  whole, 
has  the  character  of  the  whole.  The  blood  in 
the  extremity  of  the  finger  has  the  character  of 
the  blood  in  the  heart.  The  same  congeniality 
is  found  in  the  nerves,  in  the  bones.  One  spirit 
lives  in  all.  Each  member  of  the  body  is  in 
proportion  to  that  whole  of  which  it  is  a  part. 
As  from  the  length  of  the  smallest  member,  the 
smallest  joint  of  the  finger,  the  proportion  of  the 
whole,  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  body  may 
be  found,  so  also  may  the  form  of  the  whole 
from  the  form  of  each  single  part.  When  the 
head  is  long,  all  is  long,  or  round  when  the  head 
is  round,  and  square  when  it  is  square.  One 
form,  one  mind,  one  root,  appertain  to  all. 
Therefore  is  each  organized  body  so  much  a 
whole  that,  without  discord,  destruction,  or  de- 
formity, nothing  can  be  added  or  diminished. 
Every  thing  in  man  is  progressive,  every  thing 
congenial;  form,  stature,  complexion,  hair,  skin, 
veins,  nerves,  bones,  voice,  walk,  manner,  style, 
passion,  love,  hatred.  One  and  the  same  spirit 
is  manifest  in  all.  He  has  a  determinate  sphere 
in  which  his  powers  and  sensations  are  allowed, 
within  which  they  may  be  freely  exercised,  but 
beyond  which  he  cannot  pass.  Each  counte- 
nance is,  indeed,  subject  to  momentary  change, 
though  not  perceptible,  even  in  its  solid  parts; 
but  these  changes  are  all  proportionate;  each 
is  measured,  each  proper  and  peculiar  to  the 
I  countenance  in  which  it  takes  place.  The  ca- 
I  pability  of  change  is  limited.  Even  that  which 
I  is  affected,  assumed,  imitated,  heterogeneous, 


LAVATER. 


199 


still  lias  the  properties  of  the  individual,  origi- 
nating in  the  nature  of  the  whole,  and  is  so  de- 
finite that  it  is  only  possible  in  this,  but.  in  no 
other,  being. 

I  almost  blush  to  repeat  this  in  the  present 
age.  Posterity!  what  wilt  thou  think  to  see 
me  obliged  so  often  to  demonstrate  to  pretended 
sages  that  nature  makes  no  emendations?  She 
labours  from  one  to  all.  Hers  is  not  disjointed 
organization ;  not  mosaic  work.  The  more  of 
the  mosaic  there  is  in  the  works  of  artists,  ora- 
tors, or  poets,  the  less  are  they  natural;  the  less 
do  they  resemble  the  copious  streams  of  the 
fountain,  the  stem  extending  itself  to  the  re- 
motest branch. 

The  more  there  is  of  progression,  the  more  is 
there  of  truth,  power,  and  nature;  the  more  ex- 
tensive, general,  durable,  and  noble  is  the  effect. 
The  designs  of  nature  are  the  designs  of  a  mo- 
ment. One  form,  one  spirit,  appears  through 
the  whole.  Thus  nature  forms  her  least  plant, 
and  thus  her  most  exalted  man.  I  shall  have 
effected  nothing  by  my  physiognomonical  la- 
bours if  I  am  not  able  to  destroy  the  opinion, 
so  tasteless,  so  unworthy  of  the  age,  so  opposite 
to  all  sound  philosophy,  that  nature  patches  up 
the  features  of  various  countenances,  in  order  to 
make  one  perfect  countenance ;  and  I  shall 
think  them  well  rewarded  if  the  congeniality, 
uniformity,  and  agreement  of  human  organiza- 
tion be  so  demonstrated  that  he  who  shall  deny 
it  will  be  declared  to  deny  the  light  of  the  sun 
at  noon-day. 

The  human  body  is  a  plant;  each  part  has 
the  character  of  the  stem.  Suffer  me  to  repeat 
this  continually,  since  this  most  evident  of  all 
things  is  continually  controverted,  among  all 
ranks  of  men,  in  words,  deeds,  books,  and  works 
of  art. 

Therefore  it  is  that  I  find  the  greatest  incon- 
gruities in  the  heads  of  the  greatest  masters.  I 
know  no  painter  of  whom  I  can  say  he  has 
thoroughly  studied  the  harmony  of  the  human 
outline,  not  even  Poussin  ;  no,  not  even  Raphael 
himself.  Let  any  one  class  the  forms  of  their 
countenances,  and  compare  them  with  the  forms 
of  nature;  let  him,  for  instance,  draw  the  out- 
lines of  their  foreheads,  and  endeavour  to  find 
similar  outlines  in  nature,  and  he  will  find  in- 
congruities which  could  not  have  been  expected 
in  such  great  masters. 

Excepting  the  too  great  length  and  extent, 
particularly  of  his  human  figures,  Chodowiecki, 
perhaps,  had  the  most  exact  feeling  of  congeni- 
ality, in  caricature  ;  that  is  to  say,  of  the  relative 
propriety  of  the  deformed,  the  humorous,  or 
other  characteristical  members  and  features  ;  for 
as  there  is  conformity  and  congeniality  in  the 
beautiful,  so  is  there  also  in  the  deformed. 
Every  cripple  has  the  distortion  peculiar  to 
himself,  the  effects  of  which  are  extended  to  his 
whole  body.  In  like  manner  the  evil  actions 
of  the  evil,  and  the  good  actions  of  the  good, 
have  a  conformity  of  character,  at  least  they  are 
all  tinged  with  this  conformity  of  character. 


Little  as  this  seems  to  be  remarked  by  poet3 
and  painters,  still  is  it  the  foundation  of  their 
art,  for  wherever  emendation  is  visible,  there 
admiration  is  at  an  end.  Why  has  no  painter 
yet  been  pleased  to  place  the  blue  eye  beside 
the  brown  one?  Yet,  absurd  as  this  would  be, 
no  less  absurd  are  the  incongruities  continually 
encountered  by  the  physiognomonical  eye; — the 
nose  of  Venus  on  the  head  of  a  Madonna.  1  have 
been  assured  by  a  man  of  fashion,  that  at  a  mas- 
querade he,  with  only  the  aid  of  an  artificial  nose, 
entirely  concealed  himself  from  the  knowledge 
of  all  his  acquaintance.  So  much  does  nature 
reject  what  does  not  appertain  to  herself. 

To  render  this  indisputable,  let  a  number  of 
shades  be  taken  and  classed  according  to  the 
foreheads.  We  shall  show,  in  its  place,  that  all 
real  and  possible  human  foreheads  may  be 
classed  under  certain  signs,  and  that  their  classes 
are  not  innumerable.  Let  him  next  class  the 
noses,  then  the  chins  ;  then  let  him  compare  the 
signs  of  the  noses  and  foreheads,  and  he  will 
find  certain  noses  are  never  found  with  certain 
foreheads;  and,  on  the  contrary,  other  certain 
foreheads  are  always  accompanied  by  a  certain 
kind  of  noses,  and  that  the  same  observation  is 
true  with  respect  to  every  other  feature  of  the 
face,  unless  the  movable  features  should  have 
something  acquired  which  is  not  the  work  of 
the  first  formation  and  productive  power  of  na- 
ture, but  of  art,  of  accident,  of  constraint.  Ex- 
periment will  render  this  indisputable.  As  a 
preliminary  amusement  for  the  inquiring  reader, 
I  will  add  what  follows. 

"  Among  a  hundred  profiles  with  circular  fore- 
heads, I  have  never  yet  met  with  one  Roman 
nose.  In  a  hundred  other  square  foreheads  I 
have  scarcely  found  one  in  which  there  were 
not  cavities  and  prominences.  I  never  yet  saw 
a  perpendicular  forehead,  with  strongly  arched 
features,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  countenance, 
the  double  chin  excepted. 

I  meet  no  strong-bowed  eyebrows  combined 
with  bony,  perpendicular  countenances. 

Wherever  the  forehead  is  projecting,  so,  in 
general,  are  the  under  lips,  children  excepted. 

I  have  never  seen  gently  arched  yet  much 
retreating  foreheads  combined  with  a  short 
snub  nose,  which  in  profile  is  sharp  and 
sunken. 

A  visible  nearness  of  the  nose  to  the  eye  is 
always  attended  by  a  visible  wideness  between 
the  nose  and  mouth. 

A  long  covering  of  the  teeth,  or,  in  other 
words,  a  long  space  between  the  nose  and  mouth, 
always  indicates  small  upper  lips.  Length  of 
form  and  face  is  generally  attended  by  well- 
drawn,  fleshy  lips.  I  have  many  further  obser- 
vations in  reserve  on  this  subject,  which  are 
withheld  only  till  further  confirmation  and  pre- 
cision are  obtained.  I  shall  produce  but  one 
more  example,  which  will  convince  all,  who 
possess  acute  physiognomonical  sensation,  how 
great  is  the  harmony  of  all  nature's  forms,  and 
how  much  she  hates  the  incongruous. 


200 


LAVATER. 


Take  two,  three,  or  four  shades  of  men,  re- 
markable for  understanding,  join  the  features  so 
artificially  that  no  defect  shall  appear,  as  far  as 
relates  to  the  act  of  joining;  that  is,  take  the 
forehead  of  one,  add  the  nose  of  a  second,  the 
mouth  of  a  third,  the  chin  of  a  fourth,  and  the 
result  of  this  combination  of  the  signs  of  wisdom 
shall  be  folly.  Folly  is  perhaps  nothing  more 
than  the  annexation  of  some  heterogeneous  ad- 
dition.— 'But  let  these  four  wise  countenances 
be  supposed  congruous?' — Let  them  so  be  sup- 
posed, or  as  nearly  so  as  possible,  still  their 
combination  will  produce  the  signs  of  folly. 

Those,  therefore,  who  maintain  that  conclu- 
sions cannot  be  drawn  from  a  part,  from  a  single 
section  of  the  profile,  to  the  whole,  would  be 
perfectly  right  if  unarbitrary  nature  patched  up 
countenances  like  arbitrary  art ;  but  so  she  does 
not.  Indeed  when  a  man,  being  born  with  un- 
derstanding, becomes  a  fool,  there  an  expression 
of  heterogeneousness  is  the  consequence.  Either 
the  lower  part  of  the  countenance  extends  itself, 
or  the  eyes  acquire  a  direction  not  conformable 
to  the  forehead,  the  mouth  cannot  remain  closed, 
or  the  features  of  the  countenance  in  some  other 
manner,  lose  their  consistency.  All  becomes 
discord;  and  folly,  in  such  a  countenance,  is 
very  manifest.  If  the  forehead  be  seen  alone, 
it  can  only  be  said:  "  So  much  can  or  could,  this 
countenance,  by  nature,  unimpeded  by  acci- 
dent." But  if  the  whole  be  seen,  the  past  and 
present  general  character  may  be  determined. 

Let  him  who  would  study  physiognomy,  study 
the  relation  of  the  constituent  parts  of  the  coun- 
tenance ;  not  having  studied  these  he  has  studied 
nothing. 

He,  and  he  alone,  is  an  accurate  physiogno- 
mist, has  the  true  spirit  of  physiognomy,  who 
possesses  sense,  feeling,  and  sympathetic  per- 
ception of  the  congeniality  and  harmony  of  na- 
ture; and  who  hath  a  similar  sense  and  feeling 
for  all  emendations  and  additions  of  art  and 
constraint.  He  is  no  physiognomist  who  doubts 
of  the  propriety,  simplicity,  and  harmony  of  na- 
ture ;  or  who  has  not  this  physiognomical  essen- 
tial ;  who  supposes  nature  selects  members  to 
form  a  whole,  as  a  compositor  in  a  printing- 
house  takes  letters  to  make  up  a  word  ;  who  can 
suppose  the  works  of  nature  are  the  patchwork 
of  a  harlequin  jacket.  Not  so  is  the  most  insigni- 
ficant of  insects  compounded,  much  less  the  most 
perfect  of  organized  beings,  man.  He  breathes 
not  the  breath  of  wisdom  who  doubts  of  this 
progression,  continuity,  and  simplicity  of  the 
structures  of  nature.  He  wants  a  general  feel- 
ing for  the  works  of  nature,  consequently  of  art, 
the  imitator  of  nature.  I  shall  be  pardoned  this 
warmth.  It  is  necessary.  The  consequences 
are  infinite,  and  extend  to  all  things.  He  has 
the  master-key  of  truth  who  has  this  sensation 
of  the  congeniality  of  nature,  and  by  necessary 
induction  of  the  human  form. 

All  imperfection  in  works  of  art,  productions 
of  the  mind,  moral  actions,  errors  in  judgment; 
all  scepticism,  infidelity,  and  ridicule  of  reli- 


gion, naturally  originate  in  the  want  of  this 
knowledge  and  perception.  He  soars  above  all 
doubt  of  the  Divinity  and  Christ  who  hath  them, 
and  who  is  conscious  of  this  congeniality.  He 
also,  who  at  first  sight  thoroughly  perceives  the 
congeniality  of  the  human  form,  and  feels  that 
from  the  want  of  this  congeniality  arises  the 
difference  observed  between  the  works  of  na- 
ture and  of  art,  is  superior  to  all  doubt  con- 
cerning the  truth  and  divinity  of  the  human 
countenance. 

Those  who  have  this  sense,  this  feeling-,  call 
it  what  you  please,  will  attribute  that  only,  and 
nothing  more,  to  each  countenance  which  it  is 
capable  of  receiving.  They  will  consider  each 
according  to  its  kind,  and  will  as  little  seek  to 
add  a  heterogeneous  character  as  a  heteroge- 
neous nose  to  the  face.  Such  will  only  unfold 
what  nature  is  desirous  of  unfolding,  give  what 
nature  is  capable  of  receiving,  and  take  away 
that  with  which  nature  would  only  be  encum- 
bered. They  will  perceive  any  discordant  trait 
of  character,  when  it  makes  its  appearance  in 
the  child,  pupil,  friend,  or  wife,  and  will  en- 
deavour to  restore  the  original  congeniality,  the 
equilibrium  of  character  and  impulse,  by  acting 
upon  the  still  remaining  harmony,  by  co-operat- 
ing with  the  yet  unimpaired  essential  powers. 
They  will  consider  each  sin,  each  vice,  as  de- 
structive of  this  harmony;  will  feel  how  much 
each  departure  from  truth  in  the  human  form, 
at  least  to  eyes  more  penetrating  than  human 
eyes  are,  must  distort,  be  manifest,  and  become 
displeasing  to  the  Creator  by  rendering  it  unlike 
his  image.  Who,  therefore,  can  judge  better  of 
the  works  and  actions  of  man,  who  less  offend, 
or  be  offended,  who  more  clearly  develope 
cause  and  effect,  than  the  physiognomist,  pos- 
sessed of  a  full  portion  of  this  knowledge  and 
perception  1 

RESEMBLANCE  BETWEEN  PARENTS  AND  CHIL- 
DREN. 

The  resemblance  between  parents  and  chil- 
dren is  very  commonly  remarkable. 

Family  physiognomy  is  as  undeniable  as  na- 
tional. To  doubt  this  is  to  doubt  what  is  self- 
evident;  to  wish  to  interpret  it  is  to  wish  to 
explore  the  inexplicable  secret  of  existence. 
Striking  and  frequent  as  the  resemblance  be- 
tween parents  and  children  is,  yet  have  the 
relations  between  the  characters  and  counten- 
ances of  families  never  been  investigated.  No 
one  has,  to  my  knowledge,  made  any  regular 
observations  on  this  subject.  I  must  also  con- 
fess that  I  have  myself  made  but  few,  with 
that  circumstantial  attention  which  is  necessary. 
All  I  have  to  remark  is  what  follows. 

When  the  father  is  somewhat  stupid,  and 
the  mother  strikingly  the  reverse,  then  will 
most  of  the  children  be  endued  with  extraordi- 
nary understanding. 

When  the  father  is  good,  truly  good,  the  chil- 
dren will  in  general  be  well  disposed;  at  least 
most  of  them  will  be  benevolent. 


LAVATER. 


201 


The  son  appears  most  to  inherit  moral  good- 
ness from  the  good  father,  and  intelligence  from 
the  intelligent  mother ;  the  daughter  to  partake 
of  the  character  of  the  mother. 

If  we  wish  to  find  the  most  certain  marks  of 
resemblance  between  parents  and  children,  they 
should  be  observed  within  an  hour  or  two  after 
birth.  We  may  then  perceive  whom  the  child 
most  resembles  in  its  formation.  The  most 
essential  resemblance  is  usually  afterwards  lost, 
and  does  not,  perhaps,  appear  for  many  years ; 
or  not  till  after  death. 

When  children,  as  they  increase  in  years, 
visibly  increase  in  the  resemblance  of  form 
and  features  to  their  parents,  we  cannot  doubt 
that  there  is  an  increasing  resemblance  of  cha- 
racter. Howmuchsoever  the  characters  of  chil- 
dren may  appear  unlike  those  of  the  parents 
they  resemble,  yet  will  this  dissimilarity  be 
found  to  originate  in  external  circumstances, 
and  the  variety  of  these  must  be  great  indeed, 
if  the  difference  of  character  be  not,  at  length, 
overpowered  by  the  resemblance  of  form. 

From  the  strongly  delineated  father,  I  be- 
lieve, the  firmness  and  the  kind  (I  do  not  say 
the  form,  but  the  kind)  of  bones  and  muscles 
is  derived;  and  from  the  strongly  delineated 
mother  the  kind  of  nerves  and  form  of  the  coun- 
tenance ;  if  the  imagination  and  love  of  the 
mother  have  not  fixed  themselves  too  deeply  in 
the  countenance  of  the  man. 

Certain  forms  of  countenance  in  children 
appear  for  a  time  undecided  whether  they  shall 
take  the  resemblance  of  the  father  or  of  the 
mother ;  in  which  case  I  will  grant  that  exter- 
nal circumstances,  preponderating  love  for  the 
father  or  mother,  or  a  greater  degree  of  inter- 
course with  either,  may  influence  the  form. 

We  sometimes  see  children  who  long  retain 
a  remarkable  resemblance  to  the  father,  but,  at 
length,  change  and  become  more  like  the  mo- 
ther. 

I  undertake  not  to  expound  the  least  of  the 
difficulties  that  occur  on  this  subject,  but  the 
most  modest  philosophy  may  be  permitted  to 
compare  uncommon  cases  with  those  which  are 
known,  even  though  they  too  should  be  inex- 
plicable ;  and  this  I  believe  is  all  that  philosophy 
can  and  ought  to  do. 

We  know  that  all  longing,  or  mother-marks, 
and  whatever  may  be  considered  as  of  the 
same  nature,  which  is  much,  do  not  proceed 
from  the  father,  but  from  the  imagination  of  the 
mother.  We  also  know  that  children  most  re- 
semble the  father  only  when  the  mother  has  a 
very  lively  imagination,  and  love  for,  or  fear  of, 
the  husband ;  therefore,  as  has  been  before  ob- 
served, it  appears  that  the  matter  and  quantum 
of  the  power  and  of  the  life,  proceed  from  the 
father  ;  and  from  the  imagination  of  the  mother 
sensibility,  the  kind  of  nerves,  the  form,  and 
the  outward  appearance. 

If,  therefore,  in  a  certain  decisive  moment, 
the  imagination  of  the  mother  should  suddenly 
pass  from  the  image  of  her  husband  to  her  own 
2a 


image,  it  might,  perhaps,  occasion  a  resemblance 
of  the  child,  first  to  the  father,  and,  afterward, 
to  the  mother. 

There  are  certain  forms  and  features  of  coun- 
tenance which  are  long  propagated,  and  others 
which  as  suddenly  disappear.  The  beautiful 
and  the  deformed  (I  do  not  say  forms  of  coun- 
tenance, but  what  is  generally  supposed  to  be 
beauty  and  deformity)  are  not  the  most  easily 
propagated;  neither  are  the  middling  and  in- 
significant ;  but  the  great  and  the  minute  are 
easily  inherited,  and  of  long  duration. 

Parents  with  small  noses  may  have  children 
with  the  largest  and  strongest  defined  ;  but  the 
father  or  mother  seldom,  on  the  contrary,  have 
a  very  strong,  that  is  to  say,  large-boned  nose, 
which  is  not  communicated,  at  least  to  one  of 
their  children,  and  which  does  not  remain  in 
the  family,  especially  when  it  is  in  the  female 
line.  It  may  seem  to  have  been  lost  for  many 
years,  but,  soon  or  late,  will  again  make  its  ap- 
pearance, and  its  resemblance  to  the  original 
will  be  particularly  visible  a  day  or  two  after 
death. 

If  the  eyes  of  the  mother  have  any  extraor- 
dinary vivacity,  there  is  almost  a  certainty  that 
these  eyes  will  become  hereditary ;  for  the 
imagination  of  the  mother  is  delighted  with 
nothing  so  much  as  with  the  beauty  of  her  own 
eyes.  Physiognomonical  sensation  has  been, 
hitherto,  much  more  generally  directed  to  the 
eyes  than  to  the  nose  and  form  of  the  face ; 
but,  if  women  should  once  be  induced  to  ex- 
amine the  nose,  and  form  of  the  face,  as  as- 
siduously as  they  have  done  their  eyes,  it  is  to 
be  expected  that  the  former  will  be  no  less 
strikingly  hereditary  than  the  latter. 

Short  and  well-arched  foreheads  are  easy  of 
inheritance,  but  not  of  long  duration ;  and  here 
the  proverb  is  applicable,  Quod  citojit,  cito  perit. 
(Soon  got,  soon  gone.) 

It  is  equally  certain  and  inexplicable,  that 
some  remarkable  physiognomies,  of  the  most 
fruitful  persons,  have  been  wholly  lost  to  their 
posterity ;  and  it  is  as  certain  and  inexplicable 
that  others  are  never  lost. 

Nor  is  it  less  remarkable  that  certain  strong 
countenances,  of  the  father  or  mother,  disappear 
in  the  children  and  revive  fully  in  the  grand- 
children. 

As  a  proof  of  the  power  of  the  imagination 
of  the  mother,  we  sometimes  see  that  a  woman 
shall  have  children  by  her  second  husband 
that  shall  resemble  the  first,  at  least  in  the 
general  appearance.  The  Italians,  however, 
are  manifestly  too  extravagant  when  they  sup- 
pose children  that  strongly  resemble  their  father 
are  base  born.  They  say  that  the  imagination  of 
the  mother,  during  the  commission  of  a  crime  so 
shameful,  is  wholly  occupied  with  the  possibility 
of  surprise  by,  and  of  course  with  the  image  of, 
her  husband.  But,  were  this  fear  so  to  act,  the 
form  of  the  children  must  not  only  have  the 
very  image  of  the  father,  but  also  his  appearance 
of  rage  and  revenge  ;  without  which,  the  adulter- 


202 


L  AVATER. 


cms  wife  could  not  imagine  the  being  surprised 
by,  or  image  of,  her  husband.  It  is  this  ap- 
pearance, this  rage,  that  she  fears,  and  not  the 
man. 

Natural  children  generally  resemble  one  of 
their  parents  more  than  the  legitimate. 

The  more  there  is  of  individual  love,  of  pure, 
faithful,  mild  affection ;  the  more  this  love  is 
reciprocal,  and  unconstrained,  between  the 
father  and  mother,  which  reciprocal  love  and 
affection  implies  a  certain  degree  of  imagi- 
nation, and  the  capacity  of  receiving  impres- 
sions, the  more  will  the  countenances  of  the 
children  appear  to  be  composed  of  the  features 
of  the  parents. 

The  sanguine  of  all  the  temperaments  is  the 
mo*t  easily  inherited  and  with  it,  volatility; 
which,  when  once  introduced,  will  require 
great  exertion  and  suffering  for  its  extermina- 
tion. 

The  natural  timidity  of  the  mother  may 
easily  communicate  the  melancholy  tempera- 
ment of  the  father.  Be  it  understood  that  this 
is  easy,  if,  in  the  decisive  moment,  the  mother 
be  suddenly  seized  by  some  predominant  fear; 
and  that  it  is  less  communicable  when  the  fear 
is  less  hasty,  and  more  reflective.  Thus  we 
find  those  mothers,  who,  during  the  whole  time 
of  their  pregnancy,  are  most  in  dread  of  pro- 
ducing monstrous,  or  marked  children,  because 
they  remember  to  have  seen  objects  that  ex- 
cited abhorrence,  generally  have  the  best  form- 
ed, and  freest  from  marks ;  for  the  fear,  though 
real,  was  the  fear  of  reflection,  and  not  the  sud- 
den effect  of  an  object  exciting  abhorrence, 
rising  instantaneously  to  sight. 

When  both  parents  have  given  a  deep  root 
to  the  choleric  temperament  in  a  family,  it  may 
probably  be  some  centuries  before  it  be  again 
moderated.  Phlegm  is  not  so  easily  inherited, 
even  though  both  father  and  mother  should  be 
phlegmatic,  for  there  are  certain  moments  of 
life  when  the  phlegmatic  acts  with  its  whole 
powers,  although  it  acts  thus  but  rarely,  and 
these  moments  may,  and  must,  have  their  ef- 
fects ;  but  nothing  appears  more  easy  of  in- 
heritance than  activity  and  industry,  when  these 
have  their  origin  in  organization,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  producing  alteration.  It  will  be  long 
before  an  industrious  couple,  to  whom  not  only 
a  livelihood,  but  business  is,  in  itself,  necessary, 
shall  not  have  a  single  descendant  with  the  like 
quality  of  industry,  as  such  mothers  are  gene- 
rally prolific. 

OBSERVATIONS   ON"  THE   DTING  AND   THE  DEAD. 

I  have  seen  one  man  of  fifty,  another  of 
seventy  years  of  age,  who  during  life  appeared 
not  to  have  the  least  resemblance  to  their  sons, 
and  whose  countenances  seemed  to  be  of  a 
quite  different  class ;  yet,  the  second  day  after 
death,  the  profile  of  the  one  had  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  the  profile  of  his  eldest,  and  that 
of  the  other,  to  the  profile  of  his  third  son; 
stronger,  indeed,  and  as  a  painter  would  say, 


harder.  On  the  third  day,  a  part  of  the  resem- 
blance disappeared. 

Of  the  many  dead  persons  I  have  seen,  1 
have  uniformly  observed  that  sixteen,  eighteen, 
or  twenty-four  hours,  after  death  (according  to 
the  disease),  they  have  had  a  more  beautiful 
form,  better  defined,  more  proportionate,  har- 
monized, homogeneous,  more  noble,  more  ex- 
alted, than  they  ever  had  during  life. 

May  there  not  be,  thought  I,  in  all  men  an 
original  physiognomy,  subject  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  accident  and  passion,  and 
is  not  this  restored  by  the  calm  of  death,  as 
troubled  waters,  being  again  left  at  rest,  be- 
come clear  ? 

Among  the  dying,  I  have  observed  some  who 
have  been  the  reverse  of  noble  or  great  during 
life,  and  who,  some  hours  before  their  death,  or 
perhaps  some  moments  (one  was  in  a  delirium), 
have  shown  an  inexpressible  ennobling  of  the 
countenance.  Everybody  saw  a  new  man; 
colouring,  drawing,  and  grace,  all  was  new,  all 
bright,  as  the  morning  ;  heavenly  ;  beyond  ex- 
pression, noble,  and  exalted  ;  the  most  inatten- 
tive must  see,  the  most  insensible  feel,  the  image 
of  God.  I  saw  it  break  forth  and  shine  through 
the  ruins  of  corruption,  was  obliged  to  turn 
aside  in  silence  and  adore.  Yes,  glorious  God! 
still  art  thou  there,  in  the  weakest,  most  fallible 
men  ! 

OF    THE    INFLUENCE    OF    COUNTENANCE  ON 
COUNTENANCE. 

As  the  gestures  of  our  friends  and  intimates 
often  become  our  own,  so,  in  like  manner,  does 
their  appearance.  Whatever  we  love  we  would 
assimilate  to  ourselves;  and  whatever,  in  the 
circle  of  affection,  does  not  change  us  into 
itself,  that  we  change,  as  far  as  may  be,  into 
ourselves. 

All  things  act  upon  us,  and  we  act  upon  all 
things ;  but  nothing  has  so  much  influence  as 
what  we  love ;  and  among  all  objects  of  affec- 
tion, nothing  acts  so  forcibly  as  the  countenance 
of  man.  Its  conformity  to  our  countenance 
makes  it  most  worthy  our  affection.  How  could 
it  act  upon,  how  attract  our  attention,  had  it  not 
some  marks,  discoverable  or  undiscoverable, 
similar  to,  at  least  of  the  same  kind  with,  the 
form  and  features  of  our  own  countenance  ? 

Without,  however,  wishing  farther  to  pene- 
trate what  is  impenetrable,  or  to  define  what  is 
inscrutable,  the  fact  is  indubitable  that  counte- 
nances attract  countenances,  and  also  that  coun- 
tenances repel  countenances ;  that  similarity  of 
features  between  two  sympathetic  and  affec- 
tionate men  increases  with  the  development, 
and  mutual  communication,  of  their  peculiar, 
individual,  sensations.  The  reflection,  if  I  may 
so  say,  of  the  person  beloved,  remains  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  affectionate. 

The  resemblance  frequently  exists  only  in  a 
single  point,  —  in  the  character  of  mind  and 
countenance. 


LAVA 


A  resemblance  in  the  system  of  the  bones 
presupposes  a  resemblance  of  the  nerves  and 
muscles. 

Dissimilar  education  may  affect  the  latter  so 
much  that  the  point  of  attraction  may  be  invisi- 
ble to  unphysiognomonical  eyes. — Suffer  the  two 
resembling  forms  to  approach,  and  they  will 
reciprocally  attract  and  repel  each  other  ;  re- 
move every  intervening  obstacle,  and  nature 
will  soon  prevail.  They  will  recognize  each 
other,  and  rejoice  in  the  flesh  of  their  flesh, 
and  the  bone  of  their  bone;  with  hasty  steps 
will  proceed  to  assimilate.  Countenances,  also, 
which  are  very  different  from  each  other,  may 
communicate,  attract,  and  acquire  resemblance : 
nay,  their  likeness  may  become  more  striking 
than  that  of  the  former,  if  they  happen  to  be 
more  flexible,  more  capable,  and  to  have  greater 
sensibility. 

This  resemblance  of  features,  in  consequence 
of  mutual  affection,  is  ever  the  result  of  internal 
nature  and  organization,  therefore  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  persons.  It  ever  has  its  foundation 
in  a  preceding,  perhaps  imperceptible  resem- 
blance, which  might  never  have  been  animated, 
or  suspected,  had  it  not  been  set  in  motion  by 
the  presence  of  the  sympathetic  being. 

It  would  be  of  infinite  importance  to  give  the 
characters  of  those  countenances  which  most 
easily  receive  and  communicate  resemblance. 
It  cannot  but  be  known  that  there  are  counte- 
nances which  attract  all,  others  that  repel  all, 
and  a  third  kind  which  are  indifferent.  The 
all-repelling  render  the  ignoble  countenances, 
over  which  they  have  continued  influence,  more 
ignoble.  The  indifferent  allows  no  change.  The 
all-attracting  either  receive,  give,  or  reciprocally 
give  and  receive.  The  first  change  a  little,  the 
second  more,  the  third  most.  "These  are  the 
souls,"  says  Hemsterhuys  the  younger,  "which 
happily,  or  unhappily,  add  the  most  exquisite 
discernment  to  that  excessive  internal  elasticity 
which  occasions  them  to  wish  and  feel  immo- 
derately ;  that  is  to  say,  the  souls  which  are  so 
modified,  or  situated,  that  their  attractive  force 
meets  the  fewest  obstacles  in  its  progress." 

It  would  be  of  the  utmost  importance  to  study 
this  influence  of  countenance,  this  intercourse 
of  mind.  I  have  found  the  progress  of  resem- 
blance most  remarkable  when  two  persons,  the 
one  richly  communicative,  the  other  apt  to  re- 
ceive, have  lived  a  considerable  time  together, 
without  foreign  intervention ;  when  he  who  gave 
had  given  all,  or  he  who  received  could  receive 
no  more,  physiognomonical  resemblance,  if  I  so 
dare  say,  had  attained  its  punctum  saturationis. 
It  was  incapable  of  farther  increase. 

A  word  here  to  thee,  youth,  irritable  and  easy 
to  be  won.  Oh !  pause,  consider,  throw  not  thy- 
self too  hastily  into  the  arms  of  a  friend  un- 
tried. A  gleam  of  sympathy  and  resemblance 
may  easily  deceive  thee.  If  the  man  who  is  thy 
second  self  have  not  yet  appeared,  be  not  rash; 
thou  shalt  find  him  at  the  appointed  hour.  Be- 
ing found,  he  will  attract  thee  to  himself,  will 


TER.  203 


give  and  receive  whatever  is  communicable. 
The  ardour  of  his  eyes  will  nurture  thine,  and 
the  gentleness  of  his  voice  will  temper  thy  too 
piercing  tones.  His  love  will  shine  in  thy  coun- 
tenance, and  his  image  will  appear  in  thee. 
Thou  wilt  become  what  he  is,  and  yet  remain 
what  thou  art.  Affection  will  make  qualities  in 
him  visible  to  thee  which  never  could  be  seen 
by  an  uninterested  eye.  This  capability  of  re- 
marking, of  feeling  what  there  is  of  divine  in 
him,  is  a  power  which  will  make  thy  counte- 
nance assume  his  resemblance. 

ON   THE   INFLUENCE   OF   THE    IMAGINATION  ON 
THE  COUNTENANCE. 

A  word  only,  on  a  subject  concerning  which 
volumes  might  be  written,  for  it  is  a  subject  I 
must  not  leave  wholly  in  silence.  The  little, 
the  nothing,  I  have  to  say  upon  it,  can  only  act 
as  an  inducement  to  deeper  meditation  on  a 
theme  so  profound. 

Imagination  acts  upon  our  own  countenance, 
rendering  it  in  some  measure  resembling  the 
beloved  or  hated  image,  which  is  living,  pre- 
sent, and  fleeting  before  us,  and  is  within  the 
circle  of  our  immediate  activity.  If  a  man, 
deeply  in  love,  and  supposing  himself  alone, 
were  ruminating  on  his  beloved  mistress,  to 
whom  his  imagination  might  lend  charms, 
which,  if  present,  he  would  be  unable  to  dis- 
cover,— were  such  a  man  observed  by  a  person 
of  penetration,  it  is  probable  that  traits  of  the 
mistress  might  be  seen  in  the  countenance  of 
this  meditating  lover.  So  might,  in  the  cruei 
features  of  revenge,  the  features  of  the  enemy 
be  read,  whom  imagination  represents  as  pre- 
sent. And  thus  is  the  countenance  a  picture  of 
the  characteristic  features  of  all  persons  ex- 
ceedingly loved  or  hated.  It  is  possible  that  an 
eye  less  penetrating  than  that  of  an  angel  may 
read  the  image  of  the  Creator  in  the  countenance 
of  a  truly  pious  person.  He  who  languishes  after 
Christ,  the  more  lively,  the  more  distinctly,  the 
more  sublimely,  he  represents  to  himself  the 
very  presence  and  image  of  Christ,  the  greater 
resemblance  will  his  own  countenance  take  of 
this  image.  The  image  of  imagination  often 
acts  more  effectually  than  the  real  presence ; 
and  whoever  has  seen  him  of  whom  we  speak, 
the  great  HIM,  though  it  were  but  an  instanta- 
neous glimpse,  Oh !  how  incessantly  will  the 
imagination  reproduce  his  image  in  the  coun- 
tenance ! 

Our  imagination  also  acts  upon  other  counte- 
nances. The  imagination  of  the  mother  acts 
upon  the  child.  Hence  men  have  long  attempted 
to  influence  the  imagination  for  the  production 
of  beautiful  children.  In  my  opinion,  however, 
it  is  not  so  much  the  beauty  of  surrounding 
forms  as  the  interest  taken  concerning  forms,  in 
certain  moments ;  and  here,  again,  it  is  not  so 
much  the  imagination  that  acts  as  the  spirit,  that 
being  only  the  organ  of  the  spirit.  Thus  it  is 
true  that  it  is  the  spirit  that  quickenelK  the  flesh 
and  the  image  of  the  flesh,  merely  considered 


204 


LAVATER. 


as  such,  prqfiteth  nothing.  A  look  of  love,  from 
the  sanctuary  of  the  soul,  has,  certainly,  greater 
forming  powers  than  hours  of  deliberate  con- 
templation of  the  most  beautiful  images.  This 
forming  look,  if  so  I  may  call  it,  can  as  little  be 
premeditatedly  given  as  any  other  naturally 
beautiful  form  can  be  imparted  by  a  studious 
contemplation  in  the  looking-glass.  All  that 
creates  and  is  profoundly  active  in  the  inner 
man,  must  be  internal,  and  be  communicated 
from  above;  as  I  believe  it  suffers  itself  not  to 
be  occasioned,  at  least  not  by  forethought,  cir- 
cumspection, or  wisdom  in  the  agent  to  produce 
such  effects.  Beautiful  forms,  or  abortions,  are 
neither  of  them  the  work  of  art  or  study,  but  of 
intervening  causes,  of  the  quick-guiding  provi- 
dence, the  predetermining  God. 

Instead  of  the  senses,  endeavour  to  act  upon 
affection.  If  thou  canst  but  incite  love,  it  will 
of  itself  seek  and  find  the  powers  of  creation. 
But  this  very  love  must  itself  be  innate  before 
it  can  be  awakened.  Perhaps,  however,  the 
moment  of  this  awakening  is  not  in  our  power  ; 
and,  therefore,  to  those  who  would,  by  plan  and 
method,  effect  that  which  is  in  itself  so  extraor- 
dinary, and  imagine  they  have  had  I  know  not 
what  wise  and  physiological  circumspection 
when  they  first  awaken  love,  I  might  exclaim 
in  the  words  of  the  enraptured  singer :  "  I  charge 
you,  0  ye  daughters  of  Jerusalem,  by  the  roes 
and  the  hinds  of  the  field,  that  ye  stir  not  up 
nor  awake  my  love  till  he  please." — Here,  be- 
hold thy  forming  Genius. — "  Behold  he  cometh, 
leaping  upon  the  mountains,  skipping  upon  the 
hills,  like  a  young  hart."  (Song  of  Sol.  chap.  ii. 
7,  8,  9.) 

Moments  unforeseen;  rapid  as  the  lightning, 
in  my  opinion,  form  and  deform.  Creation,  of 
whatever  kind,  is  momentaneous:  the  develop- 
ment, nutriment,  change,  improving,  injuring,  is 
the  work  of  time,  art,  industry,  and  education. 
Creative  power  suffers  not  itself  to  be  studied. 
Creation  cannot  be  meditated.  Masks  may  be 
moulded,  but  living  essence,  within  and  without 
resembling  itself,  the  image  of  God,  must  be 
created,  born,  11  not  of  the  will  of  the  flesh,  nor  of 
the  will  of  man,  but  of  God." 

MALE   AND  FEMALE. 

In  general  (for  I  neither  can  nor  will  state 
anything  but  what  is  most  known)  how  much 
more  pure,  tender,  delicate,  irritable,  affection- 
ate, flexible,  and  patient,  is  woman  than  man ! 

The  primary  matter  of  which  she  is  con- 
stituted appears  to  be  more  flexible,  irritable, 
and  elastic  than  that  of  man. 

Women  are  formed  to  maternal  mildness,  and 
affection  ;  all  their  organs  are  tender,  yielding, 
easily  wounded,  sensible,  and  receptible. 

Among  a  thousand  females  there  is  scarcely 
one  without  the  genuine  feminine  signs ;  the 
flexible,  the  round,  and  the  irritable. 

They  are  the  counterpart  of  man,  taken  out 
of  man,  to  be  subject  to  man;  to  comfort  him 
like  angels,  and  to  lighten  his  cares.  "  She  shall 


be  saved  in  child-bearing,  if  they  continue  in 
faith,  and  charity,  and  holiness,  with  sobriety." 
(1  Tim.  ii.  15.) 

This  tenderness,  this  sensibility,  this  light 
texture  of  their  fibres  and  organs,  this  volatility 
of  feeling  renders  them  so  easy  to  guide  and 
to  tempt;  so  ready  to  submit  to  the  enter- 
prise and  power  of  the  man;  but  more  power- 
ful through  the  aid  of  their  charms  than  man, 
with  all  his  strength.  The  man  was  not  first 
tempted,  but  the  woman,  afterward  the  man 
by  the  woman. 

But,  not  only  easily  to  be  tempted,  she  is  ca- 
pable of  being  formed  to  the  purest,  noblest, 
most  seraphic  virtue ;  to  everything  which  can 
deserve  praise  or  affection. 

Highly  sensible  of  purity,  beauty,  and  sym- 
metry, she  does  not  always  take  time  to  reflect 
on  internal  life,  internal  death,  internal  corrup- 
tion. "  The  woman  saw  that  the  tree  was  good 
for  food,  and  that  it  was  pleasant  to  the  eyes, 
and  a  tree  to  be  desired  to  make  one  wise,  and 
she  took  of  the  fruit  thereof."  (Gen.  iii.  6.) 

The  female  thinks  not  profoundly ;  profound 
thought  is  the  power  of  the  man. 

Women  feel  more.  Sensibility  is  the  power 
of  woman. 

They  often  rule  more  effectually,  more  sove- 
reignly, than  man.  They  rule  with  tender  looks, 
tears,  and  sighs ;  but  not  with  passion  and 
threats ;  for  if,  or  when,  they  so  rule,  they  are 
no  longer  women,  but  abortions. 

They  are  capable  of  the  sweetest  sensibility, 
the  most  profound  emotion,  the  utmost  humility, 
and  the  excess  of  enthusiasm. 

In  their  countenance  are  the  signs  of  sanctity 
and  inviolability,  which  every  feeling  man  ho- 
nours, and  the  effects  of  which  are  often  mira- 
culous. 

Therefore,  by  the  irritability  of  their  nerves, 
their  incapacity  for  deep  inquiry  and  firm  deci- 
sion, they  may  easily,  from  their  extreme  sensi- 
bility, become  the  most  irreclaimable,  the  most 
rapturous  enthusiasts. 

Their  love,  strong  and  rooted  as  it  is,  is  very 
changeable  ;  their  hatred  almost  incurable,  and 
only  to  be  effaced  by  continued  and  artful  flat- 
tery. Men  are  most  profound ;  women  are 
more  sublime. 

Men  most  embrace  the  whole ;  women  re- 
mark individually,  and  take  more  delight  in 
selecting  the  minutiae  which  form  the  whole. 
Man  hears  the  bursting  thunder,  views  the  de- 
structive bolt  with  serene  aspect,  and  stands 
erect  amidst  the  fearful  majesty  of  the  stream- 
ing clouds. 

Woman  trembles  at  the  lightning,  and  the 
voice  of  distant  thunder ;  and  shrinks  into  her- 
self, or  sinks  into  the  arms  of  man. 

Man  receives  a  ray  of  light  single,  woman 
delights  to  view  it  through  a  prism,  in  all  its 
dazzling  colours.  She  contemplates  the  rain- 
bow as  the  promise  of  peace  ;  he  extends  his 
inquiring  eye  over  the  whole  horizon. 

Woman  laughs,  man  smiles ;  woman  weeps, 


LAVATER. 


205 


man  remains  silent.  Woman  is  in  anguish 
when  man  weeps,  and  in  despair  when  man  is 
in  anguish ;  yet  has  she  often  more  faith  than 
man. 

Man  without  religion  is  a  diseased  creature, 
who  would  persuade  himself  he  is  well  and 
needs  not  a  physician;  but  woman  without  re- 
ligion is  raging  and  monstrous. 

A  woman  with  a  beard  is  not  so  disgusting 
as  a  woman  who  acts  the  free-thinker ;  her  sex  is 
formed  for  piety  and  religion ;  to  women  Christ 
first  appeared  ;  but  he  was  obliged  to  prevent 
them  from  too  ardently  and  too  hastily  em- 
bracing him. — Touch  me  not.  They  are  prompt 
to  receive  and  seize  novelty,  and  become  its 
enthusiasts. 

The  whole  world  is  forgotten  in  the  emotion 
caused  by  the  presence  and  proximity  of  him 
they  love. 

They  sink  into  the  most  incurable  melan- 
choly, as  they  also  rise  to  the  most  enraptured 
heights. 

The  feelings  of  the  man  are  more  imagina- 
tion ;  those  of  the  female  more  heart. 

When  communicative,  they  are  more  commu- 
nicative than  man ;  when  secret,  more  secret. 

In  general  they  are  more  patient,  long-suffer- 
ing, credulous,  benevolent,  and  modest. 

Woman  is  not  a  foundation  on  which  to  build. 
She  is  the  gold,  silver,  precious  stones,  wood, 
hay,  stubble  (1  Cor.  iii.  12);  the  materials  for 
building  on  the  male  foundation.  She  is  the 
leaven,  or,  more  expressively,  the  oil  to  the  vine- 
gar of  man  ;  the  second  part  of  the  book  of  man, 

Man,  singly,  is  but  half  man;  at  least  but 
half  human, — a  king  without  a  kingdom.  Wo- 


man, who  feels  properly  what  she  is,  whether 
still  or  in  motion,  rests  upon  the  man ;  nor  is 
man  what  he  may  and  ought  to  be  but  in  con- 
junction with  woman.  Therefore,  "  It  is  not 
good  that  man  should  be  alone,  but  that  he 
should  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to 
his  wife,  and  they  two  shall  be  one  flesh." 

A  WORD  ON  THE  PHYSIOGNOMICAL  RELATION  OF 
THE  SEXES. 

Man  is  the  most  firm — woman  the  most  flex- 
ible. 

Man  is  the  straightest  —  woman  the  most 
bending. 

Man  stands  steadfast — woman  gently  trips. 

Man  surveys  and  observes — woman  glances 
and  feels. 

Man  is  serious — woman  is  gay. 

Man  is  the  tallest  and  broadest — woman  less 
and  taper. 

Man  is  rough  and  hard — woman  smooth  and 
soft. 

Man  is  brown — woman  is  fair. 

Man  is  wrinkly — woman  less  so. 

The  hair  of  man  is  more  strong  and  short — 
of  woman  longer  and  more  pliant. 

The  eyebrows  of  man  are  compressed  —  of 
woman  less  frowning. 

Man  has  most  convex  lines  —  woman  most 
concave. 

Man  has  most  straight  lines-— woman  most 
curved. 

The  countenance  of  man,  taken  in  profile,  is 
more  seldom  perpendicular  than  that  of  the 
woman. 

Man  is  most  angular — woman  most  round. 


18 


FRIEDRICH  HE 


INRICH  JACOBI. 


Born  1743. 

A  devout  soul,  a  penetrating  intellect, — poet 
and  philosopher  in  one.  Jacobi  has  been  called,  by 
some,  the  "German  Plato,"  in  honour  of  the  high 
religious  tone  which  characterizes  his  writings. 

Born  at  Dusseldorf,  son  of  a  merchant,  he 
was  early  devoted  to  the  same  calling  by  his 
father,  who  sent  him  to  Frankfort  to  be  trained 
for  the  counting-room  and  the  exchange.  Here 
his  pious  spirit  and  studious  habits  drew  upon 
him  the  ridicule  of  his  companions,  and  fore- 
told the  future  man.  From  Frankfort  he  went 
to  Geneva,  where  he  addicted  himself  to  lite- 
rary pursuits,  and  particularly  to  the  French 
language  and  literature,  while  prosecuting  the 
mercantile  training  which  his  father  had  marked 
out  for  him.  After  a  residence  of  three  years 
in  this  place,  he  returned  to  Dusseldorf  and  en- 
tered his  father's  establishment,  whose  business 
he  conducted  faithfully,  though  reluctantly,  for 
several  years.  It  was  at  this  period  that  he  mar- 
ried Betty  von  Clermont,  a  lady  of  Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle,  who  brought  him  wealth,  together  with 
great  personal  and  mental  attractions.  A  pre- 
ponderating taste  for  letters,  and  an  appointment 
under  Government,  which  he  received  through 
his  friend  and  patron  Count  von  Goltstein,  in- 
duced him  to  abandon  his  commercial  engage- 
ments ;  and  in  1779  he  received  a  call,  as  Privy 
Councillor,  to  Munchen.  But  his  exposure  of  the 
abuses  of  the  Bavarian  system  of  customs  was 
attended  with  consequences  which  rendered 
that  post  uncomfortable,  and  he  retired  to  Pem- 
pelfort,  an  estate  which  he  had  purchased  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Dusseldorf.  He  here 
applied  himself  with  exclusive  devotion  to  litera- 
ture, and  some  of  his  best  productions  were 
written  during  this  period.  The  death  of  his 
beautiful  and  accomplished  wife,  of  whom 
Goethe  speaks  so  enthusiastically  in  his  me- 
moirs, threw  a  gloom  over  this  otherwise  so 
happy  interspace  of  private  life.  He  still  con- 
tinued his  establishment  at  Pempelfort,  with  the 
aid  of  the  two  maiden  sisters  so  wittily  cele- 
brated by  Frau  von  Arnim,  until  the  progress 
of  the  French  revolution,  whose  consequences 
began  to  be  felt  in  that  region,  impelled  him  to 
move  to  the  province  of  Holstein,  the  native 


Died  1819. 

country  of  his  father.  He  resided  for  some 
time  at  Eutin,  in  this  district,  and  in  1601 
visited  Paris.  In  1804  he  was  invited  to  the 
newly-formed  Academy  of  Sciences  at  Munich, 
of  which  he  was  afterwards  made  president. 
He  was  the  rather  induced  to  accept  this  invi- 
tation on  account  of  the  loss  of  a  considerable 
part  of  his  property  by  the  misfortunes  of  his 
brother-in-law.  At  the  age  of  seventy  he  re- 
signed this  office,  the  salary  of  which  was  con- 
tinued to  him  during  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
He  died,  March  10th,  1819. 

Jacobi  is  ranked,  and  justly,  among  the  phi- 
losophers of  modern  Germany,  although  his 
philosophy,  far  from  shaping  itself  into  a  sys- 
tem, denies, — and  that  denial  may  be  regarded 
as  one  of  its  leading  characteristics, — on  philo- 
sophical grounds,  the  possibility  of  a  system, 
and  maintains,  that  any  system  of  philosophy 
carried  to  its  legitimate  results  must  lead  to 
fanaticism.  He  vindicated  the  "  affective'''  part 
of  man's  nature,  which  the  Kantian  exaltation 
of  pure  reason  had  seemed  to  disparage,  at 
least  to  neglect,  and  gave  to  feeling*  its  due 
place  and  authority  as  a  medium  and  interpreter 
of  truth.  Kant  had  shown  the  impossibility  of 
absolute  knowledge.  Jacobi  went  farther,  and 
maintained  that  the  knowledge  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  absolute  knowledge  is  also  not  absolute, 
as  Kant  had  seemed  to  represent  it ; — that  we 
have  but  an  imperfect  understanding  of  our 
own  ignorance.  He  differed  from  contempo- 
rary philosophers,  in  being  a  devout  believer  in 
revelation, — in  the  Christian  revelation.  The 
gospel  was  to  him  the  test  and  criterion  of  all 
truth.  For  the  rest,  he  was  an  eclectic,  and 
welcomed  light  from  whatsoever  quarter  it 
came.  In  philosophical  insight  he  is  surpassed 
by  none,  and  though  his  fixed  idea  of  the 
impossibility  of  a  systematic  philosophy  may 
have  somewhat  vitiated  his  view  of  existing 
philosophies,  his  criticisms  on  some  of  them 
are  among  the  best  that  have  been  essayed. 


*  Closely  connected  with  this  merit,  is  the  distinction 
between  reason  and  the  understanding,  now  so  widely 
accepted,  which  Jacobi  was  the  first  to  point  out,  or,  at 
least,  to  make  prominent. 

(206) 


JACOBI. 


207 


As  a  writer  of  German,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
author  of  this  essay,  he  handles  the  language 
more  skilfully  than  any  of  his  contemporaries, 
Goethe  only  excepted.  Many  are  more  elo- 
quent, but  none  (of  the  old  school)  possess  his 
ease  and  grace.  Some  of  the  later  writers, 
for  example  Heine,  surpass  him  in  this  parti- 
cular; but  German  rhetoric  has  undergone  a 
great  change  for  the  better  during  the  last 
thirty  years.  Of  German  philosophers,  he  is 
the  least  obscure,  and  the  one  whose  writings, 
if  translated,  would  prove  most  acceptable  to 
the  English  mind. 

His  principal  works  are,  "  Woldemar"  and 
"Alwill's  Correspondence,"  two  philosophical 
novels,  "  Letters  on  Spinoza,"  "  Of  Divine 
things  and  the  revelation  of  them,"  "  Letter  to 
Fichte,"  "  David  Hume  on  faith,  or  Idealism  and 
Realism." 

On  the  whole,  as  Wieland  has  been  denomi- 
nated the  Frenchman  among  German  writers, 
so,  and  with  greater  justice,  Jacobi  may  be 
termed  English-German.  In  his  strong  prac- 
tical tendency,  and  especially  in  his  cautious, 
unscientific,  but  severely  critical,  not  profound, 
but  acute  and  ecclesiastical  -  mercantile  way 
of  judging  philosophical  questions,  he  manifests 
an  affinity  with  the  English  mind  which  is  not 
to  be  found,  to  the  same  extent,  in  any  of  his 
countrymen. 

This  is  Mrs.  Austin's  view  of  him.  "  As  a 
writer  of  fiction,  he  is  distinguished  for  vigor- 
ous painting,  admirable  delineation  of  nature 
and  the  human  heart,  warmth  and  depth  of 
feeling,  and  a  lively,  bold,  yet  correct,  turn  of 
expression.  As  a  philosopher,  he  is  admired 
for  his  rare  depth  of  thought,  (?)  for  the  fervor 
of  his  religious  feelings,  and  the  originality  and 
beauty  of  his  style.  At  the  same  time,  there 
are  few  authors  concerning  whom  opinions  vary 
more  than  concerning  Jacobi.  It  seems  as  if 
his  works  of  imagination  injured  him  with  the 
philosophers,  and  his  philosophy  with  the  poets. 

"  Jacobi's  polemical  merits  were  great.  He 
pointed  out  the  chasms,  the  unconnectedness, 
and  the  mischievous  results  of  the  prevalent 
opinions  with  critical  acuteness,  and  with  all 
the  eloquence  of  a  just  aversion.  With  his 
peculiar  modes  of  thinking,  it  was  natural  that 
he  should  not  become  the  disciple  of  any  other 
philosopher,  and  that  he  should  come  into  con- 
flict alternately  with  the  dogmatic  Mendels- 
sohn, the  critical  Kant,  the  idealistical  Fichte, 


and  the  pantheistical  Schelling*  against  the 
latter  of  whom,  indeed,  he  expressed  himself 
with  too  much  bitterness.  Jacobi's  place  among 
the  pure  searchers  after  truth  must,  however, 
remain  for  ever  uncontested ;  and  his  character 
is  rich  in  all  that  can  attract  the  wise  and 
good."f 

Bouterwek,  one  of  the  most  capable  and  ju- 
dicious critics  of  Germany,  characterizes  Ja- 
cobi as  follows: — 

"  This  writer  does  not  belong  to  the  perfectly 
correct  stylists,  whose  greatest  merit,  however, 
often  consists  merely  in  elegant  phrases  and 
turns  of  expression.  But,  like  Herder  and 
Johannes  Midler,  he  towers  above  all  other 
German  prosaists  of  his  age  in  the  powerful 
and  original  manner  in  which  he  expresses  his 
thoughts.  His  style  is  the  true  image  of  his 
mind.  ****** 

"  The  supreme  want  of  his  heart  was  religion, 
but  a  religion  which  should  consist  with  reason. 
By  a  severe  criticism  of  the  various  metaphysi- 
cal systems  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  no 
religious  truth  is  susceptible  of  metaphysical 
demonstration ;  but  also  that  Reason,  by  means 
of  which  man  becomes  capable  of  the  idea  of 
truth,  is  a  higher  principle  in  our  mind  than 
the  mere  understanding  which  forms  general 
conceptions  and  combines  them  in  judgments 
from  which  we  draw  conclusions.  Reason,  ac- 
cording to  his  view,  included  that  same  element 
of  feeling,  of  which  he  could  not  divest  himself 
in  his  search  after  pure  truth.  Nevertheless, 
there  never  perhaps  was  an  understanding  more 
clear  and  incorruptible  than  his.     *    *    *  * 

"  Jacobi's  style  is  not  laconic  but  pregnant. 
Every  principal  word  has  a  deeply  considered 
and  sharply  determined  signification.  Notwith- 
standing its  easy  and  graceful  turns,  it  exhibits 
no  trace  of  flightiness.  Not  unfrequently  it 
possesses  a  very  agreeable  rotundity.  In  his 
syntax  he  allows  himself  some  liberties  which 
are  not  common,  but  which  have  already  been 
imitated  by  other  writers,  and  which  promote 
distinctness  and  force  of  expression.  That 
Jacobi,  ever  intent  on  the  most  fitting  expres- 
sion, should  have  discovered  in  the  German 
language  some  turns  peculiar  to  it  and  hitherto 
little  used,  is  the  more  remarkable,  since,  like 
Johannes  Miiller,  he  had  received,  in  his  youth, 
a  part  of  his  education  in  Geneva,  and  had 

*  See  the  "Conversations-Lexicon."  Art.  Jacobi.  Ed. 
|  Mrs.  Austin's  "German  Prose  Writers." 


208 


J  ACOBI. 


become  master  of  the  French  language  as  no 
philosophical  writer  in  Germany,  beside  him- 
self is  known  to  have  been,  since  Leibnitz."* 

What  Goethe  thought  and  hoped  of  Jacobi 
when  both  were  young,  may  be  seen  from  the 
following  account  which  he  gives  of  their  meet- 
ing: 

"  Although  the  poetical  mode  of  presentation 
occupied  me  chiefly  and  was  properly  congenial 
with  my  nature,  yet  reflections  on  subjects  of 
every  kind  were  not  strange  to  me,  and  Jacobi's 
original  and  constitutional  direction  toward  the 
inscrutable,  wras,  in  the  highest  degree,  wel- 
come and  genial.  Here,  there  was  no  contro- 
versy— neither  a  Christian  one,  as  with  Lavater, 
nor  a  didactic  one,  as  with  Basedow.  The 
thoughts  which  Jacobi  communicated  to  me 
sprung  immediately  from  his  feelings;  and  how 
peculiarly  was  I  penetrated  when,  with  un- 
conditioned confidence,  he  hid  not  from  me 
the  deepest  demands  of  his  soul !  From  so 
wondrous  a  combination  of  want,  passion  and 
ideas,  there  could  arise,  for  me  also,  only  fore- 
feelings  of  that  which  perhaps  would  be  clearer 
to  me  at  some  future  time.  Happily  I  too  had 
— if  not  cultivated — yet  worked  my  nature  on 
this  side,  and  had  received  into  myself  the  be- 
ing and  the  way-of-thinking  of  an  extraordinary 
man,  imperfectly  indeed,  and  as  it  were  sur- 
reptitiously; but  I  was  already  experiencing 
therefrom  the  most  important  consequences. 
This  mind  which  wrought  so  decidedly  upon 
me,  and  which  was  to  have  so  great  an  influ- 
ence upon  my  whole  way  of  thinking,  was 
Spinoza.  Namely,  after  I  had  looked  about  in 
all  the  world  in  vain  for  some  means  of  form- 
ing my  strange  nature,  I  chanced  at  last  on 
that  man's  "Ethics."  Of  what  I  may  have 
read  for  myself  out  of  that  work,  or  of  what  I 
may  have  read  into  it,  I  can  give  no  account. 
Enough,  I  found  here  a  sedative  for  my  passions ; 
a  large  and  free  view  of  the  sensual  and  moral 
world  seemed  to  open  itself  before  me.  But 
what  especially  chained  me  to  him,  was  the 
boundless  disinterestedness  which  shone  forth 
from  every  proposition.  That  wonderful  word  : 
"  Whoso  loveth  God  aright,  must  not  demand 
that  God  should  love  him  in  return,"  with  all 
the  premises  on  which  it  rests,  and  all  the  con- 
sequences that  flow  from  it,  filled  entirely  my 
meditation.    To  be  disinterested  in  all,  and 

*  Bouterwek's  "  Oesckichte  der  Poesie  unci  Bercdsam- 
keit,"  quoted  by  Wolff. 


most  disinterested  in  love  and  friendship,  was 
my  highest  joy,  my  maxim,  my  exercise;  so 
that  that  petulant  later  saying  :  "  If  I  love  thee, 
what 's  that  to  thee,"  is  spoken  from  my  very 
heart  For  the  rest,  here  also  let  it  not  be 
overlooked,  that  the  most  intimate  connections 
spring  from  opposition.  The  all-composing 
quietism  of  Spinoza  contrasted  with  my  all- 
upstirring  endeavor ;  his  mathematical  method 
was  the  antagonist  to  my  poetical  way  of  feel- 
ing and  presenting;  and  precisely  that  ruled 
mode  of  treatment,  which  was  thought  not 
suitable  to  moral  subjects,  made  me  his  pas- 
sionate disciple,  his  most  decided  adorer.  Mind 
and  heart,  understanding  and  sentiment,  sought 
each  other  with  necessary,  elective  affinity; 
and  by  this  means  a  union  of  the  most  dissimi- 
lar natures  was  brought  about. 

"  All  this  was  still  in  the  first  stage  of  action 
and  reaction,  fermenting  and  seething.  Fred. 
Jacobi,  the  first  one  whom  I  permitted  to  look 
into  this  chaos,  he,  whose  nature  was  also 
laboring  in  the  deepest,  heartily  accepted  my 
confidence,  returned  it,  and  sought  to  guide  me 
into  his  way  of  thinking.  He  too  felt  an  un- 
speakable spiritual  want;  he  too  would  not 
have  it  silenced  by  foreign  aid,  but  satisfied  by 
development  and  light  from  within.  What  he 
imparted  to  me  of  the  state  of  his  mind  T  could 
not  comprehend,  the  rather  because  I  could 
form  no  conception  of  my  own.  But  he,  who 
had  advanced  so  far  before  me  in  philosophical 
thinking  and  even  in  the  study  of  Spinoza,  en- 
deavored to  guide  and  enlighten  my  dark 
striving.  Such  a  pure,  spiritual  affinity,  was 
new  to  me,  and  awakened  a  passionate  longing 
for  further  communication.  At  night,  after  we 
had  already  parted  and  withdrawn  into  our 
sleeping-apartments,  I  would  seek  him  again. 
The  moonshine  trembled  on  the  broad  Rhine ; 
and  we,  standing  at  the  window,  revelled  in 
the  fulness  of  reciprocal  giving  and  receiving 
which  swells  forth  so  richly  in  that  glorious 
period  of  development.  *  *  *  * 
*        *         *  ***** 

"  Then,  when  I  returned  to  my  friend  Jacobi, 
I  enjoyed  the  rapturous  feeling  of  a  union 
through  the  innermost  mind.  We  were  both 
animated  by  the  liveliest  hope  of  a  common 
activity.  I  vehemently  urged  him  to  set  forth 
vigorously,  in  some  form  or  other,  all  that  was 
moving  and  working  within  him.  It  was  the 
means  by  which  I  had  extricated  myself  from 


J  ACOBI. 


so  many  perplexities,  and  I  hoped  that  it  would 
prove  effectual  with  him  also.  He  delayed  not 
to  seize  it  with  spirit ;  and  how  much  that  is 
good,  beautiful  and  heart-rejoicing  has  he  not 
produced  ! 

"  And  so  we  parted,  at  last,  with  the  blessed 


209 


feeling  of  eternal  union,  without  any  fore-feel- 
ing that  our  striving"  would  take  opposite  direc- 
tions, as,  in  the  course  of  life,  was  but  too 
manifest."* 


*  "  jius  meinem  Leben"  Part  third.  Book  fourteenth. 


FROM  THE  "  FLYING  LEAVES." 

My  aim  is  not  to  help  the  reader  while  away 
the  time,  but  rather  to  aid  those  to  whom,  as  to 
me,  the  time  is  already  too  fleeting. 

I  can  live  in  harmony  with  every  one  who 
lives  in  harmony  with  himself. 

What  dost  thou  call  a  beautiful  soul  ?  Thou 
callest  a  beautiful  soul  one  that  is  quick  to  per- 
ceive the  good,  that  gives  it  due  prominence  and 
holds  it  immovably  fast. 

It  is  absurd  for  a  man  to  say  that  he  hates 
and  despises  men,  but  loves  and  honours  Hu- 
manity. A  general  without  a  particular,  a 
Humanity  worthy  of  honour  and  love  without 
men  who  are  worthy  of  honour  and  love,  is  a 
fiction  of  the  brain,  a  thing  that  has  no  exist- 
ence. 

It  is  the  custom  of  virtue  to  note  the  failings 
of  distinguished  men  not  otherwise  than  with  a 
certain  timidity  and  shame.  It  is  the  custom 
of  vice  to  cover  impudence  with  the  appellation 
of  love  of  truth. 

To  lay  aside  all  prejudices  is  to  lay  aside  all 
principles.  He  who  is  destitute  of  principles 
is  governed,  theoretically  and  practically,  by 
whims. 

Man,  according  to  Moses,  was  created  last ;  all 
the  varieties  of  irrational  animals  were  created 
before  him.  This  order  is  still  repeated  in  each 
individual  man.  He  follows  first  the  animal,  the 
coarser  propensities,— coarse,  animal  pleasure ; 
but  he  is  created  for  immortality,  and  can  find 
the  way  to  immortality.  But  he  can  also  become 
more  beastly  than  a  beast,  and  use  the  means 
of  immortality  in  such  a  way  as  to  become 
more  mortal, — as  to  draw  upon  himself  suffer- 
ings and  diseases  from  which  the  brute  is  free. 
He  can  "  with  the  armour  of  light  extend  the 
kingdom  of  darkness  and  of  barbarism.''  Herder, 
in  his  "jlelteste  Urkunde"  remarks  that  Adam, 
after  the  Fall,  clothed  himself  in  the  life  of  ani- 
mals. Man  is  guided  by  propensities,  and  all 
his  propensities  belong  to  his  nature.  But  the 
propensity  which  makes  him  man,  which  dis- 
tinguishes him,  is  the  true  life-propensity  proper 
to  his  species, — the  propensity  to  a  higher  life. 
2b 


Even  in  the  mere  faculty  of  perception,  which 
may  be  regarded  as  opposed  to  the  faculty  of 
sensation,  this  propensity  appears.  For  the 
faculty  of  perception,  the  power  of  projecting 
objects  out  of  himself,  of  raising  himself  above 
them  in  order  to  contemplate  them,  is  objective, 
and  is  the  foundation  of  the  regal  dignity  of 
man.  It  strikes  the  first  spark  of  a  love  which 
differs  so  widely  from  what  we  call  lust  that  it 
is  capable  of  resisting  and  overcoming  that  lust. 
The  earnest  observer  finds  everywhere,  from 
first  to  last,  the  same  economy.  But  the  inner- 
most essence  of  the  purely  human  propensity, — 
as  the  proper  seat  of  liberty,  as  the  mystery  of 
substance, — is  inscrutable  for  us. 

There  is  no  one  thing  in  the  world  for  which 
we  can  conceive  an  interest  and  a  love  that 
shall  endure  forever.  Therefore  fidelity  is  re- 
quired of  us,  and  a  firm  intent  which  the  soul 
must  be  able  to  create  for  itself.  He  who  learns 
this  acquires  freedom ;  acquires  something  of 
that  great  property,  the  property  of  having  life 
in  himself,  which  is  the  true  philosopher's  stone. 

The  secret  of  the  moral  sense  and  feeling  is 
the  secret  of  everlasting  life,  in  contradistinction 
to  our  present  existence,  which  is  fleeting  how- 
ever we  may  strive  against  it,  and  leads  to 
death.  In  moral  feeling  there  is  a  presentiment 
of  eternity.  I  know  nothing  sublimer  and  pro- 
founder  than  the  saying  of  the  New  Testament, 
"Our  life  is  hid  in  Christ  (the  God-man)  with 
God.''  Unquestionably,  our  life,  if  there  is  any 
true  life  in  us,  is  hidden  deep  within  us.  Never- 
theless it  commands,  apodictically,*  its  own 
preservation  ;  commands  that  we  bring  it  forth 
to  the  light.  Faith  and  experience,  therefore, 
are  the  only  way  by  which  we  can  arrive  at 
the  knowledge  of  the  truth.  True,  it  is  a  mys- 
tic, and  to  brutalism  altogether  intolerable,  way. 
We  must  be  able  to  inflict  pain  upon  ourselves 
if  we  would  attain  to  virtue  and  honour.  Cou- 
rage, resolution,  is,  above  all  things,  necessary 
to  man. 

What  is  it  that  we  admire  in  a  Bayard,  a 
Montrose,  a  Ruyter,  a  Douglas,  in  the  friends  of 
Cimon,  who  offered  themselves  up  at  Tanagra  ? 
We  admire  this  in  them,  that  they  did  not  doat 
on  the  body  but  lived  exclusively  the  life  of  the 

*  J)podiktisch,  equivalent  to  absolutely  ;  from  the  Greek 
anoSciKi'v/xi,  to  demonstrate ;  also,  to  appoint,  to  require 
by  law.  Tr. 

18* 


210 


JACOBI. 


soul.  They  were  not  what  accident  would 
make  of  them,  but  what  they  themselves  had 
resolved  to  be.  He  to  whom  the  law,  which  he 
is  to  follow,  does  not  stand  forth  as  a  God,  has 
only  a  dead  letter  which  cannot  possibly  quicken 
him. 

Every  aptitude  to  an  end  is  a  virtue.  The 
inquiry  after  the  highest  virtue  is  an  inquiry 
after  the  highest  end.  The  rank  of  the  virtues 
must  therefore  be  determined  according  to  the 
rank  of  the  ends.  To  discover  the  system  of 
ends  it  is  necessary  to  ascertain  what  is  the  des- 
tination of  man,  his  highest  and  ultimate  aim. 

The  wise  man  is  known  by  the  choice  of  the 
ends  which  he  proposes  to  himself ;  the  prudent 
man  is  known  by  the  choice  of  the  means  by 
which  he  attains  his  ends,  whether  they  be  wise 
or  unwise.  But  how  are  the  ends  themselves 
to  be  known  ?  Is  the  choice  of  the  wisest  to 
decide  ?  Then  we  cannot  say,  as  we  have  just 
said,  that  the  wise  man  is  known  by  his  ends. 
Semper  idem  velle  atque  idem  nolle.  But  what 
is  this  one,  and  the  same  which  is  to  be  always 
willed  ?    It  is  the  glory  of  God. 

It  is  agreeable  to  the  dignity  of  man  to  hold 
his  "passions  in  subjection,  to  govern  them. 
But  the  feeling  of  dignity  does  not  consist  in 
the  governing  as  such,  but  in  that  whereby  we 
govern,  in  the  consciousness  of  a  higher  destina- 
tion. Man  knows  a  higher  good ;  this  it  is  that 
overcomes,  not  his  will. 

Every  activity  proposes  to  itself  a  passivity, 
every  labour  enjoyment.  But  every  enjoyment 
presupposes  a  want;  when  that  is  satisfied,  the 
enjoyment  ends.  All  pleasure  is  necessarily 
transient. 

We  enjoy  ourself,  however,  only  in  our  work, 
in  our  doing,  and  our  best  enjoyment  is  our  best 
doing. 

Man  imputes  to  himself  the  ability  to  be  con- 
stant by  his  own  proper  force,  and  places  his 
honour  in  that  ability.  A  man  of  his  word,  and 
a  man  of  honor  are  synonymous  terms.  He 
who  can  embrace  a  purpose  and  persist  in  it, 
who  can  act  from  a  resolve,  unsupported  by 
present  inclination,  nay,  even  in  opposition  to 
present  inclination,  emotion,  or  passion,  of  him 
we  say,  "  he  has  character,"  "  he  is  a  man."  We 
despise  the  man  who  is  always  only  what 
things,  accidents,  circumstances,  make  of  him  ; 
the  fickle,  the  inconstant,  the  wavering.  We 
honour  him  who  can  resist  objects  and  the  im- 
pressions which  they  make  upon  him,  who 
knows  how  to  maintain  his  self  in  the  face  of 
them,  who  lets  himself  be  instructed  but  not 
changed  by  them. 

To  believe  in  humanity,  to  trust  a  friend  un- 
conditionally, we  call  great  and  noble.  Want 
of  faith,  doubt,  suspicion,  have  something  little, 


ignoble ;  they  originate  in  fear.  A  noble  and 
courageous  mind  then  believes  and  confides.  It 
believes  and  confides  not  because  it  is  a  good 
calculator ;  its  faith,  its  confidence,  is  power  of 
feeling,  not  a  cold  exercise  of  the  understanding. 
On  the  contrary,  this  power  is  opposed  to  the 
understanding  inasmuch  as  it  raises  itself  above 
it. 

When  man  abides  in  the  creature,  he  sinks 
behind  and  before  into  nothing. 

When  feeling  and  sentiment  vanish,  words 
and  ceremonies  remain  and  make  themselves 
important. 

Where  morals  are,  there  reason  reigns  over 
sense.  And,  vice  versa,  where  reason  begins 
to  obtain  the  ascendency  over  sense,  there  morals 
arise. 

The  first  step  in  the  corruption  of  morals  is 
no  longer  to  regard  public  opinion  ;  the  last  step 
is  the  absence  of  public  opinion.  Every  one 
does,  then,  what  pleases  him  ;  to  every  one  it 
seems  right  to  follow  his  own  lusts.  Morals 
have  ceased  from  the  land. 

Have  not  all  virtues  sprung  up  before  they 
had  either  name  or  precept?  The  book  of  life 
must  be  written  before  an  index  can  be  affixed 
to  it.  Our  moral  philosophies  are  such  indexes 
made  after  the  book ;  and  they  are  generally 
made  by  men  who  understand  nothing  of  the 
book.  Others,  who  also  understand  nothing  of 
it,  think  that  the  index  is  the  basis  of  the  book, 
and  the  art  of  referring  to  it  the  true  art  of  life. 
But  they  always  refer  to  it  for  others,  not  for 
themselves. 

Life  is  not  a  particular  form  of  body,  but  the 
body  is  a  particular  form  of  life.  The  body 
relates  to  the  soul  as  the  word  to  the  thought. 

The  essence  of  reason  consists  in  self-percep- 
tion. It  returns  into  self.  That  which  it  per- 
ceives, so  far  as  it  is  conditioned  by  sense,  it 
calls  nature.  That  which  it  perceives,  so  far 
as  it  is  not  conditioned  by  sense,  it  calls  the 
Divine  Being. 

True  enlightenment  is  that  which  teaches 
man  that  he  is  a  law  to  himself.  True  culture 
is  that  which  accustoms  him  to  obey  this  law 
without  regard  to  reward  and  punishment. 

In  an  age  in  which  the  good  and  the  true  are 
considered  as  two  different  and  often  conflict- 
ing things,  every  thing  must  conflict. 

All  laws,  considered  in  the  origin  of  their 
power,  are  despotic.  Sic  volo  sic  jubeo.  Laws 
of  the  will  are  not  laws  which  the  will  receives, 
but  laws  which  the  will  gives.  There  is  no- 
thing above  the  will ;  in  it  is  original  life.  How 
should  a  law  be  able  to  produce  a  will  ?  Where 


JACOBI, 


211 


this  seems  to  be  the  case,  a  law-giving  will  is 
already  presupposed,  which,  in  that  particular 
instance,  appears  as  executive  power. 

"  Peace  is  the  masterpiece  of  reason,"  says 
Johann  Muller.  This  is  true,  not  only  in  re- 
gard to  civil  polity,  but  in  every  regard. 

It  is  not  truth,  justice,  liberty,  which  men 
seek;  they  seek  only  themselves.  And  0!  that 
they  knew  how  to  seek  themselves  aright ! 

What  have  not  men  tried  and  applied  in 
order  to  guaranty  to  each  other  reciprocally, 
their  identity, — the  being  and  enduring  of  their 
7.  All  civil  order  has  this  for  its  first  and  last 
object,  that  the  will  of  to-day  may  be  valid  also 
to-morrow.  Hence,  religion  has  been  held  so 
sacred  among  all  nations.  They  fixed  by  means 
of  it  the  changeable  ness  of  their  nature. 

He  who  cannot  help  himself  seeks  protection 
from  others  in  return  for  service,  subjection,  all 
kinds  of  acknowledgment.  Thus  arose  magis- 
trates, judges,  leaders.  Right  was  sought  first 
with  the  stronger;  he  helped  to  find  it.  The 
first  natural  potentates  were  fathers,  afterwards 
patriarchs, — the  patricians  in  Rome,  later,  free- 
holders. He  who  could  help  himself  was  more 
highly  esteemed  than  he  who  was  forced  to 
seek  help  from  others.  Hence,  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  down  to  the  present  day,  men  boast 
more  of  strength  than  of  justice,  for  justice 
makes  equal. 

So  soon  as  man  begins  to  believe  in  others  no 
more  than  he  believes  in  himself,  all  Gouverne- 
ment  de  confiance  is  at  an  end. 

The  aim  of  civil  polities,  so  far  as  they  are 
grounded  in  reason,  is  to  give  to  pure,  practical 
reason  a  body.  Systems  of  ethics  alone  cannot 
do  that.  Reason  must  be  expressed  outwardly, 
embodied  in  external  institutions,  which  serve, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  supply  the  place  of  peculiar 
power, — its  self-existence 

Man  esteems  human  feelings  higher  than  the 
express  laws  by  which  it  is  intended  to  govern 
those  feelings.  He  makes  the  love  of  parents, 
of  children,  the  love  of  friends,  fidelity,  com- 
passion, the  basis  of  all  duties;  not  only  tole- 
rating exceptions  from  the  law  on  their  account, 
but  even  reproving  the  strength  of  mind  which 
exalts  itself  above  every  feeling  by  means  of 
ideas. 

As  a  countenance  is  made  beautiful  by  the 
soul's  shining  through  it,  so  the  world  is  beauti- 
ful by  the  shining  through  it  of  a  Gud. 

As  my  own  self  is  present  to  me  in  an  in- 
comprehensible manner,  so  God  is  present  to 
me  likewise,  in  an  incomprehensible  man- 
ner. 


Instinct  harmonizes  the  interior  of  animals, 
Religion  the  interior  of  man. 

Through  the  dark  of  world-events  there 
sometimes  dart  lightnings  which  tear  asunder 
the  clouds  and  discover  heaven,  the  dwelling 
of  God.  In  the  heart  of  man,  in  his  spirit, 
these  lightnings  are  kindled  and  shoot  upward. 

Man  as  a  finite  being  must  everywhere  make 
nature — finiteness — his  foundation.  He  would 
not  free  himself  from  nature,  but  free  his  nature, 
or  at  least  endue  it  with  freedom. 

Certain  as  it  is  that  we  live  in  time  as  our 
element,  and  cannot,  for  a  moment,  imagine 
ourselves  out  of  time,  without  likewise  ima- 
gining the  cessation  of  our  being ;  we  can  as 
little  conceive  ourselves  as  children  of  time 
and  our  existence  as  given  in  time  alone.  On 
the  contrary,  we  have  a  most  intense  conscious- 
ness of  something  beyond  time.  In  ourselves 
we  call  it  self,  out  of  ourselves,  God  ;  but  that 
which  is  in  time  we  call  nature  or  the  perish- 
able. Every  perishable  is  given  in  an  imperish- 
able, and  presupposes  it,  or  it  could  not  be. 
We  live  thereby  that  we  continually  interrupt 
eternity  and  make  a  beginning  and  an  end. 

Nothing  terrifies  man  so  much,  nothing  brings 
such  gloom  over  his  spirit,  as  when,  to  his  ap- 
prehension, God  vanishes  out  of  Nature,  as 
when  God  hides  his  face  from  him,  as  when 
design,  wisdom,  goodness,  do  not  appear  to  rule 
in  Nature,  but  only  blind  necessity  or  senseless 
chance. 

As  man  instinctively  interprets  the  features, 
gestures,  and  accents  of  his  fellow-men,  and 
thus  attains  to  language,  even  so  he  interprets 
Nature  instinctively  also.  As  men  originally 
communicate,  and  understand  one  another  by 
expressions  of  their  interior  which  have  been 
implanted  by  nature,  not  invented  by  them- 
selves, so  God  communicates  with  the  human 
race  through  his  creation.  Out  of  the  natural 
language  between  man  and  man  there  arises 
an  artificial  one  of  arbitrary  signs ;  and  man 
can  so  abuse  this  art,  as  by  means  of  it  to  de- 
ceive himself  with  regard  to  the  original  design. 
So  it  is  with  religion  which  degenerates,  in  his 
hands,  into  empty  ceremonies,  and  at  last  into 
irreligion. 

Without  religion,  whither  will  ye  flee  for 
safety,  in  a  world  full  of  death,  full  of  pains, 
full  of  warring  passions?  Envy  with  its  com- 
panions, slander  and  malice,  assail  you  in  every 
situation,  so  soon  as  ye  begin  to  take  comfort  in 
it,  so  soon  as  ye  begin,  in  any  way,  to  distin- 
guish yourselves  in  it.  Wherever  ye  flee,  in- 
justice and  wickedness  are  the  stronger.  Neither 
are  ye  true  to  yourselves;  no  inclination,  no 
purpose,  no  living  and  strengthening  thought 
can  ye  hold  fast  at  will.    Ye  summon  in  vain 


212 


JACOBI. 


all  the  powers  and  faculties  of  the  understand- 
ing. The  understanding  can  only  elaborate,  its 
deliberative  will  can  only  unite  here  and  sepa- 
rate there  what  already  is.  What  comfort, 
therefore,  unless  the  spirit  can  lift  itself  up  to 
something  unchangeable,  to  something  eternal? 
unless  it  can  embrace  a  faith  which  shall  over- 
come the  world  ?  Perfect  blessedness  is  no- 
where, and  nowhere  would  there  be  consola- 
tion even,  if  religion  were  not.  Everywhere 
man  must  help  himself  with  something.  One 
grasps  at  honour,  another  at  pleasure,  and  de- 
stroys his  inner  life.  Religion  only  can  purify 
and  deliver  it. 

Man  is  unceasingly  employed  in  raising  him- 
self from  the  stuff  to  the  form,  from  the  actual 
to  the  possible,  from  the  world  to  God. 

It  is  impossible  to  be  a  hero  in  anything  un- 
less one  is  first  a  hero  in  faith. 

The  characteristic  sign  of  genius  is  to  forget 
one's  self  by  living  in  an  idea.  Life  in  an  idea 
must  entirely  swallow  up  the  proper,  natural 
life. 

As  long  as  man  forgets  more  slowly  than  he 
learns,  he  advances.  He  ceases  to  advance,  and 
retrogrades,  when  he  forgets  sooner  and  more 
than  he  can  learn. 

With  the  approach  of  old  age  I  experienced, 
as  never  before,  that  the  living  spirit  in  man  is 
every  thing,  his  knowledge  nothing. 

In  love  we  exert  ourselves  to  be  all  that  we 
can  be,  in  the  presence  of  the  beloved  object. 
Through  that  we  become  acquainted  with  the 
feeling  of  shame  for  ourselves  in  the  highest 
degree.  In  ordinary  intimacies,  the  reverse  is 
found  ;  they  help  us  to  be  less  ashamed  of  our- 
selves; they  put  us  at  our  ease ;  we  relax  in 
our  intercourse  with  the  friend,  and  precisely 
in  his  presence  are  the  least  that  we  can  be. 

Unwillingly  I  assail,  unwillingly  I  refute,  not 
only  because  I  know  from  experience  how  little 
truth  is  benefited  thereby,  but  because  the  na- 
ture of  human  knowledge  itself  convinces  me 
of  the  same  thing.  Before  I  can  expose  an  er- 
ror, I  must  be  able  to  demonstrate  the  truth 
which  contradicts  that  error.  Error  in  itself 
is  always  invisible;  its  nature  is  absence  of 
light. 

That  which  is  written  in  the  taste  of  the  times 
needs  no  justification.  Agreement  supplies  the 
place  of  proofs  ;  whereas  the  most  profound  op- 
position awakens  only  anger. 

Only  those  thoughts  which  the  most  profound 
earnestness  has  produced  and  perfected,  take  a 
cheerful  form.  They  make  a  man  joyful.  This 
is  the  secret  of  the  Socratic  irony.    And  hence 


it  is  that  the  taste  for  genuine  Socratic  irony  is 
so  rare. 

A  man  of  taste  is  one  who  feels  the  beautiful 
immediately;  who  derives  the  feeling  of  the 
beautiful  immediately  from  the  beautiful.  Any 
one  who  possesses  a  considerable  degree  of  sa- 
gacity and  understanding  may  judge  very  cor- 
rectly, up  to  a  certain  point,  in  accordance  with 
a  received  model;  he  may  decide  for  others 
whether  a  given  work  of  art  is  beautiful  or  not; 
he  may  determine  the  why  and  the  degree  of 
its  beauty.  But  because  he  can  do  this,  he  is 
not  therefore  a  man  of  taste,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  he  is  guilty  of  gross  error.  The  beau- 
tiful has  this  in  common  with  all  original  (na- 
ture) that  it  is  recognised  without  a  mark.  It 
is,  and  manifests  itself;  it  may  be  indicated  but 
not  demonstrated. 

We  exhaust  ourselves  in  the  generation  of  our 
intellectual  offspring.  We  weaken  the  power 
of  representation  in  ourselves  by  representing 
for  others ;  so  that,  in  a  strict  sense,  we  give 
forth  truth.  What  we  communicate,  (make 
common)  of  that  we  lose  the  proper  possession. 

*****  We  forget  while 
teaching  others,  and,  with  our  disciples,  we  be- 
come our  own  disciples  by  being  obliged  to 
stoop  to  them.  It  may  come  to  pass,  that  one 
shall  believe  only  that  which  one  can  succeed 
in  imparting  to  others.  All  this,  however,  is 
true  only  of  those  labours  in  which  truths  are  eli- 
cited from  the  innermost  soul.  In  all  other 
cases  the  "  docendo  discimus'*  holds  good. 

It  happens  to  us  with  ideas*  as  with  money. 
The  general  sign  is  metamorphosed,  in  our  im- 
agination, into  the  thing  itself;  we  prefer  it  to 
that,  the  seemingly  universal  medium  to  each 
particular  end.j" 

Avarice  is  a  root  of  all  evil. 

We  make  ourselves  giddy  and  sink  down  into 
the  centre  of  nothing,  i.  e.  of  positive  falsehood, 
I  when  we  undertake  to  restore  from  the  under- 
standing that  which  has  perished  as  a  feeling 
from  the  heart. 

Our  mundane  system  is  said  to  be  composed 
of  the  ruins  of  a  sun.  The  dissectiug,  divelling 
understanding,  when  it  attempts  to  create,  de- 
vises only  ruins.  Man  must  annihilate  a  portion 
of  every  knowledge  in  order  to  grasp  it,  for  he 


*  '  Begriffen:  Conceptions,  perhaps,  is  a  more  lite- 
ral rendering;  concipio,  cum-capio,  that  which  is  taken 
together  in  one  act  of  the  mind.  Begreifen  is  to  grasp  to 
take  in,  but  begriff,  as  now  used,  lies  between  conception 
and  idea:  more  objective  than  the  former,  more  subjec- 
tive than  the  latter,  in  its  original  acceptation.  Tr. 

|  Coleridge  says,  somewhere,  that  our  conceptions  may 
be  so  adequate  as  to  preclude  the  desire  of  realizing  them. 
This  I  take  to  be  the  sense  of  the  above;  this  is  that  in- 
tellectual avarice  which  contents  itself  with  the  means, 
the  representative  of  values,  without  attempting  to  re- 
alize them  in  action.  Tr. 


JACOBI. 


213 


can  ?Tasp  only  with  his  conception  ;  he  possesses 
the  thing  only  so  far  as  he  knows  how  to  bring 
it  under  a  word. 

Every  mediate  designation  must  have  been 
preceded  by  an  immediate,  every  artificial  by  a 
natural.  The  more  mediated  our  designation 
becomes,  the  more  artificial  our  language,  the 
more  confused  and  dim  our  conceptions  of  the 
truth. 

All  philosophising  is  only  a  more  extended 
fathoming  of  the  invention  of  language. 

There  is  often  such  a  silence  in  me,  so  pro- 
found a  meditation,  that  I  cannot  express  how 
distracted  seem  to  me  all  men  whom  I  see  be- 
fore me.    No  one  listens. 

In  nature,  and,  in  general,  in  the  actual,  the 
true,  everything  is  positive.  In  the  understand- 
ing and  its  possibility,  everything  is  negative. 
For,  in  the  understanding,  everything  stands  un- 
der conceptions,  and  the  most  comprehensive 
are  generally  the  most  empty.  At  whatsoever 
the  understanding  aims,  the  white  which  it  seeks 
to  hit  is  nihility,  or  the  All-minus  diversity,  indi- 
viduality, personality. 

Because  man  falls  into  self-contradiction,  there- 
fore he  philosophises.  In  innumerable  ways 
he  loses  the  connection  of  his  truths,  i.  e.  they 
come  into  collision  with  each  other,  they  mutu- 
ally cancel  each  other.  Here  comes  in  the  right 
of  the  stronger.  Which  is  the  more,  the  most 
positive  1  that  is  the  controversy.  To  one  man 
this  seems  most  positive,  to  another  that.  Nay, 
in  the  same  individual  this  may  be  most  posi- 
tive to-day,  to-morrow  that.  When  this  happens 
frequently,  the  whole  understanding  of  the  man 
becomes  confused;  it  finds  nowhere  a  steady 
hold. 

It  is  a  strange  pretence,  that  we  seek  truth 
disinterestedly.  Man  seeks  it  disinterestedly 
just  as  we  may  say  of  the  brute  that  it  seeks  its 
food  disinterestedly,  solely  in  obedience  to  an 
instinct.  Man  seeks  truth  because  untruth  kills 
him,  and  because  he  seeks  a  foundation  for  his 
best  feelings  and  wishes ;  he  longs  for  the  foun- 
tain of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  of  truth  and  life. 

What  do  we  mean  when  we  say  that  truth 
should  be  sought  for  its  own  sake,  and  that  we 
should  sacrifice  everything  to  that?  Is  it  a  com- 
mand of  instinct,  or  do  I  see  something  for  which 
I  strive!  The  aim  of  philosophy,  it  is  said,  is 
to  understand  ourselves.  So  it  appears  in  re- 
flection ;  but  its  origin  is,  that  contradiction  has 
arisen  within  us,  that  we  see  double,  that  a  truth 
was  taken  from  us  which  we  are  desirous  of 
possessing  again.  We  are  looking  round  after 
tlie  truth  that  has  flown.  There  is,  originally, 
no  mere  inconsiderate  curiosity ;  but  there  is  an 
original  interest.  We  find  ourselves  in  the  truth, 


and  only  by  degrees  do  we  become  aware  that 
we  did  not  possess  it  entire. 

Of  those  who  boast  that  they  seek  truth  for 
its  own  sake,  the  greater  part  are  seeking  only 
a  system,  and  when  they  have  found  one,  no 
matter  what  one,  they  are  satisfied. 

Reason  is  the  consciousness  of  the  spirit.  He 
who  loses  reason  loses  himself,  his  self-con- 
sciousness, his  proper  being  and  persistence,  his 
person.  Personality  is  inseparable  from  reason, 
reason  from  personality.  *  *  *  * 
Reason  also  is  necessarily  connected  with  liberty, 
and  the  consciousness  of  personality  is  the  conscious- 
ness of  liberty. 

He  who  philosophises  for  himself  meets,  at 
every  step,  with  difficulties,  of  which  he  who 
philosophises  for  a  school  experiences  nothing. 

In  my  younger  days  it  stood  thus  with  me  in 
regard  to  philosophy.  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be 
heir  to  immeasurable  riches,  and  only  some  un- 
important lawsuits  and  some  unmeaning  for- 
malities seemed  to  hinder  me  from  taking  full 
possession  of  my  inheritance.  The  suits,  while 
pending,  grew  to  be  important.  At  last,  it  ap- 
peared that  I  had  inherited  nothing  but  lawsuits, 
and  that  the  whole  bequest  was  in  insolvent 
hands. 

Some  men  have,  so  to  speak,  only  examples 
in  their  head,  others  have  laws  likewise.  Vi- 
gorous reasoning  is  shown  in  finding  laws  for 
examples  and  examples  for  laws.  The  eye  of 
the  understanding  contracts  itself,  as  it  were,  in 
forming  conceptions,  and  expands  in  applying 
them.  The  merely  book-learned  have,  for  the 
most  part,  very  narrow  minds,  and  so  too  have 
the  merely  mechanically  practical. 

Philosophy  is  an  internal  life.  A  philosophi- 
cal life  is  a  collected  life.  By  means  of  true 
philosophy  the  soul  becomes  still,  and,  at  last, 
devout. 

Philosophising  is  striving  to  sail  up  the  stream 
of  being  and  of  knowing,  to  its  source. 

In  regard  to  the  ultimate  objects  of  human 
contemplation,  the  most  common  conceptions 
are  the  truest.  After  pondering  till  we  are 
weary,  we  are  forced  to  return  to  them  at  last, 
and  to  allow  the  truth  of  the  saying,  that  to 
children  and  to  men  of  simple  understandings 
are  revealed  the  things  which  are  hidden  from 
the  wise. 

I  have  been  young  and  now  I  am  old,  and  I 
bear  my  testimony  that  I  have  never  found  tho- 
rough, pervading,  enduring  morality  with  any 
but  such  as  feared  God,  —  not  in  the  modern 
sense,  but  in  the  old  child-like  way.  And  only 
with  such  too,  have  I  found  a  rejoicing  in  life,— 


214 


JACOBI. 


a  hearty,  victorious  cheerfulness  of  so  distin- 
guished a  kind,  that  no  other  is  to  be  compared 
with  it. 

I  too  believe  on  account  of  miracles;  namely, 
on  account  of  the  miracle  of  liberty,  which  is  a 
continuous  miracle,  and  has  much  analogy  with 
the  miracle  on  which  Christendom  is  founded, — 
the  reception  of  the  Holy  Spirit  at  Pentecost. 

To  be  free  and  to  be  a  spirit  are  one  and  the 
same.  Where  spirit  is,  there  is  invention,  cre- 
ative power,  originality,  self-existence. 

Every  great  example  takes  hold  of  us  with 
the  authority  of  a  miracle,  and  says  to  us :  If  ye 
had  but  faith,  ye  should  also  be  able  to  do  the 
things  which  I  do. 

Love,  admiration,  reverence,  are  the  founda- 
tion of  all  morality.  We  feel  ourselves  as  cause, 
as  person,  and  so  personify  everything, — streams, 
winds,  storms,  trees, — whatever  stirs  and  bene- 
fits or  harms  us.  Whatever  we  know  or  judge 
of  the  internal  powers  of  things,  we  know  and 
judge  by  sympathy,  by  presentiment.  Every 
man  has  his  own  individual  universe.  The 
more  he  is  able  to  transport  himself  into  other 
things,  to  live  the  life  of  those  things,  to  unite 
his  life  with  theirs,  the  greater  his  being  becomes. 

The  best  thing  in  being  man,  after  all,  is  that 
the  good  which  we  have  enjoyed  does  not  perish 
from  us, — that  it  establishes  itself  within  and 
around  us,  propagates  itself,  multiplies  ;  and  that 
thus  we  acquire  ever  more  power  for  greater 
enjoyment. 

To  embrace  an  object  in  such  a  way  as  to  see 
nothing  beyond  it, — there  is  no  other  way  to  be 
a  hero. 

I  have  all  reverence  for  principles  which 
grow  out  of  sentiments,  but  as  to  sentiments 
which  grow  out  of  principles,  you  shall  scarcely 
build  a  house  of  cards  thereon. 

The  first  and  necessary  condition  of  morality 
—the  power  of  acting  in  obedience  to  laws — is 
easily  confounded  with  morality  itself,  which 
consists  in  a  longing  after  something  higher. 

To  perform  noble  and  beautiful  acts  is  natural 
to  man;  it  is  easy  for  him,  he  finds  immediate 
impulses  to  such  acts  in  himself.  On  the  other 
hand,  virtue,  which,  in  the  proper  sense,  is 
founded  on  self-denial,  is  everywhere  difficult. 
To  virtue  he  must  accustom  himself  with  great 
labour,  and  laboriously  suffer  the  habit  to  be 
formed  in  him.  Nevertheless  Nature  has  im- 
planted magnanimity  in  him,  thereby  indicating 
a  power  of  self-control  in  his  mind,  which  acts 
previous  to  all  deliberation. 

Most  men  can  get  accustomed  to  diligence 
and  obedience;  and  the  whole  budget  of  ideas 
and  sentiments  by  which  it  is  proposed  to  con- 


trol or  regulate  the  animal  propensities,  amounts 
to  nothing  in  comparison  with  acquired  skill  in 
work  and  the  love  of  work  which  grows  out  of  it. 

It  is  never  too  late  with  us,  so  long  as  we  are 
still  aware  of  our  faults  and  bear  them  impa- 
tiently,— so  long  as  noble  propensities,  greedy 
of  conquest,  stir  within  us. 

How  happy  you  are,  said  I  to  L.,  in  possess- 
ing so  much  freedom  of  will !  While  I  said  this, 
it  struck  me  with  new  force  that  we  place  that 
which  we  call  freedom  of  will,  not  so  much  in 
the  power  of  choice,  as  in  the  power  of  execut- 
ing our  volitions. 

The  strongest  passion  in  man  is  ambition. 
That  which  satisfies  a  true  ambition  promotes 
the  love  of  God,  and  leads  us  nearer  to  the 
knowledge  of  Him. 

It  is  sometimes  necessary  to  let  five  be  even.* 
I  have  all  my  life  practised  this  doctrine,  more 
than  I  ought,  from  natural  facility  of  temper. 
But  then  I  have  never  been  able  to  prevail  on 
myself,  while  letting  five  be  even,  to  maintain 
solemnly  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  even,  or 
that  five  is  the  law  of  the  even. 

The  Athenians,  on  the  day  after  the  assassi- 
nation of  Archias,  sent  to  the  Thebans,  whom 
Pelopidas  had  set  free,  five  thousand  men,  as 
auxiliaries  against  the  Lacedaemonians.  We 
often  find  this  among  the  Greeks,  that  they  re- 
garded no  danger  in  actions  which  honour  and 
propriety  demanded  of  them.  Wisdom  and 
prudence,  with  them,  were  very  different  things. 
With  all  the  faults  and  vices  of  these  people, 
there  lived  in  them  something  of  genuine  free- 
dom, which  impelled  them,  strengthened  them, 
and  gave  to  their  courage  a  sublime  character, 
entirely  wanting  to  the  courage  of  the  moderns. 
It  stood  very  clear  before  their  eyes  that  man 
has  a  better  soul  and  that  this  better  soul  should 
hold  the  lower  in  subjection. 

The  greater  a  man's  ability  to  act  for  distant 
ends,  the  stronger  his  mind. 

Man  cannot  reform  himself  in  detail,  nor,  in 
general,  can  he  keep  his  promises  to  himself,  for 
he  himself  is  the  sport  of  passions,  and  only  the 
law  above  him  is  constant.  That  he  can  ac- 
knowledge this  law,  subject  himself  to  its  dis- 
cipline, in  fine,  appropriate  to  himself  the  love 
of  it  and  make  it  a  part  of  his  character,— 
therein  consists  his  dignity.  And  the  character 
of  the  righteous  man  is  no  other  than  this.  It 
is  folly  to  build  upon  a  man  who  has  only  dis- 
position (though  it  were  the  very  best)  without 
principles  whereby  to  guide  this  disposition  and 
to  govern  himself. 

*        *        *        *       *       *  * 

*  A  proverbial  expression  signifying  that  one  must  not 
be  too  strict  in  a  given  case,— must  let  a  thing  pass.  Tr. 


JACOBI. 


215 


We  always  live  prospectively,  never  retro- 
spectively, and  there  is  no  abiding  moment. 
Therefore  let  us  seek  internal  peace,  before  all 
things,  and  sacrifice  everything  to  that.  Every 
lot  is  tolerable  ;  only  dissatisfaction  with  our- 
selves is  not  tolerable ;  and  there  is  a  degree 
of  remorse  from  which  there  is  no  deliverance. 

We  may  surrender  ourselves  without  danger 
to  impressions  made  by  Nature,  also  to  impres- 
sions made  by  men.  Call  it  enthusiasm,  call  it 
fanaticism,  provided  our  feeling  is  only  the  re- 
sult of  an  actual  relation,  there  is  no  harm  to  be 
feared.  But  as  soon  as  we  attempt  to  perpetuate 
the  feeling  beyond  its  natural  duration,  as  soon 
as  we  take  pains  to  imitate  it,  and  lastly,  when 
we  even  go  so  far  as  to  endeavour  to  awaken 
the  feelings  of  others  in  ourselves,  we  are  in 
the  way  of  self-delusion  and  hypocrisy. 

Mankind  are  forever  employed  in  giving  their 
unreason  a  different  shape,  and  each  time  they 
persuade  themselves  that  they  have  converted 
it  into  reason.  They  fall  out  of  one  superstition 
into  another,  and  with  every  new  start,  they 
think  they  have  gained  in  the  knowledge  of 
truth.  It  is  error  itself  which  continually  drives 
them  before  it,  while  they  think  they  are  flying 
from  it  of  their  own  accord.  But  it  is  contrary 
to  the  nature  of  error  to  drive  men  to  the  truth. 
The  truth  is  altogether  internal,  and  he  who 
possesses  it  is  in  danger  of  losing  it  when  he 
attempts  to  make  it  external,  when  he  regards 
that  which  he  has  made  external  as  the  truth 
itself.  For  truth  is  not  this  or  that  opinion,  but 
an  insight  which  is  elevated  above  every 
peculiar  opinion. 

Although  man  daily  detects  himself  in  mis- 
taking the  symptoms  of  an  event  for  its  cause, 
he  continually  commits  the  same  error  anew, 
and  will  rather  help  himself  with  the  most 
absurd  explanations,  than  be  contented  with  a 
thorough  account  of  the  matter.  For  example, 
nothing  lies  more  plain  before  his  eyes  than 
that  no  individual  can  originate  from  mere  com- 
position, and  yet  the  materialist  will  rather  sup- 
pose that  this  may  take  place  in  some  incom- 
prehensible way,  than  assume  the  incompre- 
hensible directly  and  at  once.  His  soul  assures 
him  with  all  its  power  and  with  a  distinctness 
which  exceeds  all  other  distinctness,  that  the 
will  is  before  the  deed,  life  before  food,  but  he 
reasons  out  the  reverse. 

When  we  call  the  system  of  the  heavens  a 
mechanism,  we  no  longer  wonder  at  that  me- 
chanism, but  we  wonder  at  a  Newton,  a  Kep- 
ler, who  with  their  intellect  could  explore  it, 
and  unfold  it  to  us.  But  if  we  enter  into  the 
understanding  of  these  great  men,  we  no  longer 
wonder  even  at  that;  the  mechanism  of  its  re- 
flective action  becomes  intelligible  to  us,  and 
that  which  we  can  thoroughly  understand,  that 
which  follows  from  necessity,  we  cannot  won- 


der at.  At  the  utmost,  we  contemplate  it  with 
astonishment,  as  we  contemplate  a  lofty  moun- 
tain, or  the  boundless  ocean.  We  can  truly 
wonder,  only  at  that  which  is  a  wonder  (a 
miracle),  or  which  seems  to  us  such.  The 
wonder-working  from  love  is  God  ;  the  wonder- 
working from  malice  is  Satan.  The  brute  can 
be  astonished  with  terror  or  with  joy,  man 
alone  can  wonder. 

The  truly  good  can  be  preserved  only  by 
means  of  itself,  and  all  efforts  to  preserve  it  by 
means  of  anything  formal  or  external  to  itself, 
— with  whatsoever  kind  of  sugar  or  salt, — are 
vain. 

Human  reason  is  the  symptom  of  the  highest 
life  that  we  know.  But  it  has  not  its  life  in 
itself,  it  must  receive  it  at  every  moment.  Life 
is  not  in  it,  but  it  is  in  life.  What  life  is, — its 
source  and  nature, — is  for  us  the  deepest  mys- 
tery. 

Man's  light  is  in  the  impulse  of  elevation  to 
something  higher.  Not  because  I  raise  myself 
above  something,  but  because  I  raise  myself  to 
something,  do  I  approve  myself. 

I  know  no  deeper  philosophy  than  that  of 
Paul  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  his  epistle  to  the 
Romans.  In  the  merely  natural  man  dwells 
sin.  Regeneration  is  the  basis  of  Christianity. 
He  who  banishes  the  doctrine  of  Grace  from 
the  bible,  abolishes  the  whole  bible. 

"In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  ;"  means, 
the  will  was  before  the  deed,  the  end  before 
the  means,  the  design  before  the  act,  the  soul 
before  the  body,  the  form  before  the  formless, 
life  before  death. 

It  is  ever  beneath  the  dignity  of  man  to  give 
laws,  merely  as  the  stronger,  and  to  rejoice  in 
the  pressure  which  he  exercises  like  a  sense- 
less block,  by  mere  bulk,  as  if  it  were  a  living 
force. 

The  actual  right  of  the  stronger  consists  only 
in  his  being  able  to  possess  himself  of  the  will 
of  the  less  strong.  It  is  with  this  just  as  it  is 
with  the  ruling  thoughts  and  sentiments  in  our 
soul. 

True,  the  strongest  is  always  king,  not  the 
strongest  to  subject  the  will  of  all  to  himself  so 
that  they  shall  do  his  will  though  contrary  to 
their  own,  but  the  strongest  to  execute  their 
will,  to  act  in  conformity  with  it. 

Men  will  always  act  according  to  their  pas- 
sions. Therefore  the  best  government  is  that 
which  inspires  the  nobler  passions  and  destroys 
the  meaner. 

The  written,  actual  laws  have  grown  out  of 


216 


J  ACOBI 


customs,  which  customs  have  no  other  origin 
than  the  natural  inclinations  and  propensities 
of  men  who  have  united  themselves  in  a  cer- 
tain body.  Thus  justice  arose.  If  we  were  to 
take  away  from  the  law  all  that  has  grown  up 
freely  and  naturally,  there  would  be  little  good 
and  much  evil  left.  That  which  still  holds 
society  together  and  makes  life  tolerable  is  the 
work  of  liberty  and  Nature. 

Despotism  is  easier  than  liberty,  as  vice  is 
easier  than  virtue. 

Justice  is  the  freedom  of  those  who  are  equal. 
Injustice  is  the  freedom  of  those  who  are  un- 
equal. 

It  is  impossible  to  diminish  poverty  by  the 
multiplication  of  goods  ;  for  manage  as  we  may, 
misery  and  suffering  will  always  cleave  to  the 
border  of  superfluity. 

Manage  a  mad-house  as  you  will,  you  never 
can  make  a  rational  community  of  it.  *  *  * 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  go  mad  myself 
when  I  hear  those  who  only  lust  after  the  fruits 
of  slavery  raving  about  freedom. 

As  history  is  generally  written,  it  is  far  from 
giving  us  a  more  accurate  knowledge  of  man. 
On  the  contrary,  it  only  makes  him  more  unin- 
telligible. And  yet  the  true  aim  of  the  historian 
should  be,  so  to  represent  the  different  modes 
of  being  which  are  natural  to  man,  that  we  shall 
recognise  them  as  natural. 

The  inventions  and  experiences  of  so  many 
ages  and  nations  have  only,  as  it  were,  fastened 
themselves  upon  us.  We  have  adopted  them 
hastily,  on  account  of  certain  prominent  advan- 
tages, without  investigating  them  in  their  origin 
and  their  consequences. 

We  cannot  return  to  the  old  forms,  and  ought 
not  to  endeavour  to  do  so,  but  we  can  return  to 
the  sentiments  connected  with  those  forms  ;  and 
they  lie  very  near  us. 

Nothing  tends  more  to  bring  confusion  and 
death  into  arts  and  morals,  than  when  men 
blindly  transfer  the  experience  of  one  age  to 
another. 

It  is  a  consequence  of  civilization,  that  man 
can  produce  without  invention,  know  without 
insight.  So  far,  civilization  makes  man  mecha- 
nical. It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  while 
it  kills  him  a  parte  post,  it  may  perhaps  quicken 
him  in  the  same  degree,  a  parte  ante. 

"  Mon  ame  active  a  besoin  d'aliment."  (Mem. 
d'Hipp.  Clairon.)  How  ridiculous  the  requisi- 
tion of  those  boastful  philosophers,  that  man 
should  despise  all  enjoyment!  This  being,  so 
through  and  through  necessitous,  is  to  be  blessed 


in  himself  alone,  in  his  action,  in  his  striving 
after  nothing!  Everything  in  us  is  to  be  con- 
trary to  nature,  contempt  of  nature  ! 

That  which  man  seeks,  which  everywhere 
guides  him, — yea!  enlightens  him  even,  is  joy. 
Let  him,  it  is  said,  seek  joy  in  himself ;  that  is 
constant,  for  his  self  can  never  desert  him. 
False !  The  1  of  to-day  is  not  the  I  of  yester- 
day. The  two  are  often  so  different  that  the 
one  knows  not  how  to  find  itself  in  the  other. 
His  empty  form  is  pure  nothing,  and  the  per- 
manent (that  in  him  which  is  not  form)  is 
wholly  unknown  to  him.  He  seeks  himself 
everywhere  in  Nature,  and  finds  himself  not. 
That  which  he  took  for  himself  is  only  the  re- 
flection of  something  else.  That  something 
vanished ;  it  was  perishable,  and  he  sank  back 
into  his  own  nothingness. 

Man  is  a  struggling  creature.  He  feels  in 
time,  which  never  stands  still,  which  has  no 
proper  moment.  What  is  the  present?  An 
appearance  compounded  of  the  past  and  the 
future.  And  yet  wise  men  have  reproved  man 
for  forgetting  the  present,  for  dreaming  away 
his  life  with  hopes,  and  fondly  sacrificing  to 
them  all  actual  enjoyment.  Tell  me,  ye  sages! 
whoso  strives  for  show-good, — is  he  not  deluded 
as  well  when  he  seizes  it  as  when  he  only  pur- 
sues it?  Where  is  he  among  your  disciples 
who  has  ever  found  peace  and  blessedness  in 
what  you  call  the  present?  A  thing  of  the 
future  is  man,  and  strive  he  must  without 
ceasing.  But  in  the  path  of  the  true  good,  toge- 
ther with  the  joys  of  hope,  he  finds  also  the 
repose  of  enjoyment.  Created  for  eternity,  but 
created  out  of  finite  nature.  Seize  the  Proteus 
which, — terrified  by  its  changing  forms, — thou 
hast  so  often  let  slip  from  thy  hands ;  seize  it 
and  let  it  not  go ;  for  under  every  one  of  its 
forms  lies  the  true,  the  prophetic,  the  divine. 

Better  make  use  of  an  asses'  bridge  than  never 
be  able  to  stir  from  the  spot.  Everything  good 
has  come  to  us  in  this  way,  and  wo  unto  us 
should  the  bridge  no  longer  hold  ! 

In  one  thing  men  of  all  ages  are  alike ;  they 
have  believed  obstinately  in  themselves. 

When  we  lose  our  faith  in  persons,  we  lose 
still  more  our  faith  in  generalities. 

The  most  universal  rule  that  I  know  for  the 
writer  and  also  for  the  artist,  is  that  his  expres- 
sion be  always  beneath  the  thing  which  he  re- 
presents. I  hold  this  to  be  the  true  secret  of 
mind  and  of  power. 

True  attention  is  the  product  of  love. 

Without  repose  of  soul,  nothing  great  is  pro- 
duced. When  little  passions  are  tugging  at  a 
man  he  can  produce  only  little  things,  and  that 


JACOBI. 


217 


only  at  intervals.  Even  where  strong  passion 
brings  great  things  to  pass,  there  is  a  kind  of 
repose  in  the  soul.  Everything  is  concentrated 
upon  that  one,  and  the  soul  reposes  on  that 
(central)  point. 

Nothing  is  more  ruinous  for  a  man  than  when 
he  is  mighty  enough  in  any  part,  to  right  him- 
self without  right. 

Is  it  supposed  that  liberty  consists  in  the 
faculty  of  choosing  opposite  things  ?  Only  on 
that  ground,  and  so  far  forth  as  we  are  able  to 
do  that,  we  are  not  free.  Because  the  evening 
robs  us  of  feelings,  resolutions,  views  which  we 
had  in  the  morning;  because  we  cannot  hold 
fast  our  own  wishes,  our  character,  our  person ; 
because  rain  and  sunshine,  health  and  sickness, 
change  us  through  and  through  ;  therefore  we 
complain  of  bondage.  If  man  were  always  of 
the  same  mind,  his  reason  would  keep  its  even 
course,  and  it  would  never  occur  to  him  that  he 
was  not  free. 

By  every  sensible  impression  we  are  divorced 
from  ourselves,  and  never  are  we  divorced  from 
ourselves  by  free  activity. 

Where  does  Nature  end?  There  where  free- 
dom begins.  It  is  precisely  this  end  that  I  seek. 
I  follow  after  miracles  as  others  follow  after  the 
science  which  abolishes  miracles.  He  who 
makes  an  end  of  miracles  is  not  my  friend. 

The  true  and  the  good  resemble  gold.  Gold 
seldom  appears  obvious  and  solid,  but  it  per- 
vades invisibly  the  bodies  that  contain  it. 

The  French  rulers  have  too  high  an  opinion 
of  man's  powers,  and  too  low  an  opinion  of  his 
destination,  which  makes  a  strange,  repulsive 
contrast. 

No  tradition  assigns  a  beginning  to  justice, 
but  only  to  injustice.  Before  the  silver,  the 
brazen,  the  iron  age,  there  was  a  golden ;  man 
was  at  peace  with  himself.  All  governments 
are,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  treaty  with  the  De- 
vil. 

We  may  have  a  perfect  insight  as  to  how  it 
has  come  to  pass,  that  in  the  same  field  where, 
a  thousand  years  ago,  justice  was  sown,  nothing 
now  springs  from  the  same  seed  but  tares, 
without  being  able,  by  means  of  this  insight,  to 
help  the  evil.  What  is  to  be  done  in  this  ne- 
cessity ?  Burke's  answer  to  this  question  is  — 
"  What  necessity  commands." 

It  is  an  indispensable  condition  of  a  morality 
that  is  to  be  efficient,  to  believe  in  a  higher 
order  of  things,  of  which  the  common  and  visi- 
ble is  an  heterogeneous  part,  that  must  assimi- 
late itself  to  the  higher.  Both  together  must 
constitute  but  one  kingdom,  but  one  creation. 
2  c 


Are  not  understanding  and  reason  organs  of 
one  and  the  same  being?  Assuredly.  By  means 
of  the  one  the  created, — Nature  or  the  creature, 
— is  unfolded  to  man ;  by  means  of  the  other, 
the  Creator.  In  the  consciousness  of  man  that 
he  is  creature,  but  God's  creature,  understand- 
ing and  reason  are  connected  together  in  him. 
Humanity  is  destroyed  by  the  separation  of  the 
one  from  the  other.  Without  religion,  man  be- 
comes a  beast ;  without  humanity,  a  visionary. 

A  want  which  can  attain  to  its  satisfaction, 
that  is,  to  a  feeling  of  the  good,  is  no  evil,  but  a 
stimulus  which  quickens.  As  the  wants  of  a 
being,  so  is  the  being  itself,  and  the  worth  of 
its  life. 

To  philosophize  is  to  recollect  ourselves  on 
all  sides.  We  defend  ourselves  against  the 
contradiction  which  threatens  to  destroy  the 
unity  of  our  consciousness,  (our  personality), 
which  threatens  to  kill  us.  He  who  would  re- 
collect himself  outside  of  sense,  outside  of  all 
feeling,  of  all  conception,  by  mere  thinking  as 
such,  becomes  mad. 

Yesterday  I  despatched  my  answer  to  Kant, 
wherein  I  expressed  my  conviction  that  even 
the  knowledge  of  our  ignorance  is  patch-work. 
Three  days  I  had  plagued  myself  with  this  let- 
ter. I  was  tired,  out  of  humour.  My  sisters 
came  and  begged  me  to  read  them  something. 
They  were  not  well,  and  I  could  not  refuse  their 
request.  I  asked,  what?  A  portion  of  Stoll- 
berg's  Sophocles?  Without  inward  vocation  or 
predilection  I  began  to  read  the  first  piece  in  the 
second  volume,  the  Ajax.  And  yet  I  scarce  re- 
member, in  all  my  life,  to  have  been  so  taken, 
so  carried  away  by  any  reading,  so  wondrously 
filled  with  thoughts  and  feelings. 

You  know  how  strange  and  disagreeable  the 
subject  of  this  piece.  Ajax  sitting  upon  the 
slaughtered  cattle  presents  a  half-sickening,  half- 
repellent  spectacle.  Minerva,  who  first  appears, 
goddess  of  wisdom  as  she  is,  says  many  insipid 
things ;  and  yet  what  an  impression  she  imme- 
diately makes  in  her  second  dialogue  with  Ulys- 
ses, after  Ajax  has  appeared  in  his  madness! 
The  insipid  babbler  becomes  a  celestial  being 
the  moment  she  says : 

"  Odysseus,  seest  thou  now  how  great  the  power 
Is  of  the  Gods  ?   Was  e'er  a  wiser  man 
Than  he  ?  or  furnished  more  for  noble  deeds  V* 

And  Ulysses  answers : 

"  More  than  at  him,  I  look  upon  myself 
And  see  that  we,  we  mortals,  all  who  live 
Are  visionary  forms  and  shadows." 

And  then  the  Chorus  and  Tekmessa,  and 
Ajax  himself! 

When,  in  connection  with  this  sublime  poem, 
we  happen  to  think  of  the  decent,  probable,  re- 
gular, dramas  of  the  French,  why  are  we  seized 
with  such  disgust  at  those  products  of  art  which 
lay  claim  to  faultlessness  on  the  score  of  reason? 
Why  does  their  art  so  fall  to  the  ground  before 
19 


218 


J  ACOBI. 


the  art  of  the  Greeks?  It  falls  to  the  ground 
because  the  Greek  is  a  true  poet,  because  he  is 
a  Seer.  "  Thou  art  the  mouth  of  Truth,';  we  say- 
to  the  Greek.  "Thou  givest  to  us  again  that 
which  hath  appeared  to  thyself."'  The  other  has 
only  uncertain  traditions,  and  gives  us,  out  of 
them,  only  what  seems  to  him  probable. 

Fulness  of  human  sense  !  Yes  !  thou  art  ex- 
alted far  above  thine  inflated  substitute,  abstrac- 
tion !  Alas  for  the  pure  cognition  which  is  only 
skin  and  skeleton,  without  bowels,  without  soul ! 
"Who  knoweth  the  things  of  a  man  save  the 
spirit  of  man  which  is  in  him  ?"  Fountain  of 
all  certainty!  thou  art  and  I  am!  And  I  begin 
to  doubt  that  I  am,  when  I  listen  to  you,  ye  law- 
givers of  reason !  ye  creators  of  a  pure  philoso- 
phy! 

It  belongs  to  the  nature  of  man  not  to  be  able 
to  imagine  an  end,  that  is,  not  to  be  able  to  ima- 
gine a  genuine  whole.  Because  he  cannot  ima- 
gine an  end,  he  deludes  himself  with  the  notion 
that  he  can  imagine  the  infinite,  as  something 
positive. 

The  respect  for  science,  as  such,  is  entirely 
the  same  with  that  which  men  have  for  pro- 
perty, and  for  that  which  secures  to  them  its 
possession.  Science  incorporates  the  true,  gives 
it  a  visible,  serviceable  body  which  eats  and 
drinks,  and  renders  services  in  return.  Then, 
the  living  and  philosophical  in  the  sciences  gra- 
dually dies  out ;  the  spirit  which  acquired  them 
has  vanished;  the  gatherer  is  followed  by  a 
spendthrift. 

The  natural  striving  of  man  to  arrive  at  a 
perfect  understanding  of  himself  has  much  ana- 
logy with  the  wish  to  be  as  happy,  according  to 
the  vulgar  expression,  "as  a  king;'1  that  is,  to 
be  in  possession  of  all  the  means  of  satisfying 
one's  appetites  and  passions.  The  thoughtless 
dream  of  a  condition  in  which  there  is  nothing 
but  joy  and  delight.  But  man  can  thrive  only 
in  want,  in  labour,  and  in  dangers.  And  as  to 
his  mind,  if  that  is  to  prosper,  it  must  be  con- 
scious of  a  constant  progress  from  one  degree 
of  clearness  to  another. 

From  the  sensuous,  however  we  may  refine 
it,  we  cannot  derive  that  which  must  be  appre- 
hended immediately  by  the  spirit.  When  the 
process  of  abstraction  from  the  sensuous  is  com- 
plete there  remains  =  0,  and  not  the  absolute, 
fair,  and  good,  and  true.  Therefore  we  know 
nothing  of  an  absolute  fair  and  good  and  true, 
and  nothing  of  God  unless  we  possess  a  higher 
faculty  for  the  perception  of  truth  than  the  senses 
and  the  thinking  power. 

All  my  convictions  rest  on  the  single  one  of 
the  liberty  of  man.  This  idea  is  peculiar  to 
me,  and  distinguishes  my  philosophy  (if  men 
choose  to  honour  a  system  of  faith  with  that 
name,)  from  all  that  have  preceded  it. 


It  is  much  more  dangerous,  and  a  much 
greater  evil  to  abrogate  conscience  with  law 
and  letter,  than  the  reverse. 

If  we  must  be  the  victims  either  of  feelings 
and  inclinations,  or  of  words  and  death,  I  would 
much  sooner  make  up  my  mind  to  the  former. 

An  elevation  above  sensual  appetites  and  in- 
clinations, without  a  whither,  (a  definite  direc- 
tion,) is  an  empty  elevation ;  and  a  blind  law 
is  no  better  than  a  blind  impulse.  It  is  with 
morality  as  it  is  with  the  self-love  of  man; 
without  given  impulses,  inclinations,  and  pas- 
sions, they  can  neither  of  them  become  appa- 
rent, or  have  an  application. 

"  Is  there  a  progress  of  humanity  in  the  good 
and  in  light?''  If  by  good  and  light  we  under- 
stand what  the  sublimest  philosophers  of  anti- 
quity, Pythagoras  and  Plato,  understood  by  these 
terms,  then  it  is  my  decided  opinion  that  there 
is  no  such  progress  of  humanity.  I  even  main- 
tain that  these  men  would  not  have  deserved 
the  name  of  divine,  and  that  they  must  have 
had  a  very  imperfect  knowledge  of  their  busi- 
ness, if  they  supposed  that  by  means  of  civil 
institutions,  of  modes  of  education,  by  means 
of  scholastic  exercise  and  practice,  they  could 
establish  a  kind  of  learning  by  rote  of  the  in- 
ternal;* that  they  could  gently  and  gradually,  by 
means  of  deep-planned  mechanism,  make  wis- 
dom and  virtue,  and  their  daughter,  liberty,  the 
habit  of  a  nation,  nay,  of  the  world ;  so  that 
men  should  thenceforth  not  only  be  able  to  pre- 
fer, but  should  actually  and  universally  prefer 
that  happiness  which  is  a  property  of  the  per- 
son, a  quality  of  the  mind,  to  that  which  depends 
on  external  things,  and  is  a  mere  state  of  sen- 
sual enjoyment.  Folly,  vice,  servitude,  and, 
with  the  last,  every  evil,  may  be  introduced; 
not  virtue  and  liberty.  Health  is  not  contagious 
like  the  plague  and  the  yellow  fever.  Neither 
can  it  be  elaborated  by  art,  still  less  created; 
for  it  is  original  and  comes  from  the  mother's 
womb,  firmer  or  weaker,  more  perfect  or  less 
perfect. 

If  reason  possessed  power,  says  a  profound 
writer,  as  she  possesses  authority,  justice  and 
peace  would  everywhere  rule.  But  now, with 
her  dwells  only  right ;  elsewhere,  with  sensual 
appetite,  desire,  passion,  strength. 

On  account  of  this  disproportion,  mankind 
have  divided  themselves  into  two  parties.  The 
one — the  earliest  in  its  origin — cast  about  for 
means  to  bring  force  on  the  side  of  right.  They 
invented  wisely  and  also  experimented  success- 
fully, but  never  with  permanent  results.  All 
their  undertakings  proved  failures,  more  or  less, 
in  the  end,  and  dispersion  ensued.  But  unde- 
stroyed  and  indestructible, — however  frequently 


*  Auswendig  lernen  des  inwendigen;  literally,  an  ex- 
ternal learning  of  the  internal. 


JACOBI. 


219 


and  strangely  they  have  been  scattered  and  may 
be  again  in  time  to  come, — they  steadfastly  per- 
severe and  will  persevere  in  their  intent.  No 
one,  not  even  from  their  own  midst,  knows  their 
present  strength  or  weakness. 

The  other  party,  likewise  dissatisfied  with 
this  twofold  dominion  in  man,  and  desirous  of 
putting  an  end  to  the  schism,  —  after  mature 
consideration  of  the  hindrances  which  had 
caused  the  shipwreck  of  all  the  undertakings  of 
the  former, — hit  upon  the  thought  of  an  entirely 
opposite  method.  Instead  of  endeavouring  to 
bring  over  force  to  the  side  of  the  right,  they 
sought  to  bring  over  right  to  the  side  of  force. 
They  sought  not  to  make  the  rational  strong, 
but  to  make  the  strong  rational.  They  accused 
the  former  system  of  hostility  to  Nature,  of  aim- 
ing at  oppression  and  tyrannous  despotism.  On 
the  other  hand,  they  boasted  that  their  own  was 
in  harmony  with  Nature,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
did  not  conflict  with  Reason ;  that  it  only  de- 
sired a  good  understanding  between  the  two. 
Their  plan  was  this.  The  whole  gigantic  pro- 
geny of  sense,  the  lusts  and  passions  should 
quietly  come  together,  and  consult  among  them- 
selves what  was  best.  The  best  was  union. 
But,  it  was  agreed,  they  would  never  be  able  to 
realize  this  union  until  they  had  put  an  end  to 
the  controversy  with  Reason,  who  dwelt  toge- 
ther with  them  in  their  common  country,  the 
human  mind.  Experience  had  shown  that  she 
was  never  to  be  quite  overpowered  and  entirely 
cast  out.  This,  in  fact,  was  no  misfortune,  since 
the  senses  could  so  easily  make  peace  with 
Reason  and  then  employ  her  to  their  own  ad- 
vantage, nay,  make  her  entirely  their  own.  The 
way  to  do  this,  was  the  establishment  of  a  com- 
munity, the  plan  of  which  might,  without  hesi- 
tation, be  left  to  Reason  to  draw  up.  For,  it 
was  argued,  Reason  desires  justice  only  for  the 
sake  of  the  common  good,  in  other  words,  she 
desires  only  that  each  one  should  have  his  own  ; 
the  individual  she  does  not  regard  nor  care  for. 
Neither  does  she  regard  herself;  —  that  is  the 
property  or  vice  only  of  that  which  is  an  indi- 
vidual, a  person,  a  self.  Reason  has  nothing  of 
this  sort,  nor  indeed,  of  genuine  reality.  There- 
fore, it  was  agreed,  they  could  boldly  rely  on 
the  impartiality  of  Reason,  and  not  only  confide 
to  her,  unconditionally,  the  organization  of  the 
commonweal  to  be  established  in  connection 
with  her,  but  even  allot  to  her  the  dignity  of  the 
chief  magistracy  therein  ; — an  office  like  the  royal 
one  in  Sparta.  An  Ephorate*  might  be  esta- 
blished in  connection  therewith,  and  committed 
to  the  jurisdiction  of  the  understanding.  The 
people  had  elected  Reason  and  placed  her  over 
them,  simply  and  solely  that  she  should  main- 
tain order  and  harmony  in  their  midst;  she  be- 
longed to  the  commonweal,  not  the  common- 
weal to  her;  the  collective  will  was  the  true 


*  The  office  of  the  Ephori .  E<popoi— a  department  of  the 
Spartan  Government.  The  word  signifies  properly,  in- 
spectors, from  eru  and  opaco.  Tr. 


sovereign  from  whom  Reason  derived  her  royal 
title  and  the  authority  connected  with  it,  merely 
as  a  fief.  Should  she  ever  forget  this,  assume 
independent  powers,  and  attempt  to  exalt  her 
nominal  authority  above  the  true,  then  the 
Ephorate  must  immediately  come  to  the  rescue 
and  resist  such  attempt.  They  could  place  the 
utmost  reliance  on  the  watchfulness  of  the  un- 
derstanding, in  this  matter,  because  the  under- 
standing is  thoroughly  and  altogether  a  man  of 
the  people. 

The  two  systems  which  are  here  presented 
may  be  compared, — as  formerly  the  systems  of 
Idealism  and  Realism  were  compared, — with 
the  two  opposite  astronomical  systems  of  Pto- 
lemy and  Copernicus.  Only  the  order  of  time, 
in  this  case,  must  be  reversed  ;  the  latter  must 
be  considered  as  the  elder,  the  former  as  the 
younger. 

What  history  is  not  richer — does  not  contain 
far  more  than  they  by  whom  it  is  enacted,  the 
present  witnesses,  see,  experience  and  know  ? 
What  mortal  understandeth  his  way  ? 

"Tous  les  gouts  sont  pour  moi  respectable," 
says  Voltaire  in  a  frivolous  poem.  I  can  adopt 
that  saying  of  his,  as  a  philosopher,  and  only 
require  that  every  one  should  confess  his  taste 
clearly  and  distinctly.  There  are  but  two  phi- 
losophies essentially  distinct  from  each  other. 
I  will  call  them  Platonism  and  Spinozism.  Be- 
tween these  two  spirits  we  may  choose  ;  that  is, 
we  may  be  taken  with  the  one  or  the  other,  so 
that  we  shall  attach  ourselves  to  that  alone,  and 
be  forced  to  regard  that  alone  as  the  spirit  of 
truth.  It  is  the  whole  disposition  of  the  man 
that  must  decide  here.  It  is  impossible  to  divide 
the  heart  between  the  two,  still  more  impossible 
to  unite  them.  Where  there  is  the  appearance 
of  the  latter,  there  language  deceives,  there  is 
double-tonguedness. 

Every  man  has  some  kind  of  religion ;  that  is, 
a  supreme  truth  by  which  he  measures  all  his 
judgments, — a  supreme  will  by  which  he  mea- 
sures all  his  endeavours; — these  every  one  has 
who  is  at  one  with  himself,  who  is  everywhere 
decidedly  the  same.  But  the  worth  of  such  a 
religion,  and  the  honour  due  to  it,  and  to  him 
who  has  become  one  with  it,  cannot  be  deter- 
mined by  its  amount.  Its  quality  alone  decides 
and  gives  to  one  conviction,  to  one  love  or 
friendship,  a  higher  value  than  to  another. 

At  bottom  every  religion  is  anti- christian 
which  makes  the  form  the  thing,  the  letter  the 
substance.  Such  a  materialistic  religion,  in  or- 
der to  be  at  all  consistent,  ought  to  maintain  a 
material  infallibility.  ***** 

There  are  but  two  religions,  Christianity  and 
paganism,  the  worship  of  God  and  idolatry. 
A  third  between  these  two  is  not  possible. 
Where  idolatry  ends,  there  Christianity  begins, 


220 


J  AC 


OBI. 


and  where  idolatry  begins,  there  Christianity- 
ends.  Thus  the  apparent  contradiction  is  done 
away  between  the  two  propositions  ; — "  Whoso 
is  not  against  me  is  for  me ;"  and  "  whoso  is 
not  for  me  is  against  me." 

As  all  men  are,  by  nature,  liars,  so  all  men 
are  also,  by  nature,  idolaters,  —  drawn  to  the 
visible  and  averse  from  the  invisible.  Hamann 
called  the  body  the  first-born,  because  God  first 
made  a  clod  of  earth,  and  then  breathed  into  it 
a  breath  of  life.  The  formation  of  the  earth- 
clod  and  the  spirit  are  both  of  God,  but  only  the 
spirit  is  from  God ;  and  only  on  account  of  the 
spirit  is  man  said  to  be  made  after  the  likeness 
of  God. 

Since  man  cannot  do  without  the  letter, — 
images  and  parables,  —  no  more  than  he  can 
dispense  with  time,  which  is  incidental  to  the 
finite,  although  both  shall  cease,  I  honour  the 
letter,  so  long  as  there  is  a  breath  of  life  in  it, 
for  that  breath's  sake. 


LEARNED  SOCIETIES— THEIR  SPIRIT 
AND  AIM. 

A  DISCOURSE  PRONOUNCED  AT  THE  PUBLIC  RE-OPENING  OF  THE 
ROYAL  ACADEMY  OF  SCIENCES  AT  MUENCKEN.  1807. 

"E  pur  si  move."— Galilei. 

The  most  ancient  of  those  academies  which 
have  become  celebrated  in  Europe  have  grown 
out  of  voluntary  associations  of  learned  men, 
mutually  attracted  to  each  other  by  an  equal 
desire  for  knowledge.  The  growth  of  science, 
the  promotion  of  it  by  reciprocal  aid,  by  col- 
lective diligence,  by  friendly  emulation,  was  the 
design  of  their  union. 

So  pure  and  vigorous  a  beginning  could  not 
but  be  attended  with  success.  It  surpassed 
every  expectation  ;  it  became  famous ;  it  threw 
an  astounding  lustre  far  into  the  distance. 

This  lustre  stimulated  and  awakened  the  de- 
sire of  imitation.  It  was  attempted  to  produce 
the  like,  to  elaborate  by  artificial  means  what  is 
least  capable  of  being-  so  elaborated,  the  spirit 
of  inquiry,  particularly  of  invention,  without 
that  holy  flame  which  kindles  the  soul  and 
causes  it  to  strive  with  ardour,  to  struggle  un- 
ceasingly for  the  knowledge  of  the  truth,  for 
virtue,  for  science  and  wisdom,  as  for  ultimate 
and  supreme  ends  which  will  not  suffer  them- 
selves to  be  subordinated  to  any  other.  The 
love  of  imitation  had  other  aims  which  were 
higher  in  its  estimation,  to  which  science  and 
wisdom  were  to  be  subservient,  and  for  whose 
sake  alone  they  were  to  exist.  This  was  to 
change  wisdom  into  folly,  to  rob  science  of  its 
proper  life,  to  sever  it  from  its  own  in  order  to 
make  it  produce  from  a  foreign  root  such  fruits 
as  were  desired. 

The  necessary  consequence  ensued.  Never- 
theless, imitation  succeeded  here  and  there  in 


producing  a  sufficient  illusion.  Occasionally 
even,  something  praiseworthy  was  brought  to 
pass;  but  no  genuine  tree  of  knowledge  and  of 
life.  The  results  produced  were  plants  resem- 
bling the  chemical  silver  tree  or  tree  of  Diana; 
wonderful  enough  and  often  right  pleasant  to 
behold  ;  only  that  interior  life  and  the  power 
of  propagation  were  wanting. 

The  Bavarian  Academy  of  Sciences,  although 
one  of  the  later  born,  in  fact,  the  youngest  of  all, 
may  boast  an  equality  with  those  ancient  ones 
as  it  regards  the  purity  of  its  origin.  It  was 
founded  in  silence  by  two  noble  men,  von  Lin- 
brun  and  Lori.  These  men  conceived  the  pur- 
pose of  establishing  in  Miinchen  a  learned  so- 
ciety which  should  draw  to  itself  the  best  heads, 
not  only  in  Bavaria,  but  in  all  South  Germany. 
They  had  been  impelled  to  this  enterprise  by 
serious  considerations  of  the  disproportion  in 
the  state  of  the  sciences,  the  arts  and  intellec- 
tual culture  generally,  between  North  and  South 
Germany,  and  of  the  consequences  flowing  from 
the  difference  which  was  manifested  here. 
They  bad  observed  how  strikingly  the  progress 
of  the  one  and  the  stationary  character  of  the 
other  were  depicted  in  the  whole  social  condi- 
tion of  the  nations  inhabiting  the  one  and  the 
other  region ;  and  how  they  were  every  day 
becoming  more  visible  and  more  sensible.  The 
nature  of  this  difference  may  be  found  described 
with  fidelity  and  truth  by  Loreng  Westenrieder 
in  the  first  part  of  the  history  of  the  Bavarian 
Academy  of  Sciences,    pp.  3 — 9.    *    *    *  * 

The  abovementioned  excellent  men,  Linbrun 
and  Lori,  confided  the  noble  wish,  which  made 
their  own  breast  too  narrow  for  them,  to  a  few 
friends  who  gave  their  assent  and  united  them- 
selves with  them.  The  first  meeting  was  held  in 
the  house  of  Herr  von  Linbrun,  Oct.  12th,  1758. 

The  undertaking  of  these  few  men,  banded 
together  for  the  noblest  purposes,  was  concealed 
at  first  with  the  greatest  care.  Nor  did  they 
venture  to  appear  openly  until,  proceeding  with 
the  utmost  caution,  they  had  associated  with 
themselves  men  of  distinguished  reputation  or 
of  great  authority,  in  their  own  country  and 
elsewhere.  They  knew  what  hindrances  would 
even  now  interfere  with  the  fulfilment  of  their 
wish  to  convert  their  enterprise  into  a  public 
institution,  and  they  overcame  them  by  pru- 
dence. They  carefully  abstained  from  giving 
utterance  to  their  higher  aims,  and  only  directed 
attention  to  those  advantages  of  such  an  institu- 
tion, by  which  even  vulgar  souls  may  be  im- 
pressed and  won.  "  They  abstained'' — it  is  ver- 
bally recorded  in  the  history  of  the  Bavarian 
Academy  of  Sciences  — "  from  the  mention  of 
those  things  against  which  difficulties  and  ob- 
jections might  be  raised,  and  spoke  only  of  the 
use  and  the  reputation  of  the  thing." 

Such  a  servile  form  has  the  best,  the  highest 
and  the  most  venerable  ever  and  everywhere 
been  forced  to  assume,  in  order  to  gain  admis- 
sion and  to  pass  for  something  in  civil  society. 
Ignorance,  says  Fontenelle,  in  his  immortal 


JACOBI. 


221 


history  of  the  Parisian  Academy  of  Sciences, 
affects  to  regard  as  useless  that  of  which  it  has 
no  knowledge.  It  revenges  itself  in  this  way. 
It  says:  'Have  we  not  our  own  moon  to  illu- 
mine our  own  nights?  Of  what  use  is  it  to 
know  that  the  planet  Jupiter  has  four?  To 
what  purpose  so  many  observations,  so  many 
laborious  calculations  to  determine  their  course 
with  precision?  We  shall  see  none  the  clearer 
for  them ;  and  Nature,  who  placed  these  little 
stars  so  far  from  our  eyes,  appears  not  to  have 
made  them  for  us.'*  And  yet  those  four  moons 
of  Jupiter,  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  have  been 
of  far  greater  use  to  us  than  our  own  moon  which 
shines  so  brightly.  Only  since  our  acquaintance 
with  them  have  Geography  and  Navigation  been 
enabled  to  make  important  advances;  incom- 
parably better  maps  and  charts  have  been  pro- 
duced ;  and,  by  means  of  the  latter  especially,  the 
lives  of  innumerable  seamen  have  been  saved. 

This  example  of  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  is 
only  one  out  of  many  which  might  be  adduced, 
of  the  use  of  astronomical  labours,  and  in  jus- 
tification of  the  great  outlays  of  every  kind 
which  this  science  demands.  But  the  mass  of 
the  high  and  low  know  nothing  of  the  satellites 
of  Jupiter ;  at  the  utmost,  they  have  a  dim 
and  confused  knowledge  of  them.  Still  less  do 
they  know  of  the  connection  of  these  satellites 
with  Navigation.  In  fact,  they  have  scarce 
heard  the  report  of  the  perfection  to  which  that 
science  has  arrived,  within  a  short  time. 

Fontenelle  then  adds  a  great  number  of  ex- 
amples in  illustration  of  the  advantages  which 
the  diligence  of  a  few  men,  devoted  to  the 
sciences,  has  conferred  upon  all  classes  of 
human  society.  Men  enjoy  these  really  count- 
less advantages  without  considering  their  origin, 
without  considering  the  way  by  which  they 
have  reached  us.  No  one  considers  how  much 
there  was  to  be  invented  here ;  and  few  per- 
haps are  competent  even  to  imagine  the  powers 
of  mind  which  must  have  been  brought  into 
action,  in  each  one  of  these  inventions,  in  order 
to  originate  or  to  complete  them.  But  it  ought 
to  be  remembered,  that  the  innumerable  pro- 
cesses which  we  now  universally  perform  with 
unthinking  facility,  could  not  be  performed  in 
this  way,  unless  thought, — unless  the  most  stre- 
nuous efforts  of  reflection, — had  preceded  them. 
This  antecedent  living  agency  now  manifests 
itself,  embodied  in  serviceable  manipulations, 
in  mere  acquired  mechanical  facilities,  in  life- 
less instruments  and  machines.  With  these 
latter  the  spirit  created  for  itself, — produced 
with  free  activity  out  of  senseless  matter, — un- 
feeling, dumb  and  deaf  menials,  the  most  per- 
fect, because  they  are  entirely  destitute  of  voli- 
tion, and  never  fail  nor  err.  Thus,  every  work- 
shop of  mechanics  and  artificers  announces  to 

*  More  remarkable  still,  is  another  similar  example.  A 
Parisian  lady  of  rank  understood  perfectly  the  use  of  the 
moon,  "because  it  illumines  our  nights."  But  why  the 
sun  should  appear  in  the  heavens,  in  broad  daylight,  she 
could  not  comprehend. 


him  that  gives  heed,  a  mind  that  has  become 
invisible,  which  here  wrought  and  bequeathed, 
and  departed  after  it  had  fulfilled  its  task:  an- 
nounces it  without  words  ;  silently  represents 
that  infinitely  self-multiplying  power  of  inven- 
tion, which  must  throw  every  one,  who  is  capa- 
ble of  apprehending  what  is  admirable,  into 
thoughtful  astonishment. 

Nevertheless,  however  exalted  beyond  con- 
tradiction the  truth  just  propounded,  however 
unquestionable  the  manifold  use  which  the  hu- 
man race  has  derived  for  the  ordinary  pur- 
poses of  life  from  the  progress  of  science,  it  is 
equally  certain  and  undeniable,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  science  in  its  origin  and  progress 
had,  immediately  in  view,  not  that  use,  but 
solely  and  singly  itself  and  its  own  extension. 
The  impulse  which  seeks  knowledge  and  in- 
sight has  this  in  common  with  the  impulse  which 
seeks  enjoyment,  happiness,  the  sustenance  of 
life:  that  it  seeks  its  object  simply  for  the  object's 
sake,  as  ultimate  end,  not  as  means  to  other 
ends.  It  springs  directly  from  the  spirit  of  man; 
it  is  one  of  its  peculiar  powers  and  virtues, 
similar  to  that  other  sacred  power  of  our  spirit 
which  produces  those  human  qualities  which 
we  call  virtuous  qualities,  and — in  consideration 
of  their  immediate  origin — virtues,  such  as  cou- 
rage, magnanimity,  justice,  general  benevolence. 

With  respect  to  life  and  happiness,  no  one 
doubts  that  these  are  desired  for  their  own 
sakes,  and  he  who  should  propose  the  question, 
what  are  they  good  for,  would  only  provoke 
our  laughter.  Of  science,  on  the  other  hand, 
and  of  virtue,  it  is  almost  universally  assumed, 
that  they  have  a  reason,  a  use,  an  end,  beyond 
themselves,  by  which  they  first  become  desira- 
ble. They  are  supposed  to  have  been  arbitra- 
rily invented  to  serve  an  arbitrary  purpose. 
That  virtue  and  knowledge  belong  to  the  being 
of  man,  that  they  unfold  themselves  necessa- 
rily out  of  that  being,  and  with  it,  like  language, 
without  which  men  are  not  and  never  were; 
that  where  virtue,  knowledge,  and  their  begin- 
ning, the  significant  word,  the  intelligible  speech, 
should  be  wanting,  there  all  humanity  would  be 
also  wanting,  and  the  mere  animal  present  it- 
self instead;  this  the  vulgar  souls,  who  know 
only  wants  of  the  body,  and  none  of  the  spirit, 
will  never  comprehend.  These  men,  all  earth, 
unconscious  of  any  immediate  instinct,  except 
that  which  man  has  in  common  with  the  brute, 
the  instinct  of  desire,  of  pleasure,  of  sensual 
enjoyment,  have  ever  the  objects  of  that  instinct 
alone  and  unchangeably  in  view,  as  last  and 
highest  ends.  Only  that  appears  to  them  real, 
approved,  and  good,  in  respect  to  man,  which  is 
found  substantiated  in  the  sounder  animal,  and 
may  be  demonstrated  from  that,  as  the  only  re- 
vealer  of  unadulterated,  pure  truth.  Whatso- 
ever is  more  than  that,  is,  to  them,  of  evil.  Still, 
they  tolerate  science,  and  even  acknowledge 
that  it  deserves  the  support  and  encouragement 
of  the  State,  provided  it  conforms  itself  to  the 
State,  and  does  not  aspire  beyond  the  state  of 
19  * 


222 


JACOBI. 


bondage  for  which  it  was  born.  Any  other 
science,  that  which  would  be  an  end  unto  itself, 
and  assumes  to  be  free-born,  they  will  not  ac- 
knowledge. They  despise  the  fool,  hate  her, 
and  persecute  her  for  her  pride's  sake.  No  effort 
of  the  mind,  no  pursuit,  shall  he  cherished,  pro- 
moted, and  rewarded,  which  cannot  demonstrate 
its  immediate  utility  in  relation  to  ordinary  life. 
Every  science,  and  every  line  art,  must  carry  on, 
or  at  least  assist  in  carrying  on,  some  honest 
handicraft,  and  derive  all  its  worth  and  all  its 
dignity  from  its  aptitude  for  this  handicraft,  or 
for  some  manual  use.  Each  must  declare  what 
guild  or  what  trade  it  belongs  to,  and  be  able 
also  to  demonstrate  that  belonging.  They  main- 
tain that  every  science  or  art  which  cannot 
comply  with  this  requisiiion  ought  to  be  banished 
from  the  country  as  a  breadless  art.  Not  to  be- 
long to  the  productive  class,  which  is  otherwise 
considered  as  a  mark  of  nobility,  is  thought  to 
render  science  ignoble,  and  to  fix  upon  her  the 
reproach  of  idleness. 

These  principles  and  demands  of  the  com- 
mon mind  must  appear  ridiculous,  and,  in  the 
highest  degree,  absurd  to  those  who  are  at 
all  acquainted  with  the  history  of  human  in- 
ventions, even  supposing  they  were  not  other- 
wise disinclined  to  the  common  way  of  thinking 
on  this  subject.  The  history  of  inventions  proves 
that  the  most  important  and  the  most  useful  of 
them  have  been  a  secondary  and  unexpected 
result  of  those  efforts  of  mind  from  which  this 
precise  gain  could  nowise  have  been  anticipated. 
"When,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  the  greatest 
geometricians  employed  themselves  in  investi- 
gating the  nature  of  a  new  curve,  which  they 
called  the  cycloid,  they  had  no  other  interest  in 
that  investigation  than  that  of  mere  speculation 
and  the  ambition  of  discovering  theorems,  each 
more  difficult  than  the  former.  None  of  these 
men  had  the  most  distant  idea  that  they  were 
exerting  themselves  for  the  general  good.  But 
afterward,  when  the  nature  of  the  cycloid  had 
been  thoroughly  ascertained,  it  was  found  that, 
by  means  of  this  knowledge,  the  greatest  possi- 
ble perfection  could  be  given  to  the  pendulum, 
and  the  utmost  precision  introduced  into  the 
measurement  of  time.'  * 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  accumulate  in- 
stances of  this  sort,  since  it  lies  in  the  nature  of 
the  thing,  that  the  practical  application  must 
needs  be  subsequent  to  the  scientific  discovery. 
Every  useful  invention  has  compounded  itself, 
as  it  were,  out  of  several  discoveries,  observa- 
tions, propositions,  which  had  no  probable  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  which,  in  point  of  time, 
were  often  far  distant  from  each  other,  and 
which  belonged  to  men  of  the  most  different 
characters,  views,  and  pursuits.  "The  conflu- 
ence of  several  truths,"  remarks  the  sagacious 
Fontenelle,  "  even  of  the  most  abstract,  almost 
always  produces  a  useful  application,  which 
20uld  not  have  been  anticipated,  because  the 

*  Pref.  de  l'hist.  de  l'academie  Royale  de  sciences. 


combination  was  necessary  to  produce  it.  The 
ancients  were  acquainted  with  the  magnet,  but  ) 
they  had  observed  only  its  power  of  attracting 
iron.  It  needed  but  one  experience  more,  and 
they  would  have  discovered  its  polar  tenden- 
cies, and  the  inestimable  prize  of  the  compass 
would  have  been  theirs.  Had  they  devoted  a 
little  more  time  and  attention  to  a  curiosity  ap- 
parently useless  and  unprofitable,  the  hidden 
utility  would  have  revealed  itself  to  them.  No 
human  imagination  was  competent  to  presup- 
pose the  invention  of  the  telescope  and  the  mi- 
croscope, with  which  a  new  eye  was  given  to 
man  for  two  worlds  at  once,  the  sublime  world 
of  the  immeasurably  great,  and  the  still  more 
wonderful  one,  it  may  be,  of  the  immeasurably 
little.  It  was  necessary  that  mathematics  should 
enrich  itself  through  a  series  of  centuries  with 
ever  greater  discoveries,  before  a  Johannes  Kep- 
ler could  appear  with  his  dioptrics,  and  bring 
the  invention  of  the  astronomical  sight-instru- 
ment to  light." 

The  result  of  all  these  considerations  is,  that 
governments,  in  the  formal  institution  of  learned 
societies,  may  indeed  have  respect  to  the  benefits 
which  such  societies  will  confer  on  the  common 
weal,  and  may  make  those  benefits  their  aim,  but 
never,  on  that  account,  should  thus  make  utility 
a  condition  of  science,  and  demand  that  this  shall 
be  its  only  object.  A  government  which  should 
do  this  would  betray  a  want  of  insight  into  the 
nature  of  science,  and  would  require  the  im- 
possible. Still  more  incompatible  with  the  na- 
ture of  science  would  be  the  attempt  to  make 
it,  any  where,  national  or  even  provincial.  There 
may  be  economical  societies  of  this  kind,  which 
should,  in  each  case,  derive  their  names  from 
the  material  want  which  led  to  their  institution  ; 
fruit-growing,  wood-saving,  coal  or  turf-finding, 
bog-draining  societies.  But  academies  of  sciences, 
which  are  merely  national,  or  provincial,  or 
economical,  there  cannot  be. 

It  is  by  no  means  intended,  however,  in  what 
has  now  been  said,  that  scientific  men,  who  feel 
a  special  impulse  to  employ  themselves  with 
objects  of  immediate  utility,  and  to  apply  their 
scientific  acquirements  to  those  objects,  like  Du- 
hamel  du  Monceau,  Daubenton,  and  others,  men 
who  have  rendered  equal  services  to  science 
and  to  their  country,  that  such  men  should  be 
excluded  from  an  academy  of  sciences,  or  that, 
as  members  of  such  an  academy,  they  should 
not  hand  in  essays  on  national  and  provincial 
objects,  and  lay  them  before  the  society  for  ex- 
amination. How  many  invaluable  disquisitions 
of  this  kind  are  found  in  the  annals  of  the 
French  and  other  academies  of  sciences  !  But 
such  productions  should  ever  bear  on  their  face 
the  stamp  of  science ;  they  should  spring  from 
the  spirit  of  science,  and  be  filled  with  it. 

Even  Colbert,  when  he  founded  the  academy 
of  sciences  at  Paris,  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago,  planted  himself  on  that  higher  stand-point, 
from  which  the  immediate  dignity  of  science  is 
recognised  in  its  whole  extent,  together  with  its 


JACOBI. 


223 


indirect  worth,  I  mean  its  utility,  and  it  would 
be  disreputable  now  to  choose  a  lower  one. 
"  The  penetrating  mind  of  Colbert,"'  says  a  judi- 
cious modern  historian,  "  did  not  fail  to  perceive 
the  close  connection  which  exists  between  the 
sciences  and  the  arts,  and  between  the  fine  arts 
and  the  mechanical.  He  felt  the  necessity  of 
perfecting  the  theories  of  mathematics,  of  astro- 
nomy, and  of  physics,  in  order  to  effect  a  mani- 
fold application  of  their  principles.  He  had 
perceived  that  the  progress  of  the  mechanical 
arts  presupposes  the  development  of  good  taste, 
and  that  taste  requires  models  and  patterns  for 
comparison.  The  academies  of  painting,  of 
sculpture,  of  architecture,  and  of  music,  sprung 
up  and  yielded  a  flattering  compensation  to  the 
masters  of  art,  encouragement  to  the  pupils,  to 
all  the  citizens  of  the  State  instruction  and  ex- 
amples. The  beautiful  had  its  temple,  its  ser- 
vice, its  priests,  as  Truth  had  hers.  Colbert's 
administration  was  wise.  He  had  no  occasion 
to  fear  the  progress  and  diffusion  of  right  views. 
Far  from  shunning  men  of  learning  and  intel- 
lect, he  attracted,  he  gathered  them  around  him; 
he  freed  them  from  the  cares  of  subsistence. 
Even  foreigners  experienced  his  favour,  and 
many  were  first  made  known  to  their  own 
country  by  the  distinction  so  unexpectedly  ac- 
corded to  them  by  France."* 

Although  France,  at  the  time  when  the 
academy  exclusively  devoted  to  mathematical 
and  physical  science  was  established,  could 
exhibit  a  considerable  number  of  important 
men  who  were  qualified  to  come  forward  as 
members  of  this  society  and  to  give  it  authority, 
yet  Colbert  spared  no  expense  in  drawing  to 
Paris  learned  men  of  other  countries  who  might 
give  to  the  new  Institute  still  greater  strength 
and  splendour.  Romer  was  summoned  from 
Denmark,  Cassini  from  Italy,  Huyghens  from 
Holland.  Attracted  by  large  emoluments  they 
exchanged  their  native  country  for  France. 
Other  distinguished  men  in  all  parts  of  Europe 
were  induced  to  take  part  in  the  new  Institute, 
at  least  as  foreign  members.  Others  still,  at 
home  and  abroad,  who  could  not  enter  as  fel- 
low-labourers in  any  of  the  departments  of  the 
Academy  of  Sciences  at  Paris,  but  who  other- 
wise possessed  acknowledged  merit  and  had 
made  themselves  a  name  as  men  of  learning, 
received  pensions,  distinctions,  gifts,  without 
any  requisition  being  made  of  them  in  return. 
Everywhere  appeared  the  lofty  ambition  of  the 
minister  and  of  his  king, — who  in  many  respects 
was  really  and  truly  great-minded, — to  manifest 
a  wise  disinterestedness  and  to  make  it  promi- 
nent. They  wished  to  encourage  and  reward, 
and  in  doing  this,  they  attained  also  all  those 
"Hher  ends,  the  pursuit  of  which,  by  any  other 
method,  will  always  be  a  vain  undertaking. 

A  wise  Government,  and  one  of  large  views, 
establishes  academies  to  effect  what  can  only 

*  Tableau  des  revolutions  du  systeme  politique  de 
l'Europe  depths  la  fin  du  XV.  Siecle  par  Frederic  Ancil- 
lon.— T.  iv.  p.  115,  204. 


be  effected  by  means  of  such  institutions,  —  a 
collective  force  which  shall  accomplish  and 
produce  what  disconnected  individual  powers, 
although  of  the  greatest  possible  efficacy  in 
themselves,  would  never  be  able  to  accomplish 
and  produce.  To  this  end  it  collects  together  a 
number  of  learned  and  judicious  men  thorough- 
ly versed  in  their  respective  arts ;  unites  them 
in  an  association,  and  provides  this  association 
with  all  the  aids,  stores,  and  instruments, 
which  are  necessary  for  their  different  pursuits. 
Through  the  union  of  the  members  of  such  a 
society  in  one  place,  the  most  rapid  and  mani- 
fold communication  is  rendered  possible  among 
them  ;  and  to  make  this  communication  more  cer- 
tain, regular  meetings  are  appointed.  Sciences, 
which  thought  themselves  strangers  to  each 
other,  now  learn  their  near  and  nearer  relations  ; 
onesidedness  disappears  ;  reciprocal  action,  mu- 
tual influence,and  a  scientific  common-spirit  arise. 

Where  the  seat  of  a  learned  society  of  this 
description  is  at  the  same  time  the  seat  of  go- 
vernment and  the  metropolis  of  the  land,  the 
advantages  are  still  greater.  Scientific  intuition 
and  the  insight  of  experience  impart  themselves 
mutually,  they  interpenetrate  each  other;  light 
gains  new  life,  life  new  light ;  every  sphere  of 
vision  is  enlarged,  every  faculty  is  enhanced. 

Even  men  of  the  world  in  the  distinctive 
sense  of  that  phrase,  I  mean  those  who  claim 
to  be  exclusively  such,  who  pride  themselves 
thereon,  as  the  highest  boast,  —  even  they  are 
singly  seized,  changed  and  ennobled  by  instruc- 
tion. They  feel  that  they  must  relax  some- 
thing of  the  law  of  pure  ignorance  and  solemn 
idleness,  the  strict  and  assiduous  observance  of 
which  converts  them  into  the  most  extraordi- 
nary kind  of  pedants ;  since  the  prerogative- 
maxim,  11  the  more  worthless  the  more  worthy"  dies 
of  its  own  meaning,  the  moment  it  is  distinctly 
pronounced.  Be  it  that  this  maxim  refuses  to 
be  so  expressed  and  understood,  let  it  seek 
palliation  and  pretexts,  it  only  renders  itself 
more  hateful  by  its  pains ;  it  only  accelerates 
its  own  downfal ;  in  which  downfal  its  whole 
aristocratic  connection  are  inevitably  involved. 

To  this  connection  belong  especially  the  fol- 
lowing assertions: 

The  assertion,  that  a  living,  far-reaching  in- 
tuition, an  intuition  which  affects  the  great,  the 
universal,  is  incompatible  with  thorough  know- 
ledge and  perfectly  accurate  conceptions, — al- 
together incompatible  with  true  and  genuine 
learning  and  science  ;  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is 
compatible  only  with  very  general  and  loose 
sketches  of  the  understanding  drawn  from  ap- 
pearances alone  ; 

The  assertion,  that  you  must  guard  against 
principles,  because  principles  lead  to  systems, 
and  all  systems  are  false ; 

The  assertion,  that  only  the  old  method  (rou- 
tine) which  arrogates  to  itself  the  honoured 
title  of  experience,  guides  in  the  right  path,  and 
that  in  order  not  to  stray  from  that  path,  it  is 
necessary  to  follow  that  guide  in  all  cases, 


224 


JACOBI. 


blindly,  and  that  you  must  never  use  your  own 
eyes  for  the  sake  of  finding  it; 

The  twin  assertion,  that  you  must  distrust 
reason  which  only  hatches  mistaken  theories, 
and  always  hold  by  the  positive  ;  by  this  posi- 
tive we  are  to  understand  either  a  tradition 
which  has  become  senseless  and  absurd  by  the 
change  of  times,  or  new  and  purely  arbitrary 
arrangements  ;* 

Finally,  the  assertion,  which  expresses  the 
whole  at  once,  that  theoretical  shallowness  is  the 
condition  of  practical  excellence. 

Not  so  did  the  truly  great  men  of  the  world, 
of  ancient,  middle  and  modern  times,  contend. 
While  earning  the  gratitude  and  admiration 
of  posterity  even  more  than  of  their  contempo- 
raries, they  remembered  well  the  source  from 
which  those  powers  that  enabled  them  to  be- 
come so  mighty,  so  prominent,  and  so  glorious, 
had  flowed;  and  not  only  did  they  continue  to 
draw  from  it,  but  they  sought  to  render  it  more 
accessible,  and  especially  more  copious,  so  that, 
by  channels  and  pipes,  it  might  be  conducted  in 
all  directions,  for  the  use  of  the  multitude.  They 
all  loved  the  sciences,  sought  the  intercourse  of 
the  learned,  and,  with  their  counsel  and  aid,  ac- 
complished the  most  important  and  difficult  un- 
dertakings. Several  of  these  statesmen  and  men 
of  the  world  were  scientific  men  in  the  more 
proper  and  strict  acceptation, — men  of  learning 
in  the  most  comprehensive  sense  of  the  word. 

History  names  to  us,  as  belonging  to  this  latter 
class,  among  the  ancient  Greeks,  a  Charaondas, 
Archytas,  Zaleucus ;  a  Dion,  Epaminondas,  Pe- 
ricles and  Xenophon;  a  Phocion  and  Demetrius 
of  Phalera.  together  with  many  others.  The 
Macedonian  Alexander  himself  may  be  reckoned 
in  this  enumeration ;  after  him,  the  first  Ptole- 
mies and  their  competitors,  the  kings  of  Per- 
gamus. 

Among  the  Romans — (I  omit  the  first  kings, 
a  Numa,  Servius  Tullius,  Tarquinius  Priscus ; 
as,  in  speaking  of  the  Greeks,  I  omitted  their 
eldest  philosophers,  who  were  all  rulers,  kings, 
princes  and  statesmen)  —  history  names  to  us, 
as  active  friends  and  promoters  of  science,  in 
the  time  of  the  Republic,  a  Scipio,  Lselius,  Lu- 
cullus,  Asinius  Pollio  (founder  of  the  first  public 
library  at  Rome),  Cato,  Brutus,  Cicero,  Julius 
CcEsar. 

The  last  in  this  catalogue,  unquestionably  the 
greatest  statesman  and  military  hero  of  them 
all,  was  also  the  most  thorough  scholar,  the 
deepest  and  most  comprehensive  thinker  of 
them  all ;  although  he  himself  gave  Cicero  the 
preference,  in  this  respect,  of  whom  he  said  that 
he  had  won  for  himself  a  crown  of  laurel  which 
was  more  honourable  than  all  triumphs;  since 
it  was  greater  glory  to  have  extended  the  limits 

*  The  warning  of  Tertullian,  that  tradition  nailed  God 
himself  to  the  cross,  has  been  elsewhere  quoted  by  the 
author  of  this  essay.  This  Father  of  the  Church,  on  the 
same  occasion,  makes  the  important  remark:  Dominus 
noster,  Jesus  Christus  veritatem  se  non  consuetudinem 
cognominavit. 


of  Roman  learning  than  to  have  extended  the 
limits  of  the  Roman  territory.  The  emendation 
of  the  calendar,  which  he  undertook  with  the 
Alexandrian  astronomer,  Sosigenes,  his  deter- 
mination and  division  of  the  year,  which,  with 
some  corrections  since  added,  obtains  to  this  day 

and  continues  to  bear  the  name  of  its  author,  

these  are  sufficiently  notorious.  An  ever-active 
military  life,  full  of  dangers  and  exploits,  did 
not  prevent  him  from  writing  philosophical, 
grammatical,  and  political  works,  besides  his 
incomparable  history  of  the  Gallic  war.  It  was 
because  he  could  comprehend  and  penetrate 
with  philosophic  eye  the  connection  of  the  ages, 
that  he  knew  how  to  rule  his  own.  He  who 
wants  the  former, — the  power  of  vision  and  the 
practice  requisite  for  such  insight, — will  assur- 
edly never  succeed  in  the  latter.  His  age  will 
overcome  him  and  make  him  a  laughing-stock, 
with  all  his  plans  and  labours.  Not  seeing 
what  is,  he  will  imagine  himself  to  see  with 
the  greatest  clearness  what  is  not;  everywhere 
he  will  see,  as  well  in  his  fears  as  in  his  hopes 
and  trusts.  Such  a  one  may  have  read  all  the 
books  of  history  from  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
and  know  them  by  heart;  the  great  book  of  the 
world  is  still  a  closed  book  to  him.  He  has 
never  learned  what  occasioned  the  appearance 
of  each  particular  crisis — the  present  among  the 
rest — at  that  particular  time  when  it  appeared. 
This  intuition  which  comprehends,  at  the  same 
time,  with  a  clear  distinction,  that  which  works 
by  necessity  and  that  which  works  with  freedom, 
is  the  philosophic  spirit  itself,  which,  as  some- 
thing divine,  alone  possesses  genuine  power. 
That  which  exists  merely  as  a  consequence  of 
the  times,  works  on  necessarily  and  blindly ;  its 
action  is  wholly  earthly,  and  mere  bondage. 
That  which  works  with  freedom  interrupts  the 
times,  changes  them  for  centuries  to  come,  en- 
lightens, ennobles,  sets  free. 

Obviously  to  the  dullest  sense,  the  history  of 
Rome  under  the  emperors  illustrates  the  close 
connection  between  the  welfare  of  science  and 
the  welfare  of  the  State.  Along  the  whole  series 
of  the  Ccesars,  we  find  the  one  and  the  other 
always  on  the  same  level,  now  higher,  now 
lower.  Who  does  not  know  the  history  of  the 
first  four  successors  of  Augustus?  Exactly  in 
proportion  as  any  one  of  these  rulers  showed 
himself  more  unworthy  of  the  throne,  more  in- 
human, foolish,  mad  than  another,  were  the 
sciences  at  Rome  neglected,  persecuted, banished 
the  kingdom.  Under  the  reign  of  Vespasian, 
beneficent  as  it  was  glorious,  and  under  his  suc- 
cessor Titus,  art  and  science  revived  ;  they  were 
promoted,  rewarded.  Quinctilian  and  the  elder 
Pliny  illustrated  this  period.  Then  followed 
the  cruel  Domitian.  This  man  hoped  to  be  able, 
together  with  the  sciences  and  arts,  to  abolish 
from  the  foundation  whatever  ennobles  and  ex- 
alts the  human  soul.  Not  without  reason,  had 
he  succeeded !  Men  of  lofty  purpose  were  no 
more  to  be  ;  nothing  venerable,  says  Tacitus,  was 
permitted  anywhere  to  spring  up  and  show  it- 


J  ACOBI. 


225 


self.  But  in  vain  did  be  oppress  and  banish  all 
the  friends  of  the  good  and  the  true.  His  threats 
and  his  ravings  were  insufficient  to  prevent  a 
multitude  of  noble  youths  from  wandering  to 
Bithynia  to  behold  the  example  and  to  hear  the 
wisdom  of  Epietetus.  Exile  and  the  sword  had 
still  spared  many,  out  of  the  midst  of  whom, 
after  the  fall  of  the  tyrant,  a  Ncrva  and  a  Trajan 
came  forth  to  heal  the  wounds  of  Humanity 
once  more. 

After  Domitian,  five  excellent  rulers  in  turn 
ascended  the  throne.  Then  began,  with  Com- 
modus,  a  new  series  of  monsters,  who  trode  in 
the  steps  of  the  Tiberii  and  the  Neros,  who  pur- 
posely imitated,  and  in  the  variety  of  their  vices 
and  enormities,  exceeded  them  ;  and  still  adopt- 
ed the  name  of  Antonine. — At  length  there  ap- 
peared once  more  a  man  who  was  worthy  to 
bear  this  great  name ;  and  he  refused  to  assume 
it.  This  was  the  youth  Alexander  Severus.  I 
should  perish,  said  he,  beneath  the  weight  of  a 
name  which  was  borne  by  Pius  and  Marcus. 
Of  the  thirteen  years1  reign  of  this  youth  it  has 
been  justly  said,  that  it  might  serve  hoary  heads 
for  a  model.  With  this  great  and  good  prince, 
the  sun  rose  for  the  last  time  on  the  sciences 
and  virtues  and  all  good  order.  He  died,  and 
day  returned  not  again  to  Rome.  With  the 
death  of  Philosophy  (how  could  it  be  otherwise'?) 
her  daughter  Jurisprudence  also  perished.  Rea- 
son itself  seemed  to  be  extinguished.  All  was 
darkness  and  chaos.  Barbarism  triumphed  in 
a  twofold  form,  and,  with  blended  savageness 
and  degeneracy,  produced  a  state  of  things  never 
before  experienced  by  man. 

But  that  which  works  only  destructively  has 
its  limit  where  its  action  must  cease,  and  give 
place  to  a  new  and  opposite  principle. — a  cre- 
ative, a  forming  and  reforming  power.  The 
destructive  is  not  from  the  beginning,  but  the 
creative.  This  alone  is  eternal ;  its  forces  wax 
not  old. 

And  so,  in  this  case  also,  after  a  long  night  a 
new  dawn  began  to  break.  He  who  introduced 
it  was  the  same  great  individual  with  whom 
the  German  empire  begins. 

In  his  prosperous  expedition  against  the  Lon- 
gobardi  in  Italy,  Charlemagne  became  acquaint- 
ed with  the  great  spirit  of  antiquity,  through  its 
ruins;  and  his  heart  kindled  for  the  revival  of 
the  sciences  and  arts  throughout  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  his  dominions.  He  called  Alcuin  and 
other  learned  men  and  lovers  of  science,  to  his 
court.  These  established  there  a  peculiar  asso- 
ciation, of  which  Charlemagne  himself  was  a 
member,  and  gave  it  the  name  of  Academy. 
Thus  originated  the  first  European  learned  So- 
ciety. Alcuin  appears,  for  a  long  time,  to  have 
been  its  head.  Among  its  members  were  num- 
bered, besides  the  emperor  himself,  and  his  fa- 
mous chancellor,  Eginhard, — the  archbishop  of 
Mayence,  Riculph ;  farther,  Theodulph,  Angil- 
bert  and  others.  The  numerous  progeny  of  this 
institute  shed  their  lustre  over  the  whole  of  the 
ninth  century. 

2d 


That  Charlemagne  did  not  gather  learned 
men  around  him  merely  because,  with  his  fiery 
zeal  for  knowledge,  their  conversation  must 
needs  be  dear  to  him;  but  that  the  education 
of  the  whole  people,  the  ennobling  of  the  na- 
tional character,  lay  near  his  heart,  is  proved 
by  the  comprehensive  provisions  for  public  in- 
struction which  he  made,  and  of  which  he  is 
properly  the  founder.  "  With  him,"  says  Hege- 
wiseh  very  justly,  "began  the  first  transition  of 
the  Germans  from  merely  sensuous  activity  to 
activity  of  mind." 

If  his  plan  were  to  succeed,  it  must  begin  with 
those  who  immediately  surrounded  the  throne. 
On  that  account.  Charlemagne  founded  the  Aca- 
demy at  his  court,  and,  by  the  powerful  influ- 
ence of  his  example,  set  in  motion  every  mind 
that  Nature  had  endowed  with  any  degree  of 
talent.  No  longer  might  the  great  look  with 
contempt  upon  every  species  of  intellectual  em- 
ployment, even  to  reading  and  writing ;  unless 
they  were  willing  to  see  those  whom  they  de- 
spised for  their  want  of  birth,  exalted  above 
them  and  enjoying  exclusive  favour.  By  this 
means,  Charlemagne,  in  a  few  years,  procured 
for  himself  able  assistants  and  zealous  partici- 
pators in  his  lofty  schemes. 

He  then  went  a  step  farther  and  ordered 
schools  to  be  established  in  connection  with 
every  convent  and  every  cathedral;  and,  what 
was  most  important,  they  were  so  arranged  as 
to  be  useful  not  only  in  the  education  of  those 
who  devoted  themselves  to  the  clerical  office, 
but  also  in  the  education  of  the  laity,  especially 
those  of  rank.  For  the  benefit  of  the  common 
people,  and  of  those  country-priests  who  were 
not  sufficiently  instructed,  he  caused  passages 
to  be  collected  from  the  Fathers,  translated  into 
the  German,  and  read  by  the  priests  to  the  peo- 
ple on  Sundays  and  public  festivals  of  the 
Church. 

From  no  one  of  the  edicts  of  this  truly  great 
man,  who  wished  not  only  to  command  but  to 
rule,  does  his  straight-forward  and  profound 
sense,  his  penetrating  intellect,  shine  forth  more 
conspicuously  than  from  that  just  mentioned. 
He  understood  the  direction  which  enlighten- 
ment must  take,  in  order  that  it  may  be  true 
and  entirely  sound. 

Unfortunately,  this  great  Reformer  was,  at 
the  same  time,  a  conqueror,  and  thought  it  ne- 
cessary to  convert  obstinate  pagans  with  the 
sword.  Thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  he  laboured 
against  himself,  and  that  what  he  planted  did 
not  attain  sufficient  strength.  The  schools  which 
he  established  continued  indeed;  they  even 
multiplied  with  the  spread  of  Christendom  and 
the  wants  of  a  more  numerous  clergy  which 
that  spread  occasioned.  But  now,  in  the  supply 
of  these  wants,  everything  else  was  forgotten. 
The  schools  educated  only  priests,  and  imparted 
to  them  only,  in  a  very  imperfect  manner,  what 
was  absolutely  essential  to  their  calling.  The 
most  profound  and  pernicious  ignorance  pre- 
vailed.   Hierarchy  and  feudal  anarchy  reached 


226 


J  A  C  OBI. 


the  summit  of  their  power.  State  and  Church 
ran  wild;  that  epoch  began  which  properly 
bears  the  name  of  the  middle  ages. 

Towards  the  middle  of  this  period,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  thirteenth  century,  those  four- 
limbed  bodies  for  teaching  and  learning  were 
formed,  whose  offspring  to  this  day  bear  the 
barbarous  name  of  Universities.  With  these, — 
with  the  unlimited  power  of  scholasticism,  which 
then  culminated,  —  with  the  Dominicans  and 
Franciscans,  —  the  eclipse  of  Reason  became 
central.  Knowledge  of  the  languages  and  an- 
cient literature  fell  into  utter  contempt.  They 
who  occupied  themselves  with  these  in  any 
degree  were  derided  as  dullards.  Neverthe- 
less, all  this  while,  and  through  the  whole  me- 
dieval period,  instruction,  by  way  of  preparation, 
in  the  seven  liberal  arts,  as  they  were  called, 
continued;  and  to  this  institution  —  to  the  pre- 
paratory schools  —  it  is  chiefly  owing,  that  an- 
cient literature  did  not  pass  into  entire  oblivion, 
and  that  the  possibility  remained  of  a  return  to 
the  beautiful,  the  great  and  the  true  which  had 
vanished  with  the  fore-world. 

It  is  very  remarkable  that  though  important 
progress  was  made  in  some  departments  of 
science  during  the  middle  ages — as  in  geometry 
and  arithmetic  with  Gerbert,  in  natural  science 
with  Albertus  Magnus  and  Roger  Bacon ; — and 
even  though  other  branches  of  human  know- 
ledge unfolded  themselves  as  new  instincts,  and 
introduced  learned  occupations  even  among  the 
laity, —  as  jurisprudence  and  medicine  which 
arose  at  the  same  time,  toward  the  end  of  the 
eleventh  century,  —  the  former  at  Bologna,  the 
latter  at  Salerno:  —  that  notwithstanding  these 
onward  movements  and  the  mighty  impulse  given 
to  the  thinking  faculty  by  scholastic  studies,  the 
culture  of  reason,  in  its  proper  sense,  did  not  arise 
or  come  to  view.  It  arose  first  with  the  revival 
of  ancient  literature,  and  made  mighty  progress 
when,  in  Italy,  through  the  instrumentality  of 
Cosmo  de  Medicis,  that  Platonic  Jlcademy,  cele- 
brated not  only  in  the  annals  of  the  learned,  but 
in  the  history  of  the  world,  was  formed,  and, 
almost  contemporary  with  it,  a  similar  learned 
society  in  Germany,  under  the  patronage  of 
John  of  Dalburg,  which  called  itself  the  Rhe- 
nish, and  which  proved  even  more  fruitful  than 
that  of  Florence. 

Heeren  remarks  of  the  Florentine  Institute, 
that  "  in  an  age  when  the  institutions  for  the 
promotion  of  the  sciences  were  all,  as  yet,  under 
the  control  of  the  convents  or  of  certain  corpora- 
tions, Cosmo,  in  his  Platonic  Academy,  exhi- 
bited the  first  model  of  a  free  union  for  scientific 
culture,  of  which  the  many  subsequent  institu- 
tions of  this  kind  were  imitations,  bearing  the 
name  (academies)  without,  for  the  most  part, 
inheriting  their  spirit."* 

Of  the  Rhenish  Institute,  Hegewisch  says, 
after  remarking  that  nothing  of  the  kind  had 
ever  been  seen  in  Germany  before,  except  once 
at  the  court  of  Charlemagne  :  "  so  far  as  we  are 
*  Gesch.  des  Studiums  der  classischen  Lit.  B.  II.  par.  20. 


acquainted  with  this  association,  it  was  estab- 
lished precisely  on  that  footing  which  seems 
most  suitable  for  literary  societies.  The  only 
bond  which  united  the  members,  was  mutual 
friendship  originating  in  a  common  desire  of 
being  useful,  and  founded  on  reciprocal  esteem. 
Among  the  members  of  this  society  were  the 
Freiherr  von  Dalburg,  afterward  Bishop  of 
Worms,  the  friend  of  Conrad  Celtes,  of  Rudoiph 
Agricola,  of  Johann  Reuchlin,  and  of  every 
man  who,  by  virtue  of  distinguished  talents, 
merited  a  place  by  the  side  of  these ;  Wilibald 
Birkhaimer.  who,  as  a  statesman,  a  soldier,  and 
an  elegant  writer,  was  an  extraordinary  pheno- 
menon in  Germany  at  that  time ;  together  with 
many  others  distinguished  partly  by  their  rank 
and  station,  and  partly  by  their  learning  and 
talents.'"* 

What  made  the  preceding  centuries  so  dark 
and  ever  darker  is  sufficiently  notorious,  after 
the  labours  of  so  many  excellent  men  devoted 
to  the  illustration  of  this  subject.  Ignorance  and 
barbarism  grew  in  proportion  as  hierarchy  and 
feudalism  reared  their  summits  over  against 
each  other,  and  wrought  together,  without  con- 
cert, in  the  destruction  of  all  true  civil  power. 

This  form  of  government  could  not  reform  it- 
self, (as,  in  fact,  no  one  has  yet  done ;  evil,  in 
and  of  itself,  can  only  grow  worse  continually ;) 
it  had  to  go  down,  and  a  new  one  to  arise  in  its 
stead.  This  took  place  after  a  series  of  events. 
— crusades,  and  extended  navigation,  with  all 
which  they  brought  in  their  train, — had  enlarged 
the  sphere  of  vision  of  the  nations,  and  given 
them  the  courage  and  the  capacity  to  assert  the 
feeling,  common  to  all  men,  of  self-propertyf 
against  spiritual  and  personal  tyranny.  There 
arose  a  numerous  class  who,  by  virtue  of  their 
education,  by  their  mode  of  living,  their  investi- 
gations and  experiences,  had  attained  to  very 
different  views  of  the  world  and  man,  and  to 
quite  other  criteria  of  the  know-worthy  and  the 
true,  than  those  which  the  schools  and  the  lec- 
ture-rooms of  the  time  could  furnish. {  This 
class,  or  rather  the  taste  for  the  good  and  the 
true,  which  had  sprung  from  an  understanding 
of  the  really  useful,  of  that  which  benefits  man- 
kind in  general,  gained  the  ascendancy.  The 
native  oppressors  and  devastators  of  Ausonii 
disappeared,  and  citizen-princes  arose  in  their 
place.  The  age  of  the  Medicis  began,  and,  at 
Florence,  that  Academy  mentioned  above,  which 
numbered  among  its  most  active  members  and 
promoters,  a  Duke  Frederic  of  Urbino,  and  the 
celebrated  King  Mathias  Corvinus  of  Hungary. 
The  inspiration  of  Italy  passed  over  to  Ger- 
many, but  with  this  difference,  that  whereas 
there,  citizen-scholars  became  princes,  here,  on 
the  other  hand,  princes,  and  the  companions  of 
princes,  became  scholars,  or,  at  least,  friends, 

*  Allgemeine  Uebersicht  der  deutsch.  Kulturgeschichte. 
S.  189.  191.  192. 

t  Selbst  angehdrigkeit— the  belonging  to  one's  self. 

J  Geschichte  der  Kiinste  und  Wissenschaften,  v.  Buhle. 
Abt.  vi.  B.  2.  Absch.  I. 


JACOBI. 


227 


lovers,  and  promoters  of  science.  Who  has  not 
heard,  in  this  connection,  the  names  of  Frederic 
the  Wise  of  Saxony,  of  Philip  of  the  Palatinate, 
of  the  Dukes  Eberhard  and  Ulrich  of  Witten- 
berg, of  Johannes  von  Dalburg,  of  Count  Mo- 
ritz  von  Spiegelberg,  of  Rudolph  von  Lange, 
and  their  pupils,  Hermann  von  Nuenar  and 
Hermann  von  dem  Busche,  above  all,  of  Ulrich 
von  Hutten  ? 

Contemporary  with  these  excellent  men  were 
the  three  patriarchs  of  German  humanities,* 
Rudolph  Agricola.  Johann  Reuchlin,  and  Conrad 
Celtes.  The  series  of  excellent  writers  who 
appeared  in  our  country  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury are  to  be  regarded  as  the  descendants  of 
these.  Yet  they  were  not  schoolmen,  but  only 
transient  teachers,  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period, 
in  universities,  and  belonged  rather,  especially 
the  two  former,  to  the  great  world  and  the  life 
of*  affairs.  To  them  chiefly  it  is  to  be  ascribed, 
that  classic  literature,  and  with  it  philosophy 
and  history,  gained  currency  among  the  higher 
classes  also,  and  were  introduced  at  courts.  On 
the  other  hand,  they,  for  their  part,  received  a 
kind  of  culture  which  is  gained  only  by  inter- 
course with  the  actual  world,  by  participation 
in  its  affairs,  and  by  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  principal  conductors  of  those  affairs ;  by 
mutual  influence,  action  and  reaction.  Neither 
science  nor  government  can  thrive  without  some 
reciprocal  action  of  this  sort.  For  how  can  ig- 
norance rule  wisely,  or  even  execute  successfully 
its  unwise  plans?  How  can  it  preserve  its  au- 
thority, without  which  there  is  no  true  and  en- 
during power  in  governments?  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  how  could  science  and  wisdom 
make  their  dignity  and  their  authority  immedi- 
ately felt?  make  it  that  which  proves  itself, 
universally,  the  stronger?  Neither  is  compati- 
ble with  the  nature  of  man.  Therefore  let 
strength  cleave  to  wisdom  and  wisdom  to 
strength. 

No  one  will  question  that  the  vast  change 
which  took  place  with  the  nations  of  Europe  in 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  which 
has  now  been  sketched  with  few  strokes,  was 
a  change  which  ennobled  humanity  throughout 
this  quarter  of  the  globe,  a  real  and  general  im- 
provement of  the  human  condition.  It  may  be 
asked,  however,  with  respect  to  the  farther  pro- 
gress which  has  been  making,  for  more  than 
three  centuries,  in  the  same  direction,  or  at  least 
apparently  in  the  same  direction,  whether  this 
progress,  the  reality  of  which  cannot  be  disputed, 
has  been  a  progress  toward  a  better  and  ever 
better?  Consequently,  whether  humanity,  in 
this  age,  may  boast  itself  and  rejoice  to  have 
drawn  much  nearer  to  the  great  end  of  the 
race,  inward  and  outward  peace,  by  universal 
and  sure  knowledge  of  the  know-worthy,  by 
universal  and  firm  possession  of  the  have- 


*  Der  dcutsr.hen  humanislen,  i.  e.  of  those  who,  in 
Germany,  cultivated  the  "humanities,"  as  they  are  called. 


worthy,  than  our  fathers  were  three  hundred 
years  ago  ? 

This  question,  in  order  to  be  satisfactorily  an- 
swered, must  be  put  on  higher  grounds  and  in 
a  form  which  concerns  human  nature  in  general. 
The  problem  would  then  read  thus  :  Has  the 
human  race  an  attainable  goal  here  on  earth? 
And,  if  there  is  such  a  goal,  is  the  whole  race 
approaching  it  gradually,  by  different,  and  even 
apparently  opposite  paths?  Or  may  single  na- 
tions, at  least,  be  moving  toward  it,  by  a  con- 
tinued approximation,  until  somewhere,  at  last, 
it  is  reached  ? 

All  the  animal  races  have  a  goal  which  they 
may  attain  to.  The  tendency  of  each  one  is  ful- 
filled, entirely  satisfied  ;  it  completes  its  course, 
lives  out  its  life.  Not  so  man.  He  is  a  yonder- 
sided  being.  His  senses  and  his  understanding 
he  has  in  common  with  the  brute.  Reason  be- 
longs to  him  alone.  By  means  of  that,  he  is 
made  capable  of  a  God  and  of  virtue,  of  the 
beautiful,  the  good,  the  sublime.  His  instinct  is 
religion. 

The  faculties  which  man  possesses  in  com- 
mon with  the  lower  animals,  he  can  use,  culti- 
vate, and  apply  in  an  infinitely  greater  variety 
of  ways  than  they  ;  and,  with  his  more  cunning 
understanding,  which,  as  mere  understanding, 
he  owes,  after  all,  only  to  a  richer  and  more  ar- 
tificial organization,  he  may  advance  to  such  an 
extent  that,  compared  with  his  speechless  bro- 
thers, even  on  this  stage,  he  shall  be  capable  of 
seeming  an  essentially  different  being  from 
them,  living  and  free,  endued  with  a  creative 
spirit,  a  self-existing  being. 

But  let  us  not  forget  to  notice  that  the  pro- 
gress which  man  makes  with  the  mere  under- 
standing, which  necessarily  relates  to  objects  of 
sense  alone,  is,  to  say  the  least,  indifferent  in  re- 
spect to  reason,  i.  e.  the  cultivation  of  genuine 
humanity,  of  that  which,  exclusively  and  alone, 
makes  man  man.  That  is  to  say,  the  progress 
may  be,  and,  in  the  beginning,  always  is,  of  such 
a  nature  as  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  influence 
of  true  humanity,  as  to  accompany  and  to  pro- 
mote it.  But  it  may  also  acquire  such  a  charac- 
ter, and  has  hitherto,  in  the  most  diverse  ways, 
always  acquired  it,  as  to  produce  a  strikingly 
opposite  effect;  as  to  destroy  humanity,  to  sup- 
press reason,  and  crowd  everything  divine  out 
of  the  human  breast. 

The  fact  is  but  too  evident,  that  a  people  may 
be  admirably  skilled  in  the  arts,  possess  a  many- 
sided  culture,  and  even  exhibit,  outwardly,  the 
most  refined  morals,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
be  inwardly,  in  the  highest  degree,  corrupt, 
deeply  immoral,  God-forgetting,  on  the  whole, 
destitute  of  all  virtue. 

Impressed  with  this  truth,  which  the  past  and 
the  presentalike  universally  confirm,that  a  culture 
relating  to  the  sensual  life  alone,  far  from  aiding 
humanity  by  its  progress,  oppresses  and  corrupts 
it  in  its  innermost  being,  and,  in  spite  of  all  our 
refinement  and  affluence,  makes  us,  in  truth, 
only  worse  and  more  miserable  animals, — deeply 


228 


J  ACOBI. 


impressed  with  this  truth,  Rousseau  wished,  in 
order  to  get  rid  of  our  understanding  which  in- 
vents sciences,  arts,  and  laws,  to  our  undoing, 
that  we  might,  renouncing  our  reason  also,  (in 
his  zeal  he  forgot  this  part  of  our  nature,)  return 
to  the  forest,  become  four-footed  and  innocent 
once  more,  if  this  were  only  practicable  now. 

This  fiery  orator,  and  all  who,  since  him, 
have  handled  the  same  subject,  themselves  saw 
by  the  light  of  the  understanding  only;  and 
so  the  solution  of  this  knot  must  needs  be  an 
impossibility  for  them.  If  reason,  they  main- 
tained, is  incapable  of  producing  a  1  heaven-on- 
earth,'  she  is  deserving  of  no  particular  regard, 
at  least,  is  not  worth  all  the  fuss  which  has 
hitherto  been  made  about  her.  Others,  who 
wished  to  preserve  the  authority  of  that  which 
they  denominated  reason,  contended  that  the 
heaven-on-earth  would  come,  and  that  so  soon 
as — no  other  should  be  talked  of.  The  unphi- 
losophical  mocked  at  this,  and,  without  waiting 
for  that  which  reason  might  accomplish  at  some 
future  period,  they  made  their  heaven-on-earth, 
as  well  as  they  could,  on  the  spot.  The  philo- 
sophers, in  silence,  did  the  same. 

The  true  word  of  this  enigma,  or  its  solution, 
is  a  yes  and  a  no  at  the  same  time, — both  equal 
in  force,  both  equal  in  right,  and  of  such  a  cha- 
racter, that  the  negation  does  not  cancel  the 
affirmation,  nor  the  affirmation  the  negation,  but 
both  maintain  themselves  over  against  each 
other,  and  are  mutually  balanced. 

When  the  faculty  of  desire  has  given  the 
ends,  the  understanding  assists  to  find  the  means 
necessary  to  the  attainment  of  those  ends.  It 
distinguishes,  combines,  arranges,  weighs,  and 
considers.  It  calms  the  mind  to  prudence. 
But  it  is  incapable  of  generating  ends — original 
ends — out  of  itself.  These  all  spring  from  sen- 
sual or  supersensual,  corporeal  or  spiritual 
wants.  In  and  with  those,  works  the  under- 
standing, in  and  with  these,  Reason. 

It  is  a  truth  old  as  the  human  species,  that 
sense  and  reason  are  in  continual  conflict  with 
each  odier,  that  now  one  and  now  the  other  is 
in  the  ascendancy.  Herein  is  manifested  the 
discoid  of  man  with  himself,  caused  by  two 
propensities  essentially  different  in  their  de- 
mands, and  often  diametrically  opposite  in  their 
operation.  One  of  these  propensities  produces 
the  practical  understanding,  the  other  practical 
Reason. 

There  can  be  no  dispute  as  to  which  of  these 
propensities  deserves,  absolutely  and  always, 
the  preference  and  the  supremacy.  No  one 
denies  that  the  highest  authority  belongs  to 
Reason,  and  that  unconditional  obedience  is  due 
to  her  precepts. 

Understanding  may  exist  in  the  highest  de- 
gree, even  where  the  most  profligate  aims  are 
manifest.  It  executes  with  equal  assiduity  the 
best  and  the  worst.  Of  itself,  it  knows  not 
what  is  good  or  bad,  but  only  what  is  more  or 
less.  It  can  only  mete  according  to  a  given 
measure  :  it  can  only  deliberate,  not  subordi- 


nate ;*  it  can  only  number,  compute,  calculate. 
To  make  out  a  first  cause  or  an  ultimate  aim, 

lies  entirely  beyond  its  sphere. 

"What  is  good,"  says  the  wise  man  of 
Stagira,  "is  so  by  the  inherent  power  of  the 
object;  and  life  itself  is  a  good,  only  because 
we  learn  what  is  good,  by  means  of  it.''  Rea- 
son alone  makes  known  to  us  what  is  good  in 
itself.  Reason  is  the  faculty  of  proposing  to 
ourselves  the  highest.  As  such,  it  stood  with 
the  ancients,  under  the  title  of  Wisdom,  at  the 
head  of  the  virtues;  it  arranged  them,  it  had 
invented  them.  Prudence  is  the  virtue  of  the 
understanding.  That  faculty  discovers  and  re- 
veals what  is  serviceable,  unconcerned  as  to  the 
worth  of  the  end,  whether  good  or  bad. 

"If  Reason  had  the  power  as  she  has  the 
authority,"  says  a  profound  English  thinker,f 
"Justice  and  Peace,  the  Good  and  the  Beautiful 
would  everywhere  reign  supreme."  But  now 
she  has  only  right  on  her  side ;  strength  dwells 
elsewhere,  with  sensual  desire,  with  the  appe- 
tites and  passions.  This  disproportion  cannot 
be  universally  abolished,  but  the  nobler  or  the 
ignobler  may  obtain  more  or  less  the  ascen- 
dancy, and  the  times,  accordingly,  be  better  or 
worse. 

Only  that — according  to  the  definition  of  one 
of  our  most  acute  and  noble  thinkers — deserves 
to  be  called  a  better  age,in  which  human  nature 
in  a  state  of  the  most  active  self-development, 
although  defective  in  some  points,  yet,  on  the 
whole,  harmonious,  has  distinguished  itself  by 
nobleness  of  sentiment  and  energy  of  mind  in 
entire  nations;  in  which  a  noble  and  difficult 
aim  was  clearly  discerned  and  boldly  and  stead- 
fastly pursued.  The  value  of  an  age,  therefore, 
is  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  bloom  of  the  arts, 
or  by  the  multitude  of  learned  acquirements, 
by  which  particular  classes  of  cultivated  indi- 
viduals may  be  distinguished ;  not  by  the  pow- 
ers and  deeds  of  single,  celebrated  men,  nor  by 
the  predominance  of  a  so  called  enlightenment, 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  word;  seeing  that  the 
faculty  of  moral  self-determination  is  cultivated 
less  by  instruction  than  by  living  example,  and, 
in  an  enervated  century,  all  moral  doctrines, 
although  they  may  take  root  in  the  understand- 
ing, act  but  feebly  on  the  character.  Least  of 
all,  is  the  value  of  an  age  to  be  estimated  by 
the  standard  of  public  self-content,  which  is 
generally  considered  a  less  fallible  one;  since 
man  may  easily  sink  so  low  that  the  manner  of 
his  well-being  shall  concern  him  but  little,  if 
only,  on  the  whole,  he  is  tolerably  well.  Let  it 
first  be  ascertained  what  kind  of  well-being  the 
people  enjoy.  Enjoyment  is  stimulating  and 
honourable,  only  as  a  consequence  of  true  self- 
development;  and  the  real  happiness  of  man, 


*  The  epigrammatic  force  of  the  German  is  lost  in  this 
translation  of  the  phrase,  nur  ueber:  nicht  unterlcgen,  i. 
e.,  only  overlay,  not  underlay.  But  the  rendering,  it  is 
believed,  is  otherwise  exact.  Tr. 

t  Joseph  Butler. 


J  ACOBI. 


229 


which,  at  bottom,  we  all  crave,  is  a  noble  hap- 
piness* 

Tried  by  these  principles,  the  age  in  which 
we  live,  can  hardly  receive  the  testimony  that 
it  belongs  to  the  better  sort. 

Means  we  have,  as  no  generation  ever  had 
before  us.  But  with  this  wealth  of  means  what 
ends  do  we  attain?  What  ends  do  we  propose 
to  ourselves?  We  are  full  of  science,  and  are 
daily  inventing  new  arts,  but  men,  such  as  the 
ancient,  and  even  the  middle  times  —  such  as 
the  lifteenth  and  sixteenth  century  produced, 
are  proportionally  rare  among  us.  Our  pride  is 
to  be  able  to  dispense  with  such  powers  and 
virtues.  So  Pericles  of  old  pronounced  his 
Athenians  happy,  in  that  they  had  no  need  to 
be  Spartans  in  virtue. f  As,  in  the  earliest 
times,  men  were  at  pains  to  subdue  wild  beasts, 
and  to  impart  to  the  beasts  which  they  sub- 
dued, habits  contrary  to  their  instincts ;  so,  in 
later  times,  an  entire,  degenerate  Humanity 
strives  to  subdue  true  humanity,  wherever  it  is 
still  active,  to  bring  it  beneath  the  power  of  a 
cultivated  animalism  which  deems  itself  su- 
perior, to  suppress  or  to  pervert,  on  all  sides, 
the  higher  instinct,  so  that,  of  all  which  has 
ever  borne  the  name  of  virtue,  there  shall  be 
nothing  left  but  so  called  utilities,  which  may 
also  be  applied  to  vicious  ends.  To  this  class 
belong  courage,  industry,  moderation,  obedience, 
to  which  men  may  actually,  to  a  certain  extent, 
be  merely  trained,  as  we  train  animals.  This 
is  the  true  pedagogic  of  our  time,  the  only  one 
which  the  time  esteems.  It  shows  itself  inex- 
haustible in  devising  new  methods  to  attain 
the  abovementioned  end, — to  separate  what  is 
merely  useful  in  virtue  from  virtue  itself,  and 
to  make  it  a  matter  of  public  opinion,  that 
naked  virtue,  which  would  be  estimated,  not  by 
what  it  fetches,  but  by  what  it  costs,  should  be 
sent  to  the  mad-house.  And  thus  we  become 
every  day  more  intelligent,^  more  ingenious, 
and,  in  the  same  proportion,  more  irrational. § 
Individually  and  in  the  mass, — nationally, — we 
have  become  more  devoid  of  reason. 

"  Egoism  and  rage  for  enjoyment  on  principle," 
says  the  writer  just  quoted,  "  under  the  name 
of  sound  philosophy,  destroy  the  fairest  relations 
of  life.  The  flattering  happiness-doctrine,  by 
which  it  was  proposed  at  first  to  dam  the  stream 
of  passion,  has  long  since  become  a  frail  skiff, 
which  follows  the  current.  The  more  earnest 
and  exalted  morality  which  inspires  man  with 
a  consciousness  of  his  dignity,  has  become  too 
strange  and  too  high  for  the  people.  They  can- 
not comprehend  it.  Man,  in  general,  is  consci- 
entious, in  the  strictest  sense,  only  then,  when, 
in  secret  also,  he  feels  the  necessity  of  shame, 

*  See,  Die  goldenen  Jahrhunderte,  v.  Fr.  Bouterwek. 
Neues  Museum  der  Phil,  und  Lit.  Band  I.  Heft  2. 
t  Thucydides,  ii.  34-39. 
X  Verstundig . 

§  Unvernutifiig. — Observe  all  along  the  distinction,  no- 
where so  prominent  as  with  Jacobi,  between  the  under- 
standing and  the  reason.  Tr. 


before  another  than  himself.  The  belief  in  that 
other,  has  been,  for  centuries,  by  instruction  and 
tradition,  identified  with  attachment  to  a  church. 
The  inconsiderate  cry  of  enlightenment  has  torn 
the  people  away  from  the  Church,  and  Con- 
science is  left  without  house  or  home.  And 
now  one  party  thirsts  for  sweet  pleasure,  to 
drain  the  cup  of  life  to  the  dregs,  and  the  other 
party  crawls  back  to  the  cross  in  the  literal  sense 
of  these  words.  Amid  this  disgusting  (we  may 
call  it)  opposition  between  a  reviving  priestcraft 
and  a  happiness-theory  which  knows  not  God, 
a  generation  is  growing  up  whose  destiny  no 
philosophy  can  control.  It  would  need  no  ex- 
traordinary occurrences  to  deliver  up  this  gene- 
ration to  a  new  Mohammed.  For  it  needs  but 
few  syllogisms  now-a-days,  to  rob  men  of  the 
principles  of  their  'human  understanding,'  as 
they  call  it.  Popular  enlightenment  among  us 
is  unnaturally  advanced.  Its  unnatural  begin- 
ning and  progress  portend  its  natural  termina- 
tion. Posterity  will  not  wonder  if,  in  the  desert 
of  unbelief,  men  raise  serpents  and  pray  to 
golden  calves  once  more ;  and  if,  in  this  ser- 
pent-and -calf- service,  philosophers  tend  the 
altars." 

Remarkable  signs  exhibit  themselves.  But 
twenty  years  ago,  all  shallow  heads  were  agreed 
with  Voltaire,  Helvetius,  Diderot,  and  their  dis- 
ciples, that  philosophy  and  every  method  of 
cultivating  and  diffusing  it,  were  good  and 
wholesome.  Now,  all  shallow  heads  are  equally 
unanimous  in  the  contrary  opinion.  All  philo- 
sophising is  affirmed  to  be  useless  and  even 
pernicious.  They  became  convinced,  by  an 
extraordinary  event,  that  egoism  cannot  be  made 
just,  at  least,  not  in  the  gross,  in  the  way  which 
their  teachers  had  affirmed.  They  became 
convinced  that  a  pure  democracy  of  mere  appe- 
tites and  passions,  however  organized,  can  never 
become  a  kingdom  of  happiness  and  peace 
Hence  they  concluded  (for  the  principle  of  ego- 
ism, as  the  only  true  principle,  they  once  for 
all,  could  not  let  go)  that  it  is  better  to  renounce 
all  hope  of  justice,  to  give  up  Humanity,  and 
to  abandon  everything  to  Chance. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  concur  with  them.  A 
loud  appeal  against  them  to  the  genius  of  Hu- 
manity, is  the  duty  of  every  noble-minded  man. 
We  need  heroes  of  humanity;  and  they  will 
appear,  as  they  have  hitherto  appeared  in  every 
case  in  which  the  highest  necessity  demanded 
them.  As  to  the  how  and  the  when,  let  no  one 
ask.  Let  each  one  perform,  in  his  place,  what 
the  better,  the  reliable  spirit  within  him  enjoins. 

This  spirit,  as  it  is  its  own  highest  end,  so  it 
is  its  own  only  means.  Against  the  power 
thereof  no  other  power  may  stand.  It  will 
pierce  through  and  overcome. 

It  is  impossible  that  a  pure  and  clear  under- 
standing should  be  incompatible  with  an  ele- 
vated reason.  Rather,  when  used  aright,  they 
must  mutually  promote  each  other.  There  can 
be  no  bad  use  of  the  reason.  And  even  of  the 
understanding,  there  can  only  then  be  a  bad 
20 


230 


J  A  COB  I. 


use,  when  that  faculty  is  already,  in  part,  sub- 
jugated, and,  in  the  same  measure,  eclipsed  by 
the  senses  which  it  was  ordained  to  rule.  Only 
then  will  it  prove  itself  hostile  to  reason, — place 
itself  as  a  dark  body  before  the  sun  of  the  spirit 
and  intercept  its  rays.  Its  self-eclipses  are  not 
to  be  likened  to  the  eclipses  of  the  moon,  in  re- 
lation to  which  Thucydides  says;  "that  the 
Greeks  of  his  day  had  long  since  ceased  to  be 
afraid  of  eclipses  of  the  sun,  but  that  eclipses  of 
the  moon  still  excited  their  alarm."  They  did 
not  comprehend  how  a  body  could  stand  in  its 
own  light. 

It  is  plain,  to  him  who  reflects,  in  what  way 
these  general  considerations  connect  themselves 
with  what  was  said  above,  concerning  learned 
societies  of  old  and  recent  time,  and  what  bear- 
ing they  have  on  the  new  dedication  of  the 
Royal  Bavarian  Academy  of  Sciences.  They 
came  unsought.  Dulness  and  narrowness  can- 
not comprehend  the  design  of  these  intellectual 
alliances.  With  bold  assumption,  they  pronounce 
judgment  upon  them,  or  ask  for  results  of  im- 
mediate utility.  These  our  Academy  indeed,  as 
the  Keeper  of  the  scientific  (and  what  splendid !) 
treasures  and  collections  of  our  illustrious  mo- 
narch and  of  this,  kingdom,  (a  beautiful  addition 
to  its  destination,  which  hitherto  no  other  aca- 
demy in  the  world  has  possessed,  to  this  extent) 
can  point  to  with  serene  brow  ;  but  they  are  not 
the  only  thing  that  gives  value  to  this  fair  circle 
of  the  priests  of  humanity.    The  high  ancestors 


of  our  Maximilian  Joseph  founded  this  Institute 
and  made  its  conduct  their  care.  The  Genius 
of  this  kingdom  would  have  mourned  if  our  age 
had  suffered  it  to  become  extinct.  This  was 
not  to  be  apprehended.  The  lofty  prince  whom, 
with  joy  and  triumph,  we  call  ours, —  whom, 
with  full  heart,  we  call  the  king ;  he  who,  in  all 
ways,  blesses  his  people,  is  willing  also  to  in- 
crease their  fame  by  helping  to  preserve  to  them 
so  sacred  an  inheritance,  by  furnishing  it  anew, 
by  enlarging  its  powers,  by  increasing  its  splen- 
dor. 

Those  who  conclude,  this  day,  the  renewed 
alliance  of  truth  and  wisdom,  are  justly  inspired 
with  the  hope  of  something  better,  and  with 
courage  to  promote  it.  "An  institution  of  peace, 
and  for  the  mediation  of  the  antagonistic  in  time, 
by  science?'*  has  been  founded.  It  is  allowed 
us  to  speak  freely  of  the  advantages,  but  also  of 
the  defects  of  the  time.  Whatever  it  possesses 
that  is  costly  and  excellent  in  relation  to  science 
and  art,  is  presented  to  us,  in  rich  abundance, 
by  royal  liberality.  To  contribute  something 
toward  the  promotion  of  the  highest,  and  of 
whatsoever  is  wanting  to  the  time,  shall  be 
the  unalterable  aim  of  our  most  zealous  en- 
deavours. 

Blessings  on  the  best  of  kings,  who  called  this 
union  into  being,  and  who  will  foster  and  pre- 
serve it! 


*  Excellent  words  of  Sehelling. 


JOH ANN  GOTTFKI 

Bom  1744. 

Tins  honored  name,  than  which  Germany 
has  few  more  prized,  represents  a  wide  range 
of  intellect,  and  covers  a  large  space  in  the 
national  literature.  Herder  is  a  literature  in 
himself,  including  theology,  philosophy,  history, 
criticism,  poetry ;  all  the  various  departments 
of  literary  effort,  and  approved  in  all.  He  sur- 
passes all  his  contemporaries  in  breadth,  and 
most  of  them  in  depth.  Such  union  of  breadth 
and  depth  has  seldom  been  seen.  To  him  may 
be  ascribed  the  epithet  "  myriad-minded."  He 
towers  above  the  ordinary  level  of  humanity, 
not,  like  most  great  men,  in  a  single  peak,  but 
with  a  many-headed  elevation;  a  vast  moun- 
tain-range whose  highest  summits  mingle  with 
the  skies ;  whose  sunny  slopes  are  covered  with 
luxurious  vegetation ;  whose  secret  valleys  are 
haunted  by  the  Muse  of  Romance,  and  beneath 
whose  surface  are  mines  of  gold. 

Had  Herder  possessed  the  element  of  form  in 
any  degree  proportioned  to  the  sumless  wealth 
of  his  intellect  and  his  all-sided  culture,  he 
would  have  been  the  first  poet,  not  of  Germany 
only,  but  of  his  age,  of  any  age.  There  lay  his 
defect.  He  was  no  artist.  Like  king  David, 
he  collected  materials  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  but  it  was  not  given  to  him  to  rear  a 
temple  therewith.  With  all  his  voluminous- 
ness  he  has  left  no  perfect  work.  Even  his 
"Ideas  toward  a  philosophy  of  the  history  of 
Humanity"  is  fragmentary,  as  the  name  im- 
ports. 

Herder  was  born  at  Mohrungen  in  East 
Prussia,  where  his  father  was  Cantor*  of  the 
church  and  usher  in  a  female  seminary.  His 
early  education  was  better  adapted  to  make 
him  a  good  man  than  a  brilliant  scholar,  being 
confined  to  the  reading  of  the  bible  and  the 
hymn-book.  Other  books,  which  his  thirst  for 
knowledge  constrained  him  to  seek,  he  was 
obliged  to  read  by  stealth;  and  it  is  related 
that  he  used  to  climb  a  tree  and  lash  himself 
with  a  leathern  strap  to  one  of  the  branches  for 
this  purpose. 

*  An  office  in  the  Lutheran  Church,  of  which  the  prin- 
cipal duty  is  that  of  precentor— whence  the  name. 


ED  VON  HERDER. 

Died  1S03. 

He  learned  to  write,  and  the  beauty  of  his 
chirography  procured  him  a  patron  in  Trescho, 
a  clergyman  who  employed  him  as  amanuensis, 
and  permitted  him  to  share  the  instruction  of 
his  sons  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages. 
The  intense  application  with  which  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  brought  on 
a  disease  of  the  eyes,  from  which  he  never  en- 
tirely recovered.  A  Russian  surgeon  who  had 
afforded  him  temporary  relief,  and  who  was 
then  a  visiter  in  the  house  of  Trescho,  per- 
suaded him  to  study  surgery  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  offered  not  only  to  pay  his  expenses  thither, 
but  to  give  him  gratuitous  instruction.  But  at 
Konigsberg,  on  their  way,  Herder  was  so  over- 
come by  the  sight  of  a  dissection  which  he 
witnessed,  that  he  abandoned  this  project,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  theology.  He  remained 
in  Konigsberg  for  this  purpose,  supporting  him- 
self, as  a  private  instructor,  while  pursuing  his 
studies  at  the  university.  He  there  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  Hamann  and  with  Kant 

In  1765,  he  was  appointed  teacher  and 
preacher  at  the  Cathedral  school  at  Riga, 
where  he  kindled  the  enthusiastic  devotion 
of  his  hearers  and  pupils  by  his  word  and  his 
writings.  For  here  commenced  his  career  as 
an  author.  In  1768,  he  declined  a  call  to  St. 
Petersburg  as  inspector  of  the  St.  Peter's  school 
in  that  city,  and  accepted  the  office  of  travel- 
ling chaplain  to  the  prince  of  Holstein-Eutin. 
In  this  capacity  he  travelled  through  Germany 
as  far  as  Strassburg,  where  he  was  induced  to 
resign  his  office  on  account  of  his  eyes,  which 
began  to  trouble  him  again,  and  to  undergo  an 
operation  which  detained  him  for  a  long  while 
in  that  city.  Here  he  became  acquainted  with 
Goethe,  wrho  was  then  a  student  of  Law  at 
Strassburg.  Goethe  attributes  great  value  to 
this  acquaintance  in  his  auto-biography,  and 
makes  much  of  Herder's  influence  on  his  mind 
and  character  at  that  forming  period  of  his  life. 
"I  might  count  myself  fortunate,"  he  says, 
"that  by  an  unexpected  acquaintance,  what- 
ever of  self-complacency,  of  self-mirroring,  of 
vanity,  pride,  and  highmindedness  might  slum- 

(231) 


232 


HERDER. 


ber  or  work  in  me,  was  subjected  to  a  very 
severe  trial  which  was  unique  in  its  kind,  by 
no  means  proportionate  to  the  time,  but  so  much 
the  more  penetrating  and  sensible. 

M  For  the  most  significant  occurrence  and  that 
which  was  to  have  the  most  important  conse- 
quences for  me,  was  an  acquaintance  and  a 
consequent  nearer  connection  with  Herder.  He 
had  accompanied  the  prince  of  Holstein-Eutin, 
who  was  afflicted  with  melancholy,  in  his  tra- 
vels, and  had  come  with  him  as  far  as  Strass- 
burg.  Our  society,  as  soon  as  they  were  aware 
of  his  presence,  felt  an  earnest  desire  to  ap- 
proach him,  and  this  gratification  happened  to 
me  first  in  a  quite  unexpected  and  accidental 
manner.  I  had  gone  to  the  hotel  '  Zum 
Geist?  to  visit  I  know  not  what  distinguished 
stranger.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  I  met  a  man 
who  was  also  on  the  point  of  ascending,  and 
whom  I  might  have  taken  for  a  clergyman. 
His  powdered  hair  was  rolled  up  into  a  round 
lock;  a  black  dress  likewise  distinguished  him, 
but  still  more  a  long  black  silk  mantle,  the  end 
of  which  he  had  gathered  together  and  thrust 
into  his  pocket.  This  somewhat  striking,  but, 
on  the  whole,  gentlemanly  and  agreeable  ap- 
pearance, of  which  I  had  already  heard  speak, 
left  me  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  celebrated 
arrival,  and  my  address  must  have  convinced 
him  at  once  that  I  knew  who  he  was.  He 
asked  my  name,  which  could  be  of  no  import- 
ance to  him ;  but  my  frankness  appeared  to 
please  him,  for  he  responded  to  it  with  great 
kindness,  and,  as  we  ascended  the  stairs  toge- 
ther, showed  himself  ready  at  once  for  a  lively 
communication.  It  has  escaped  me  whom  we 
then  visited.  Enough,  at  parting,  I  begged 
permission  to  call  upon  him  at  his  lodgings, 
which  he  accorded  to  me  in  a  manner  suffi- 
ciently friendly.  I  did  not  fail  to  avail  myself 
repeatedly  of  this  permission,  and  was  more  and 
more  attracted  by  him.  He  had  somewhat 
gentle  in  his  carriage  that  was  exceedingly 
fitting  and  graceful,  without  being  exactly 
adrett ;  a  round  face,  a  significant  brow,  a 
somewhat  blunt  nose,  a  somewhat  prominent 
but  highly  individual,  agreeable,  amiable  mouth; 
under  black  eyebrows  a  pair  of  coal-black  eyes 
which  did  not  fail  of  their  effect,  although  one 
of  them  was  wont  to  be  red  and  inflamed.  By 
manifold  questions  he  sought  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  me  and  my  condition,  and  his 
power  of  attraction  operated  ever  more  strongly 


upon  me.  I  was  generally  of  a  confiding  na- 
ture, and  for  him,  especially,  I  had  no  secret. 
But  it  was  not  long  before  the  repellent  pulse 
of  his  nature  came  in  and  occasioned  me  no 
little  discomfort.  ******** 

"  Herder  had  now  separated  himself  from  the 
prince  and  removed  to  quarters  of  his  own,  re- 
solved to  submit  himself  to  an  operation  by 
Lobstein.  Here  I  found  the  benefit  of  those 
exercises  by  which  I  had  endeavored  to  blunt 
my  sensitiveness.  I  was  able  to  assist  at  the 
operation,  and,  in  various  ways,  to  be  helpful 
and  serviceable  to  so  worthy  a  man.  I  had 
every  reason  to  admire  his  great  fortitude  and 
patience ;  for  neither  under  the  various  wounds 
inflicted  by  the  surgeon,  nor  under  the  oft-re- 
peated, painful  bandage,  did  he  manifest  the 
least  vexation ;  and  he  appeared  to  be  the  one 
among  us  who  suffered  the  least.  But  then,  in 
the  intervals,  we  had  to  bear  in  various  ways 
the  mutations  of  his  humor.  ***** 

"  Herder  could  be  most  sweetly  engaging  and 
genial ;  but  he  could  as  easily  also  turn  forth  a 
vexatious  side.  All  men  indeed  have  this  at- 
traction and  repulsion  according  to  their  nature, 
— some  more,  some  less, — some  in  slower,  some 
in  quicker  pulses.  Few  can  really  overcome 
their  peculiarity  in  this  regard,  although  many 
appear  to  do  so.  In  the  case  of  Herder,  the 
overweight  of  his  contrary,  bitter,  biting  humor 
was  unquestionably  owing  to  his  malady  and 
the  sufferings  which  arose  from  it.  This  case 
often  occurs  in  life,  and  we  do  not  sufficiently 
consider  the  moral  effects  of  diseased  condi- 
tions, and  therefore  judge  many  characters 
very  unjustly,  because  we  regard  all  men  as 
healthy,  and  require  of  them  that  they  shall 
conduct  themselves  accordingly. 

"  During  the  whole  time  of  this  cure,  I  visited 
Herder  morning  and  evening;  I  also  remained 
with  him  sometimes  the  whole  day,  and  accus- 
tomed myself  in  a  short  time  to  his  chiding  and 
fault-finding,  the  rather  that  I  learned  every 
day  to  estimate  more  highly  his  great  and 
beautiful  qualities,  his  extended  knowledge, 
and  his  deep  insight.  The  influence  of  this 
goodnatured  grumbler  was  great  and  important. 
He  was  five  years  older  than  I,  which  makes  a 
great  difference  in  our  younger  days,  and  since 
I  acknowledged  him  for  what  he  was,  since  I 
knew  how  to  value  what  he  had  already  pro- 
duced, he  necessarily  acquired  a  great  supe- 
riority over  me.    But  the  relation  was  not  an 


HERDER. 


233 


agreeable  one.  Older  people  with  whom  I  had 
hitherto  conversed  had  spared  me  while  endea- 
voring to  educate  me ;  perhaps  they  had  spoiled 
me  by  their  yieldingness ;  but  no  approbation 
was  ever  to  be  had  from  Herder,  whatever  pains 
one  might  take  to  obtain  it.  While,  therefore, 
on  the  one  hand,  my  great  attachment  and  re- 
verence for  him,  and  on  the  other,  the  discom- 
fort which  he  awakened  in  me  for  ever  con- 
tended together,  there  arose  in  me  a  contradic- 
tion, the  first  in  its  kind  I  had  ever  experienced. 
As  his  conversations  were  always  significant, 
whether  asking  or  answering,  or  in  whatever 
way  he  imparted  himself,  it  could  not  fail  that 
I  should  be  daily  and  hourly  led  on  by  him  to 
new  views.  ****** 

During  so  vexatious  and  painful  a  cure,  our 
Herder  lost  nothing  of  his  vivacity,  but  that 
vivacity  grew  ever  less  beneficent.  He  could 
not  write  a  note  containing  a  request,  without 
spicing  it  with  some  kind  of  jeer.  Thus,  for 
example,  he  wrote  to  me  once  : 

"If  the  epistles  of  Brutus  thou  hast  in  Cicero's  Letters, 
Thou  whom,  from  well-polished  shelves,  the  school-conso- 
lers—the classics 
Comfort  in  splendid  editions;  but  outwardly  rather  than 
inly ; — 

Thou  who  from  Gods  or  from  Goths,  or,  it  may  be,  from 

mud*  art  descended, 
Goethe  send  them  to  me." 

To  be  sure,  it  was  not  handsome  that  he  al- 
lowed himself  this  jest  with  my  name ;  for  the 
proper  name  of  a  man  is  not  like  a  cloak  which 
merely  hangs  round  him,  and  at  which  one  can 
pluck  and  twitch,  but  a  close-fitting  garment ; 
nay,  it  is  something  which  grows  to  him  like 
the  skin  itself,  and  which  cannot  be  scratched 
or  wounded  without  injury  to  himself. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  preceding  reproof  was 
better  founded.  I  had  taken  the  authors  which 
I  had  received  in  exchange  from  Langer,  toge- 
ther with  some  beautiful  editions  out  of  my 
father's  collection,  with  me  to  Strassburg,  and 
arranged  them  in  a  neat  book-case  with  the 
best  intention  to  use  them.  But  how  should 
the  time  which  was  broken  into  fragments  by  a 
hundred  different  kinds  of  activity,  suffice  for 
this]  Herder,  who  was  a  great  observer  of 
books,  because  he  needed  them  every  moment, 
noticed  my  beautiful  collection  on  his  first  visit; 
but  he  noticed  too,  that  I  made  no  use  of  it ; 
wherefore,  as  the  greatest  enemy  of  all  seem- 
ing and  ostentation,  he  used  with  every  occa- 
sion to  twit  me  on  that  point.    *       *  * 

*  "  Von  Quttern  von  Qothen  oder  von  Kothe;"1  puns  on 
Goethe's  name. — Ed. 

2  E 


Of  such  jests,  more  or  less  gay  or  abstruse, 
lively  or  bitter,  I  might  mention  many.  Thoy 
did  not  vex  me,  but  they  were  unpleasant.  But 
as  I  knew  how  to  value  whatever  contributed 
to  my  education,  and  since  I  had  sacrificed 
many  of  my  earlier  opinions  and  inclinations,  I 
soon  adjusted  myself  thereto,  and  only  endea- 
voured, so  far  as  it  was  possible  for  me  from 
my  then  point  of  view,  to  separate  just  reproof 
from  unjust  invective.  And  so  not  a  day  passed 
that  was  not  most  fruitfully  instructive  for 
me.  ****** 

******** 

After  the  cure  had  been  protracted  beyond 
all  reasonable  bounds,  and  Lobstein  began  to 
waver  and  to  repeat  himself  in  his  treatment, 
our  whole  relation  was  overcast.  Herder  be- 
came impatient  and  out  of  humor ;  he  could 
not  succeed  in  continuing  his  activity  as  here- 
tofore, and  he  was  obliged  to  restrain  himself, 
the  rather  that  the  blame  of  the  unsuccessful 
chirurgical  undertaking  was  imputed  to  his  too 
great  intellectual  activity,  and  his  uninter- 
rupted, lively  and  even  merry  intercourse  with 
us.  In  short,  after  so  much  torture  and  suffer- 
ing, the  artificial  lachrymal  duct  would  not 
form,  and  the  desired  communication  could  not 
be  brought  about.  It  was  found  necessary  to 
let  the  wound  heal  in  order  that  the  evil  might 
not  grow  worse.  If,  during  the  operation,  we 
were  compelled  to  admire  Herder's  fortitude 
under  such  pains,  his  melancholy,  nay,  grim 
resignation  to  the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  bear 
such  a  blemish  through  life,  had  in  it  something 
sublime,  whereby  he  secured  to  himself  forever 
the  veneration  of  those  who  saw  him  and  loved 
him.  This  misfortune,  which  disfigured  so  sig- 
nificant a  face,  could  not  but  be  the  more  vexa- 
tious from  the  circumstance,  that  he  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  and  had  won  the  affec- 
tions of  a  distinguished  lady  in  Darmstadt.  It 
was  chiefly  on  this  account  that  he  had  sub- 
mitted to  that  cure,  in  order,  on  his  return,  to 
appear  more  free,  more  joyful,  and  with  im- 
proved looks  before  his  half-betrothed,  and  to 
connect  himself  more  surely  and  inseparably 
with  her."* 

In  1770,  Herder  received  a  call  to  Biicke- 
burg  as  superintendant,  court-preacher,  and 
member  of  the  consistory.  There  he  became 
the  confidential  friend  of  Count  Wilhelm,  of 
Schaumburg-Lippe  and  his  wife,  and  added  to 

*  Aus  meinem  Leben.    Part  2d.  Book  10th. 
20* 


234 


HERDER. 


his  literary  fame  by  several  important  publica- 
tions. In  1775,  he  was  invited  to  a  professor- 
ship of  theology  in  Gottingen;  but  objections 
having  been  raised  on  the  score  of  questionable 
orthodoxy,  he  accepted  a  call  which  came  to 
him  from  Weimar  to  fill  the  offices  of  court- 
preacher,  of  general  superintendent,  and  coun- 
sellor of  the  upper  Consistory  in  that  Electorate. 
Here  he  remained  during  the  rest  of  his  life, 
and  by  his  fame  as  pulpit-orator,  by  his  services 
as  superintendent  of  the  schools,  and  zealous 
promoter  of  all  good  works,  by  the  establish- 
ment of  a  seminary  for  teachers,  by  the  reforms 
which  he  introduced  into  the  liturgy  and  the 
catechetical  instruction,  he  endeared  himself 
alike  to  prince  and  people.  In  1789,  he  was 
made  vice-president,  in  1801,  president  of  the 
upper  Consistory.  At  the  same  time  he  received 
from  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  the  diploma  of  no- 
bility. 

He  died,  December  18th,  1803,  in  the  sixtieth 
year  of  his  age.  His  remains  were  deposited 
in  the  vault  of  the  city-church,  and,  in  1819, 
a  monument  of  cast-iron  was  erected  over  them, 
"which  expressed  the  characteristic  aspirations 
of  his  soul  with  the  brief  inscription,  Licht, 
JLiebe,  Leben."* 

The  highest  panegyric  on  Herder  is  that 
pronounced  by  his  true  friend  and  fervent  ad- 
mirer, Jean  Paul,  in  his  Vorschule  der  JEsthetik. 

"  That  noble  spirit  was  misunderstood  by  op- 
posite times  and  parties,  yet  not  entirely  with- 
out fault  of  his  own.  For  he  had  the  fault, 
that  he  was  no  star  of  first  or  of  any  other 
magnitude,  but  a  clump  of  stars  out  of  which 
each  one  spells  a  constellation  to  please  him- 
self; one  man  a  pair  of  scales,  or  the  constella- 
tion of  Autumn  ;  another,  a  crab,  or  the  constel- 
lation of  Summer,  and  so  on.  Men,  with  powers 
of  various  kinds,  are  always  misunderstood; 
those  with  powers  of  only  one  kind,  seldom. 
The  former  come  in  contact  with  all,  both  like 
and  unlike ;  the  latter  only  with  their  like.  *  * 

"  Born,  as  it  were,  with  a  love-potion  of  fervid 

passion  for  nature,  like  a  Brahmin,  with  the 

lofty  Spinozism  of  the  heart,  he  cherished  and 

held  fast  to  his  heart  every  animalcule  and 

every  blossom.    A  travelling-carriage  driven 

through  greening  life  was  his  sun-chariot,  and 

only  under  the  free  heaven,  as  also  at  the  sound 

of  music,  would  his  heart,  like  a  flower,  with  a 

right,  wide-cheered  expansion,  unfold. 

*  "  Lij;ht,  Love,  Life."  See  Wolff's  Encyclopedia  of 
German  literature. 


*  *  *  *  I  can  say  but  little 
about  him,  and  insufficient  at  best.  A  man 
who  could  be  resolved  into  words  must  be  an 
every-day  man.  The  star-heaven  no  star-map 
paints,  although  painting  may  represent  a  land- 
scape. ****** 

"  So  this  beloved  spirit  resembled  the  swans 
which,  in  the  harsh  season  of  the  year,  keep 
the  waters  open  by  their  motion. 
**         *  ***** 

"  I  have  not  yet  spoken  the  fullest  word  con- 
cerning him.  If  he  was  no  poet,  as  he  often, 
indeed,  thought  of  himself,  and  also  of  other 
very  celebrated  people,  standing,  as  he  did, 
close  by  the  Homeric  and  Shakspearian  stand- 
ard;—  then  he  was  merely  something  better, 
namely,  a  poem,  an  Indian-Greek  epos  made  by 
some  purest  God.        *       *       *  * 

"  But  how  shall  I  analyze  it?  since  in  his  beau- 
tiful soul,  precisely  as  in  a  poem,  everything 
coalesced,  and  the  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful, 
constituted  an  inseparable  triunity.  Greece 
was  to  him  the  highest,  and,  however  universal 
too  his  epic  -  cosmopolitan  taste,  praising  and 
acknowledging — even  the  style  of  his  Hamann 
— he  still  clung  most  intensely,  like  a  much- wan- 
dered Odysseus  after  his  return  from  all  blos- 
som lands,  to  his  Greek  home.  He  and  Goethe 
only  (each  after  his  own  fashion)  are  our  resto- 
rers, or  Winkelmanns  of  singing  Greece,  whose 
Philomel-tongue  not  all  the  prosers  of  foregone 
centuries  had  been  able  to  loose. 

Herder  was,  as  it  were,  a  Greek  composition 
after  the  life.  Poetry  was  not  merely  a  hori- 
zon-appendix to  his  life, — as  one  often  sees,  in 
bad  weather,  a  pile  of  rainbow-coloured  clouds 
in  the  horizon, — but  it  rose  shining,  like  a  free, 
light  rainbow,  over  the  thick  atmosphere  of  life, 
and  spanned  it  as  a  heaven's- gate.  Hence  his 
Greek  veneration  for  all  the  stages  of  life,  his 
adjusting,  epic  manner  in  all  his  works,  which, 
like  a  philosophical  epos,  brings  all  times, 
forms,  people,  spirits,  as  with  the  great  hand  of 
a  god,  impartially  before  the  secular  eye  that 
measures  years  only  by  centuries,  and  so  pro- 
vides for  them  the  widest  arena.  Hence  his 
Greek  disgust  at  every  preponderance  of  the 
scale  to  one  or  the  other  side.  Many  storm- 
and-rack  poems*  could  aggravate  his  mental 
torture  into  a  bodily  one.  He  wished  to  see 
the  sacrifices  of  poesy  as  fair  and  undefiled  as 
the  thunder  of  heaven  permits  to  scathed  hu- 

*  His  soul-words  first  reclaimed  the  author  from  the 
youthful  confounding  of  force  with  beauty. 


HERDER. 


235 


manity.  Therefore,  like  a  Grecian  poem,  he 
often  drew,  by  mere  dint  of  jest,  around  every 
fairest  sentiment, — e.  g.  pathos, — an  early  boun- 
dary-line of  beauty.  Only  men  of  shallow  sen- 
timents revel  in  them ;  those  of  more  profound 
sensibility  shun  their  despotism,  and,  therefore, 
have  the  appearance  of  coldness.  A  great 
poetical  soul  can  more  easily  be  anything-  else 
on  the  earth  than  happy,  for  man  has  something 
of  the  Lavatere-p\a.nt,  which,  for  years,  defies 
every  winter,  but  grows  tender  and  perishes  as 
soon  as  it  bears  flowers.  True,  the  poet  is  an 
eternal  youth,  and  the  dew  of  the  morning  lies 
upon  him  his  whole  life-day  long ;  but  without 
sun  the  drops  are  dim  and  cold. 

"  Few  minds  are  learned  after  the  same  grand 
fashion  as  he.  The  greater  part  pursue  only 
the  rare,  the  least  known  in  any  science.  He, 
on  the  contrary,  received  only  the  great  streams, 
but  those  of  all  sciences,  into  his  heaven-mirror- 
ingocean,  which,  resolving,  impressed  upon  them 
its  own  motion  from  west  to  east.  Many  are 
clasped  by  their  learning  as  by  a  withering  ivy, 
but  he  as  by  a  grape-vine.  Everywhere — or- 
ganically poetizing — to  appropriate  to  himself 
the  opposite,  was  his  character ;  and  around  the 
dry  kernel-house  of  a  Lambert  he  wove  a  sweet 
fruit-hull.  Thus  he  combined  the  boldest  free- 
dom of  philosophy,  concerning  Nature  and  God, 
with  the  most  pious  faith,  a  faith  extending 
even  to  presentiments.  Thus  he  exhibited  the 
Greek  humanity,  to  which  he  restored  the  name, 
in  the  most  tender  regard  for  all  purely  human 
relations,  and  in  his  Lutheran  indignation 
against  all  whereby  they  were  poisoned,  how- 
ever sanctioned  by  Church  and  State.  He  was 
a  fort  overgrown  with  flowers,  a  Northern  oak 
whose  branches  were  sensitive  plants.  How 
gloriously  irreconcilable  he  burned  against  every 
creeping  soul,  against  all  looseness  and  self- 
contradiction,  dishonesty,  and  poetical  slime- 
softness  ;  as  also  against  German  critical  rude- 
ness and  all  sceptres  in  paws;  and  how  he 
exorcised  the  serpents  of  his  time  !  But  would 
you  hear  the  softest  of  voices,  it  was  his  in  love 
— whether  for  a  child  or  a  poem,  or  for  music — 
or  in  mercy  for  the  weak.  He  resembled  his 
friend  Hamann,  who  was  at  once  a  hero  and  a 
child ;  who,  like  an  electrized  person  in  the 
dark,  stood  harmless,  with  a  glory  encircling 
his  head,  until  a  touch  drew  the  lightning  from 
hi  n. 

"  When  he  painted  his  Hamann  as  an  angry 


prophet,  as  a  demoniacal  spirit,  and  even  placed 
him  above  himself,  (although  Hamann  was  less 
Grecian  and  mobile,  light-blooming  and  mi- 
nutely organized,)  and  when  we  heard  with 
grief  that  his  true  world  and  friendship's-island 
were  merged  in  that  writer's  tomb,  we  became 
aware,  from  his  longing,  that,  inwardly,  he 
judged  the  age  (according  to  his  highest  ideal) 
more  severely  than  he  outwardly  appeared  to 
do,  with  his  toleration  and  his  all-sidedness. 
Therefore  there  pervades  his  works  a  secret, 
now  Socratic,  now  Horatian  irony,  which  only 
those  who  knew  him  understand.  Altogether, 
he  was  little  weighed  and  little  estimated ;  and 
only  in  particulars,  not  in  the  whole.  That 
task  remains  for  the  diamond-scales  of  posterity, 
into  which  none  of  the  flint-stones  shall  come, 
with  which  the  rude  prosaists,  and  ruder  Kant- 
ians,  and  rude  poeticians*  would  half  stone 
and  half  enlighten  him.f 

"The  good  spirit  gave  and  suffered  much. 
Two  sayings  of  his,  though  unmeaning  to 
others,  remain  to  me  always  for  contemplation. 
One  was  what  he  once  said  to  me,  with  a  me- 
lancholy feeling  of  the  coldness  and  barrenness 
of  the  times,  upon  a  Sunday  amid  the  ringing 
of  the  near  church-bells,  whose  tones  flowed 
down  to  us  as  out  of  the  old  centuries :  that  he 
wished  he  had  been  born  in  the  middle  ages. 
The  other,  very  different,  was:  that  he  wished 
to  behold  an  apparition,  and  that  he  felt  nothing 
and  had  no  presentiment  of  the  usual  fear  of 
ghosts.  O,  the  pure  soul,  of  spirit-kin !  To 
him  this  was  possible,  poetical  as  he  was,  and 
although  such  natures  usually  shudder  most  at 
the  long,  silent  veils  which  pass  and  rest  behind 
death,  —  for  he  himself  was  a  spiritual  appa- 
rition to  the  earth,  and  never  forgot  his  own 
kingdom.  His  life  was  a  shining  exception  to 
ofttimes  tainted  geniality  ;  he  sacrificed,  like 
the  ancient  priests,  even  at  the  altar  of  the 
Muses,  only  with  white  garments. 

"  He  seems  to  me  now, — much  as  Death  usu- 
ally lifts  men  up  into  a  holy  transfiguration, — in 
his  present  distance  and  elevation,  no  more  shin- 
ing than  formerly,  by  my  side,  here  below.  I  ima- 
gine him  yonder,  behind  the  stars,  precisely  in 
his  right  place,  and  but  little  changed,  his  griefs 
excepted.  Well  then  !  celebrate  right  festively 
yonder  thy  harvest-feast,  thou  pure,  thou  spirit- 

*  Poetiker.  This  word  means  neither  poets  nor  poetas- 
ters, but  men  who  theorize  on  the  subject  of  poetry.  Tr. 
t  In  London  transparent  flints  are  ground  into  lenses. 


236 


HERDER. 


friend  !  May  thy  coronal  of  heavy  wheat-ears 
blossom  on  thy  head  into  alight  flovver-chaplet! 
Thou  sun-flower  transplanted  to  thy  sun  at  last ! 

"In  his  song  to  the  night  he  says  to  his 
sleeping  body : 

Slumber  well,  meanwhile,  thou  sluggish  burden 
Of  my  earthly  walk.    Her  mantle 
Over  thee  spreads  the  Night,  and  her  lamps 
Burn  above  thee  in  the  holy  pavilion. 

Otherwise  now  and  colder  stands  the  star-night 
above  his  mould.  Alas!  he  who  only  read  him 
has  scarcely  lost  him ;  but  he  who  knew  and 
loved  him  is  not  to  be  consoled  any  more  by  his 
immortality,  but  only  by  the  immortality  of  the 
human  soul.  If  there  were  no  such  immortality, 
if  our  whole  life  here  is  only  an  evening  twilight 
preceding  the  night,  not  a  morning  twilight; 
if  the  lolly  mind  is  also  let  down  after  the  body 
by  coffin-ropes  into  the  pit :  O !  then  I  know 
not  why  we  should  not,  at  the  graves  of  great 


men,  do  from  despair  what  the  ancient  savage 
nations  did  from  hope,  that  is,  throw  ourselves 
after  them  into  the  pit,  as  those  people  did  into 
the  tombs  of  their  princes,  so  that  the  foolish, 
violent  heart  that  will  obstinately  beat  for  some- 
thing divine  and  eternal,  may  be  choked  at 
once.  ******  Oil  well  know 
that  he  tolerated  such  griefs  least  of  all.  He 
would  point  now  to  the  glittering  stars  of 
spring,  above  which  he  now  dwells ;  he  would 
beckon  to  us  to  listen  to  the  nightingales  which 
now  sing  to  us  and  not  to  him ;  and  he  would 
be  more  moved  than  he  seemed  to  be.  *  * 
******* 

We  will  now  love  that  great  soul  together,  and 
if,  at  times,  we  are  moved  too  painfully  by  his 
memory,  we  will  read  over  again  all  whereby 
he  made  known  to  us  the  immortal  and  divine, 
and  himself." 


LOVE  AND  SELF. 

AN  APPENDIX  TO  THE  LETTER  OF  HERR  HEMSTERHUIS,  ON  DESIRE. 
 • 

It  is  a  beautiful  legend  of  the  most  ancient 
poetry  ;  that  Love  drew  forth  the  world  from 
chaos  and  bound  the  creatures  reciprocally  to 
each  other  with  the  bands  of  desire  and  long- 
ing; that,  by  these  tender  ties,  she  keeps  all 
things  in  order  and  leads  all  to  the  One,  —  the 
great  fountain  of  all  light,  as  of  all  love.  How- 
ever various  the  names  and  garbs  under  which 
this  poetical  system  has  been  presented,  we  re- 
cognise in  all  this  general  truth ;  that  love 
unites  and  that  hate  divides;  that  all  enjoyment 
of  gods  and  of  men  consists  in  the  love  and 
union  of  homogeneous  things;  but,  that  longing 
and  desire  are,  as  it  were,  the  bride-maids  of 
Love, —  the  strong,  yet  tender  arms,  which  in- 
duce and  prepare  all  enjoyment,  nay  more, 
which  confer  in  themselves  the  greatest  enjoy- 
ment, by  anticipation. 

Soon,  however,  another  side  of  this  system 
became  apparent,  viz. :  that  this  love  has  limits, 
and  that  a  perfect  union  of  beings  in  our  uni- 
verse is  seldom  or  never  known;  that,  there- 
fore, the  bands  of  this  union,  desire  and  long- 
ing, must  often  relax  in  the  moment  of  the 
greatest  strain,  and  yield,  too  often,  alas  !  weari- 
ness and  satiety  instead  of  enjoyment.  It  was 
soon  perceived,  that,  in  this  law,  also,  there  was 
wisdom  ;  since  the  Creator,  by  this  means,  has 
provided  as  carefully  for  the  firm  persistence 
of  individual  beings,  as,  by  means  of  love  and 
longing,  he  has  provided  for  the  union  and  kind- 
ly co-presence  of  many.  It  was  seen  that  both 
these  forces,  which  are,  in  the  spiritual  world, 
what  attraction  and  repulsion  are  in  the  cor- 
poreal, are  requisite  to  the  preservation  and 


firm  tenure  of  the  universe.  And  I  believe  it 
was  Empedocles  who  first  made  Hatred  and 
Love  delineators  of  the  outline  of  all  beings* 
"  By  Hatred,"  he  says,  "  things  are  separated,  and 
each  individual  remains  what  it  is ;  by  Love 
they  are  united  and  connect  themselves  one 
with  another."  That  is,  as  far  as  they  can  be 
united.  For  even  Love,  according  to  the  Greeks, 
is  ruled  by  Fate  ;  and  Necessity,  the  oldest  of  the 
gods,  i6  mightier  than  Love.  According  to 
Plato's  idea,  the  latter  was  born  of  Need  and 
Superfluity,  in  the  gardens  of  Jupiter.  Accord- 
ingly, she  partakes  of  the  nature  of  both,  and 
is  always  dependent  on  her  parents. 

I  fancy  it  will  not  be  unpleasant  to  follow 
this  double  walk ;  the  rather,  that  Herr  Hem- 
sterhuis  has  led  us  very  agreeably  on  one  side, 
reserving  to  himself  the  other  for  another  trea- 
tise ;  which,  however,  he  has  not  yet  written, 
or  which  I  have  not  yet  seen. 

That  love  unites  the  different  beings,  and  that 
all  desire  is  only  a  striving  after  this  union,  as 
the  only  possible  enjoyment  of  beings  now 
separated, — this  our  author  has  proved  with  such 
exquisite  examples,  that  too  copious  additions 
on  this  point  would  be  a  useless  superfluity. 
Every  craving  for  sensual  and  spiritual  enjoy- 
ment, all  desire  of  friendship  and  of  love, 
thirsts  after  union  with  the  object  affected,  be- 
cause it  forefeels,  in  that  object,  a  new  and 
delightful  enjoyment  of  its  own  reality.  The 
Godhead  has  wisely  and  kindly  ordained  that 
we  shall  be  sensible  of  our  existence,  not  in 
ourselves,  but  only  by  reaction,  as  it  were,  in 
some  object  without  us ;  after  which,  accord- 

*  Ef  5e  kotu)  6ia/xop<pa  Kai  avhi^a  travra  -rreXovrai 
Y.vv  docjJr)  ev  <pi\orr]Ti  Kai  aWijXoicri  iroSeiTai 
Ek  tojv  yap  navT  oca  tjv  ooaa  tz  can  Kai  tarat. 


HERDER. 


237 


ingly,  we  strive,  for  which  we  live,  in  which 
we  have  a  double  and  manifold  existence.  The 
multitude  of  attractive  objects  with  which  Na- 
ture has  surrounded  us,  have,  therefore,  been 
placed  by  her  at  such  various  distances,  and 
endowed  with  such  various  kinds  and  degrees 
of  attraction,  as  to  produce  in  us  a  rich  and 
delicate  concert  of  sensations,  of  various  tones 
and  modes;  and  to  make  our  heart  and  life,  as 
it  were,  a  Harmonica  of  desire,  the  artistic  image 
of  an  ever  purer,  insatiable,  eternal  longing. 

Coarse,  sensual  enjoyment  converts  the  object 
which  we  craved,  into  itself,  and  destroys  it. 
It  is  vivid,  therefore,  for,  in  it  there  is  a  perfect 
union;  but  it  is,  likewise,  coarse  and  transient. 
There  are  those  who  enjoy  only  with  the  tongue. 
Hence,  in  common  life,  the  word,  taste*  is  gene- 
rally used  in  reference  to  this  sense.  Enjoy- 
ment, in  this  case,  is  a  union. — that  is,  a  solution 
of  the  finest  juices.  But  it  also  ends  with  this, 
for  the  object  is  devoured,  destroyed.  In  a  cer- 
tain sense,  therefore,  the  finest  enjoyment,  here 
too,  precedes  the  enjoyment.  The  craving  for 
a  beautiful  fruit  is  pleasanter  than  the  fruit  it- 
self. The  eye  excites  the  most  agreeable  sen- 
sation in  the  tongue.  "  Voluptatem  prsesagit 
multa  cupido."  Thus  it  is  with  the  enjoyment 
of  odors,  and  even  of  tones.  We  draw  them 
into  ourselves;  we  drink  the  stream  of  their 
delight  with  long  draughts.  And  only  then,  do 
we  say  that  we  enjoy  music,  when  it  dissolves 
the  heart  and  becomes  one  with  the  inward 
music  of  our  sensations.  The  stream  of  melody, 
fine  as  it  is,  is  nevertheless  devoured.  It  con- 
tinues to  exist  only  in  the  harmonious  effects, — 
the  pleasant  vibrations  which  it  produced  in  us. 

The  more  spiritual  our  enjoyment,  the  more 
permanent  it  is;  the  more  permanent  its  object 
without  us.  But  let  us  also  add,  the  weaker  it 
is ;  for  the  object  is  and.  remains  without  us ; 
and  only  in  its  image,  that  is,  —  slightly  or  not 
all,  —  becomes  one  with  us.  The  eye  is  never 
wearied  with  seeing :  for  how  little  does  the 
heart  receive  with  the  sight!  How  little  can 
the  mere  light-ray  contribute  to  the  most  intense 
enjoyment!  ***** 
******* 

Indeed,  the  virtuosi  in  regard  to  this  organ  — 
those  who  have  cultivated  their  vision  to  a 
luxurious  enjoyment — appear  to  be  sensible  of 
this.  How  do  they  seek  to  animate  the  object 
before  them  !  They  hunt  after  every  impres- 
sion of  light  and  shade,  of  colour,  form,  ges- 
ture; in  order  to  feel  and  grope  out  the  spirit 
of  the  author,  if  they  are  artists,  or  the  objects 
themselves,  if  they  live  in  these,  although  it  is 
a  mere  apparition  which  they  have  before  them. 
Here  again,  the  enjoyment  consists  in  the  con- 
ceit of  a  union.  A  feeble  conceit,  but  a  happy 
one!  The  eye  does  not  destroy  the  essence  of 
the  beloved  object,  only  because  it  cannot  incor- 
porate the  same  with  itself.  If  this  object  seems 
to  the  deluded  a  fountain    of  inexhaustible 

*  In  German,  geniessen,  literally,  to  enjoy. 


charms,  it  is  well  for  him,  the  blissfully  de- 
luded, who  enjoys  it.  He  draws  forever,  and 
never  exhausts,  because  he  can  draw  no  perfect 
and  intense  draught.  The  beloved  images  flee 
before  him  and  are  still  present  to  him.  He 
lives  in  the  sweet  dream  of  a  visible,  intellec- 
tual phantom. 

Imperceptibly,  we  have  come  upon  that  form 
of  enjoyment,  which,  apparently,  is  the  most 
enduring,  but  which,  also,  is  the  least  satisfac- 
tory to  our  mortal  nature, — the  ideal  fruition  of 
corporeal  beauty,  —  or,  as  it  is  called  by  enthu- 
siasts, the  enjoyment  of  Platonic  love.  The 
name  of  Plato  is  improperly  applied  to  it;  for 
he  is  speaking  of  intellectual  Ideas,  to  be 
enjoyed  by  the  intellect,  and  which  cannot  be 
enjoyed  in  any  other  way;  and  not  of  a  mad 
spiritualizing  of  the  corporeal,  which  often  ends 
in  a  too  coarse  corporeity.  That  this  is  not  a 
spiritual  fruition,  is  evident  from  the  fact  that  it 
destroys  the  body  without  satisfying  the  mind. 
It  sins  against  the  nervous  fluid,  as  the  passion 
of  love,  when  of  too  coarse  a  character,  sins 
against  flesh  and  blood.  It  shows  itself  herein, 
not  to  be  genuine  enjoyment, — a  happy  contem- 
plation of  that  kind,  in  which  the  beloved  ob- 
ject becomes  one  with  ourselves.  How  can 
that  which  is  corporeal  become  one  with  pure 
spirit?  Two  things,  that,  properly  speaking, 
have  nothing  in  common,  and  could  only  be 
combined,  in  the  beginning,  as  the  Greeks 
fabled,  by  a  kind  of  voluntary  intoxication. 
The  mind  can  enjoy  spiritual  qualities  and  ob- 
jects. Its  union  with  these  is  pure  and  so  calm 
as  that  ancient  Hymn  makes  God  say:  11  Ml  is 
mine,  for  I  have  it  in  meV  A  possession  and  a 
fruition  of  which  the  soul  is  capable  only  in 
respect  to  the  purest  objects.  Then  it  hovers 
and  tastes  like  a  beautiful  butterfly  which  enjoys 
the  flower  without  destroying  it.  Where  it 
enjoys  as  a  caterpillar,  it  devours,  alas !  leaf  and 
flower. 

We  begin  then  to  speak  of  the  more  genuine 
kinds  of  spiritual  longing,— Friendship  and  Love. 
After  what  Hemsterhuis  has  told  us  of  these,  I 
shall  add  but  a  few  traits. 

The  image  of  Friendship  employed  by  the 
ancients, — two  hands  joined  together, — appears 
to  me  the  most  fitting  symbol  of  its  union,  its 
aim,  and  its  enjoyment.  More  significant  than 
the  two  according  instruments.  These  express 
only  companionship,  which  is  far  from  being 
friendship.  A  companionable  man  is  easy  and 
well  disposed.  He  adapts  himself  easily  to 
every  company,  and  every  company  adapts  it- 
self easily  to  him.  He  oppresses  no  one  with 
his  presence,  he  crowds  no  one;  and  therefore 
every  one  likes  to  be  with  him.  In  a  certain 
degree,  one  is  even  intimate  with  him,  because 
one  feels  that  there  is  no  mischief  in  the  man. 
Characters  of  this  sort  are  good  for  daily  inter- 
course. But  Friendship!  what  a  different,  sacred 
band  is  that!  It  unites  hearts  and  hands  in  one 
common  aim;  and  where  that  aim  is  obvious, 
where  it  is  continuous,  requiring  exertion,  where 


238 


HERDER. 


it  lies  among  or  behind  dangers  ;  there,  the  band 
of  friendship  is  often  so  strict,  so  firm  and 
hearty,  that  nothing  but  death  has  power  to 
separate  it.  The  phalanx  of  Greek  friends  in 
battle,  who  all  conquered  or  died  as  one  man, — 
those  bright  twin  stars  of  friendship,  which,  in 
all  nations,  Hebrews  and  Greeks,  Scythians  and 
savages,  shine  forth  from  the  night  of  ages,  and 
are  so  grateful  to  the  heart  of  man, — what  made 
them  friends'?  A  common  aim  united  them; 
danger  drew  the  knot ;  tried  faith,  continuous, 
growing  zeal,  glorious  labour,  common  enjoyment 
of  that  labour;  —  finally,  necessity  and  death, 
made  that  knot  indissoluble. 

How  truly  said  one,  of  his  friend  :  "  Thy  love 
to  me  surpassed  the  love  of  women  !"  Creation 
knows  nothing  nobler  than  two  voluntarily  and 
indissolubly  united  hands. — two  hearts  and  lives 
that  have  voluntarily  become  one.  It  matters 
not,  whether  these  two  hands  are  male  or  fe- 
male, or  of  both  sexes.  It  is  a  proud  but  irra- 
tional prejudice  on  the  part  of  men,  that  only 
they  are  capable  of  friendship.  Woman  is  often 
tenderer,  truer,  firmer,  more  golden-pure  in  that 
relation,  than  many  a  weak,  unfeeling,  impure, 
masculine  soul.  Where  there  is  want  of  truth, 
where  there  is  vanity,  rivalry,  heedlessness, 
there,  friendship,  in  either  sex,  is  impossible. 
Marriage,  likewise,  should  be  friendship;  and 
wo!  if  it  is  not,  if  it  is  only  love  and  desire. 
To  a  noble  woman,  it  is  sweet  to  sutler  for  her 
husband,  as  well  as  to  rejoice  with  him,  to 
feel  that  she  is  honoured,  esteemed  and  happy 
in  him  and  he  in  her.  The  common  education 
of  their  children  is  the  beautiful,  leading  aim 
of  their  friendship,  which  sweetly  rewards  them 
both,  even  in  gray  old  age.  They  stand  there, 
and  will  continue  to  stand  like  two  trees  with 
branches  interlocked,  begirt  with  a  garland  of 
youthful  green,  —  saplings  and  twigs.  In  all 
cases,  a  life,  in  common,  is  the  marrow  of  true 
friendship.  Mutual  unlocking  and  sharing  of 
hearts,  intense  joy  in  each  other,  sympathy  in 
each  other's  sufferings,  counsel,  consolation,  ef- 
fort, mutual  aid, — these  are  its  diagnostics,  its 
delights,  its  interior  recompense.  What  delicate 
secrets  in  friendship!  Refinements  of  feeling, 
as  if  the  soul  of  the  one  were  directly  conscious 
of  the  soul  of  the  other,  and,  anticipating,  dis- 
cerned the  thoughts  of  that  soul  as  clearly  as  its 
own!  And,  assuredly,  the  soul  has  sometimes 
power  thus  to  discern  thoughts  and  to  dwell 
immediately  and  intimately  in  the  heart  of  an- 
other. There  are  moments  of  sympathy,  even 
in  thoughts,  without  the  slightest  external  occa- 
sion, which  indeed  no  psychology  can  explain, 
but  which  experience  teaches  and  confirms. 
There  are  mutual,  simultaneous  recollections  of 
one  another — even  at  a  distance — on  the  part 
of  absent  friends,  which  are  often  of  the  most 
wonderful,  overpowering  kind.  And  indeed, 
if  ever  the  soul  possesses  the  mysterious  power 
to  act  directly,  without  organs,  on  another  soul, 
!  where  would  such  action  be  more  natural  than 
!      in  the  case  of  friends  ?    This  relation  is  purer, 


and  therefore,  assuredly,  mightier  also  than 
love.  For  if  love  will  lift  itself  up  to  the  strength 
and  duration  of  eternity,  it  must  first  purify  it- 
self from  coarse  sensuality,  and  become  true  and 
genuine  friendship.  How  seldom  does  it  arrive 
at  this!  It  destroys  itself  or  destroys  its  object 
with  penetrating,  devouring  flames;  and  both 
the  loving  and  the  loved  lie  there,  as  it  were,  a 
heap  of  ashes.  But  the  glow  of  friendship  is 
pure,  refreshing,  human  warmth.  The  two 
flames  upon  one  altar  play  into  each  other,  and 
frolicking,  lift  and  bear  one  another  aloft,  and 
often,  in  the  melancholy  hour  of  separation,  they 
soar  rejoicing,  and  united,  and  victorious,  up- 
ward to  the  land  of  the  purest  union,  of  truest, 
inseparable  friendship. 

May  the  reader  pardon  the  explicitness  with 
which  I  have  handled  this  point!  Since  I  look 
upon  it  as  the  true,  singular,  and  most  beautiful 
union  of  souls,  and  therefore  also,  as  the  noblest 
and  sweetest  enjoyment  of  which  humanity  is 
capable,  to  which  even  love  itself  is  subservi- 
ent;— since  there  are  so  many  degrees  of  friend- 
ship, from  easy  companionship,  to  the  most  sub- 
lime, silent,  enduring  sacrifice,  which,  to  be  sure, 
has  been  the  portion  only  of  the  most  select 
souls,  and  only  in  very  rare  circumstances  and 
combinations ;  but  which  is  to  be  regarded  in 
such  instances  as  the  highest  privilege,  the  genu- 
ine antepast  of  a  future,  higher  existence;  — 
briefly,  since,  in  friendship,  there  is  union,  al- 
most without  organs,  pure,  perfect  and  ever- 
growing ; — therefore,  as  it  seems  to  me,  it  is  also 
the  highest  point  of  all  desire,  and,  precisely,  in 
seasons  of  the  greatest  strain  and  pressure,  be- 
comes the  purest  joy  of  earth.  Here  operates 
the  genuine  magnetism  of  human  souls,  and  we 
know  that  the  magnet  attracts  the  more  power- 
fully the  more  it  is  exercised.  Unused,  it  is  dead. 
Without  confidence  and  truth  severely  tried,  no 
friendship,  no  interchange  of  hearts  is  possible. 

But  Nature  saw  that  this  pure,  heavenly  flame 
is,  for  the  most  part,  for  us  on  the  earth,  too  re- 
fined. Therefore  she  clothed  it  in  earthly,  sen- 
sible charms ;  and  so  Venus  Urania  appeared 
as  —  Aphrodite.  Love  was  intended  to  invite 
us  to  friendship.  Love  is  to  become,  itself,  the 
most  intense  friendship. 

I  find  its  highest  degree  of  rapture  not  there 
where,  as  Herr  Hemsterhuis  says,  Nature  de- 
ludes us  with  an  instant  of  earthly  union,  (an 
instant  which  loses  itself  in  mere  surrounding 
want,)  but  in  the  first  happy  discovery, — in  that 
moment,  beyond  all  description  sweet,  when 
the  beloved  two  become  aware  that  they  love, 
and  tell  each  other  so,  with  such  certainty  and 
sweet  consent,  however  imperfect  and  involun- 
tary the  confession.  Why  must  I  use  the  word, 
'tell.'  How  poor!  What  can  the  dead  tongue, — 
what  can  pining  language  say,  when  even  the 
soul-enkindled,  fiery  glance  drops  it  wings  and 
veils  its  glory?  If  there  is  a  moment  of  hea- 
venly rapture,  and  a  pure  union  of  embodied 
beings  here  on  earth,  it  is  this.  So  unlike  that 
which  pining  enjoyment  allows  us!    I  know 


HERDER.  239 


not  what  mythology  of  some  Asiatic  nation  it  is, 
which  divides  its  periods  of  highest  antiquity 
according  to  the  manner  in  which  men,  while 
as  yet  they  were  paradisaical  spirits,  loved  each 
other.  At  first,  for  many  thousands  of  years, 
with  looks;  afterwards,  with  a  kiss  —  a  mere 
touch  ; — until,  at  last,  in  the  course  of  long  ages, 
they  gradually  degenerated  into  lower  forms  of 
enjoyment.  That  moment  of  spiritual  recogni- 
tion, that  betraying  of  the  soul  by  a  look,  trans- 
ports us  as  it  were  into  those  primeval  times, 
and,  with  them,  into  the  joys  of  Paradise.  Then 
we  enjoy,  with  a  retrospective  sentiment,  what 
we  had  so  long  sought  and  did  net  dare  to  con- 
fess to  ourselves.  Then  too  we  enjoy  prospect- 
ively the  delights  of  the  future. — not  with  pre- 
sentiment merely,  but  with  possession.  Yes! 
if  one  may  say  so,  with  more  than  possession. 
The  future  can  only  unfold,  seldom  add.  Often 
it  detracts,  and  diminishes,  with  every  enjoy- 
ment, the  belief  in  enjoyment.  That  first  mo- 
ment, is  when  Psyche  first  beholds  the  god  of 
love,  whom,  veiled,  she  had  so  long  loved.  Ah ! 
why,  unhappy  one  !  didst  thou  let  the  spark 
fall,  and  thereby  terminate,  for  so  long  a  period, 
all  thy  joys  ? 

Certain  it  is,  that  those  souls  which  are  created 
for  the  truest,  purest,  noblest  love,  fear  this  mo- 
ment of  betrayal  as  their  worst  foe,  and  defer  it 
with  the  utmost  shyness.  The  female  sex  which, 
in  all  matters  of  love,  is  more  delicate  than  ours, 
feels  how  much  its  flame  loses  with  every  en- 
joyment, and  how,  contrary  to  the  nature  of  all 
other  flames,  it  goes  out  when  it  breaks  forth, 
and  with  every  manifestation,  weakens  its  inte- 
rior force  and  blessedness.  Shy  and  holy,  they 
seek,  therefore,  to  preserve  the  secret  in  the 
heart  of  the  lover  himself,  as  soon  as  it  is  made 
certain.  And  nothing  is  more  easily  made  cer- 
tain than  this.  The  secret  is  profaned,  as  it 
were,  if  it  but  touch  the  lips.  It  dies,  in  a  mea- 
sure, with  the  first  kiss,  with  the  first  sigh.  But 
since  we  are,  once  for  all,  bodies,  Psyche,  as  the 
ancient  fable  teaches,  must  lose  her  celestial 
wings,  with  her  first  descent  into  matter.  Is  it 
strange  that  she  should  endeavor  so  long,  and 
with  so  much  pains,  to  delude  herself  with  the 
belief,  that  she  loves  not  the  body,  but  only  that 
which  is  connatural  with  herself,  —  the  soul  of 
the  beloved  1  It  is,  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of 
her  degradation,  and  prophesied  the  brief  dura- 
tion of  the  pleasure  which  she  seeks.  How  does 
she  accordingly  disguise  that  pleasure!  In  the 
kiss,  she  seeks  only  a  union  of  souls,  as  sings  the 
love-breathing  poem  below.* 


*  Dtim  semihulco  suavio 
Meum  puellum  suavior, 
Dulcemque  fiorem  spiritus 
Duco  ex  aperto  tramite  ; 

Aninia  tunc,  aegra  et  saucia, 
Cucurrit  ad  labias  mini, 
Orisque  rictum  perviuin 
Et  iabra  pueri  mollia, 
Rimata  itineri  transitus, 
Ut  transiliret  nititur. 


Long  passages  in  the  fourth  book  of  Lucretius 
describe  this  striving,  this  vain  and  ever  unsa- 
tisfied striving  after  a  union  of  beings,  so  em 
piratically,  so  philosophically  and  powerfully,  as 
if  Lucretius  had  written  to  illustrate  the  system 
of  our  author,  or  as  if  the  latter  had  taken  his 
system  of  love  arid  enjoyment  from  the  former. 

It  is  fortunate  that  Nature  coupled  this  decep- 
tive phantom  of  intimate  union,  on  the  spiritual 
side,  with  friendship ;  and,  on  the  side  of  the 
body,  with  an  electric  spark  of  her  omnipotence, 
by  which,  from  a  union,  incomprehensible  to 
us,  of  two  beings,  a  third  is  produced  ; — as  it 
were  a  creation  of  love,  of  desire  and  unsatis- 
fied longing.  And  so  the  fiery  chain  trails  itself 
along.  There  is  added  to  it,  between  need  and 
excess,  a  new  link,  in  which  is  propagated  the 
kindling  spark  of  desire.  I  remark  in  general, 
that  the  Creator  has  left  no  degree  of  union, 
among  the  creatures  of  his  Nature,  without  fruit. 
The  first  degree  of  sensual  enjoyment,  which 
the  very  infant  sucks  in,  yields  us  life-sap.  It 
elaborates  for  us  a  nobler  material  out  of  a 
poorer.  The  finer  the  organ,  the  more  spiritual 
the  offspring  of  its  conception.  Odors  strengthen 
and  refresh  the  soul.  Music  comforts  and  soothes 
the  heart  with  celestial  drink.  Pictures — "Si- 
mulacra pabula  amoris"  —  bring  thoughts  to  the 
mind,  more  delicate  than  their  own  material. 
And  finally,  Friendship  and  Love — the  one  the 
marriage  of  spirits,  the  other  of  bodies — offer  us 
a  cup  of  enjoyment,  wreathed  with  the  fairest 
fruits.  Friendship  awakens  noble  sentiments, 
aspirations,  deeds.  Love,  like  the  divine  spring- 
sun,  quickens  the  tender,  motherly  vine  with 
foliage  and  fruits.  In  it  is  laid  the  creative 
power  of  the  first  Cause. 

It  would  seem  also  that  Nature  has  taken 
care  to  replace  and  requite  the  brief  and  fleet- 
ing enjoyment  of  love,  with  a  dower  direct  from 
her  own  bosom,  by  which  it  was  designed  that 
the  humblest  living  creature  should  be  honoured 
with  a  spark  of  the  Godhead.  That  is,  parental 
affection,  the  love  of  Father  and  Mother.  This 
love  is  divine,  for  it  is  disinterested  and  often 
without  return.  It  is  heavenly,  for  it  is  capable 
of  being  shared  among  many,  and  still  remains 
entire,  undivided,  and  without  envy.  Finally, 
it  is  infinite  and  eternal,  for  it  vanquishes  love 
and  death.  Detestable  is  the  mother  who  pre- 
fers her  lover  to  her  child.  The  very  beasts 
shame  her.  They  have  often  died  joyfully  for 
their  young.  ****** 
Maternal  tenderness  is  the  pledge  of  love  with 
which  Nature,  as  it  were  out  of  her  own  heart, 
has  requited  the  mother's  pains.  Nothing  sur- 
passes the  anxiety  with  which  the  mother  seeks 


Turn,  si  mora;  quid  plusculae 
Fuisset  in  coitu  osculi, 
Amoris  igne  percita, 
Transisset  et  me  linqueret; 
Et  mira  prorsum  res  toret, 
Ut  ad  me  Herein  mortuus, 
Ad  puerum  ut  intus  viverem. 

Aul:  Gell:  L.  XIX.  Cap.  11. 


240 


HERDER. 


a  lost  child,  and  nothing  can  equal  the  joy  with 
which,  alter  long  seeking,  after  many  years'  se- 
paration, she  finds  it  again,  and  embraces  it  as 
if  new-born.  The  craving  of  a  mother  after 
children  is  the  most  beautiful  form  of  longing 
which  lay  in  the  girdle  of  Love  ; — out  of  which 
that  girdle  seems  to  be  wholly  woven  in  pure 
female  hearts.  They  are  the  priestesses  at  the 
sacred  fire  of  Vesta;  and  wo  to  the  despicable 
creature  that  glows  with  another  flame  instead 
of  this  !  Only  the  point  of  his  arrow  has  Cupid 
anointed  with  desire.*  Alas!  if  the  whole  ar- 
iow  glows  with  it. 

From  the  tender,  divine,  eternal  love  of  the 
parent,  to  whom  can  I  ascend  but  to  Thee? 
great  universal  Mother  !  Tender,  highest  Fa- 
ther !  My  language  has  no  name  for  the  feeling 
with  which  Thou  hast  established  Thyself  in 
every  creature,  in  every  nerve  and  corner  of 
each  beating  heart,  and  hast  given  to  each  its 
own  joys,  immeasurable,  inexplicable,  insensible 
to  every  other.  Thy  whole  creation  is  a  weft 
which  Power  drew  forth  out  of  nothing,  of  which 
Wisdom  laid  the  warp,  and  in  which  Love  in- 
wrought its  thousandfold  figures  rich  in  signifi- 
cance and  love.  Who  shall  not  love  Thee,  there- 
fore, since  every  creature  draws  but  to  thee, 
points  but  to  thee?  And  who  can  love  Thee  as 
he  ought,  seeing  he  is  overwhelmed  in  the  ocean 
of  thyf  thoughts  and  fore-reaching  sensations  ; 
and  even,  regarding  himself  alone,  sinks  down 
into  the  deepest  deep  ?  Thou  sharest  the  fate 
of  all  parents,  —  more  loving  than  loved.  But 
Thou  art  exalted  above  all  others  in  this,  that 
Thou  thyself  hast  created  in  me  the  longing 
after  Thee,  and  canst  lead  me  ever  nearer  to 
Thyself  by  the  bands  of  knowledge  and  of  love. 
Thou  wilt  and  must  do  this;  my  whole  heart 
declares  it.  For  the  little  spark  of  knowledge 
and  of  love  that  is  in  me  is  only  an  off-glance 
of  thine  infinite  flame.  Therefore  must  Thou 
know  and  name  and  seek  and  love  me  a  thou- 
sand-fold more  intensely  than  I  can  name  and 
seek  Thee.  And  this  eternal  drawing  of  thy 
heart  to  mine  is,  to  me,  an  implanted  voucher 
of  my  undying  inclination  to  Thee,  and  of  an 
ever-growing  enjoyment  of  Thee. 

But  how  is  the  Eternal  enjoyed  ?  By  contem- 
plation or  by  sensation?  Our  author  has  a  hard 
remark  about  enthusiasts,  which,  if  carefully 
examined,  might  prove  alas!  too  true.  It  is  a 
general  experience  that,  in  all  cases  of  enthu- 
siasm, women  have  been  implicated.  Often, 
the  men  have  only  caught  the  infection  from 
the  women,  who,  it  was  said,  had  borne  them 
anew.  The  women  were  a  kind  of  mediators 
of  the  Godhead  to  the  men.  Atid  how  they 
conceived  of  the  Godhead,  especially  the  human 
God,  and  with  what  feeling  they  embraced  him, 
is  known  to  the  world,  from  many  writings  and 
letters.  The  fainting  which  the  holy  Theresa 
experienced  before  the  altar,  when  the  celestial 


*  Xptffar  CKpVKTOV  Ol^OV  t/J£(3l{J.  EuripidcS. 

f  i.  e.  Inspired  by  thee.  Tr. 


Cupid  touched  her  heart,  considered  in  relation 
to  the  body  alone,  could  hardly  have  differed 
from  every  other  faintness  caused  by  love.  For 
love  is  the  same  in  its  action  on  the  vital  fluids 
of  the  body,  whatever  may  be  its  object.  In  all 
sentiments  of  this  kind,  the  greatest  caution  is 
necessary,  even  to  the  most  innocent.  Even 
upon  the  stream  of  divine  love,  the  heart  re- 
mains a  human  heart  still.  All  mediatresses. 
even  though  it  were  the  Mother  of  God,  are 
dangerous.  And  so,  to  the  female  heart,  all 
earthly  mediators  may  become  dangerous  ;  and 
the  heavenly  mediator  likewise,  if  too  sensually 
felt.  God  requires  to  be  loved  with  the  whole 
soul  and  all  its  powers,  but  not  with  the  effer- 
vescence of  the  nervous  fluid,  in  a  diseased, 
epileptic  body. 

We  come  naturally  to  the  limits  which  have 
been  set  to  love  and  longing,  in  every  enjoyment 
here  below.  These  are  not  merely,  as  Herr 
Hemsterhuis  seems  to  think,  our  organs;  but,  as 
he  himself  discovers,  at  last,  our  isolated  indivi- 
dual existence.  He  likens  that  property  of  the 
soul,  which  resists  commixture  with  other  be- 
ings, to  the  vis  inertice  in  matter.  And,  assuredly, 
this  power  of  inaction  must  be  something  dif- 
ferent and  more  than  the  great  mass  of  mecha- 
nical philosophers  know  or  say  about  it.  The 
words  themselves, — Power  and  Inaction, — relate 
to  each  other  like  Bewegung  (motion)  and  Grund 
(stationary  ground)  in  the  word  Bewegungsgrunde 
(motives).  Moreover,  Leibnitz  and  all  the  better 
class  of  Hhinkers  have  hazarded  conjectures  re- 
lative to  the  interior  constitution  of  matter,  to 
which  I  would  fain  hope  for  a  pleasant  addition 
in  the  promised  observations  of  Herr  Hemster- 
huis. For  the  present,  we  will  leave  this  re- 
semblance where  it  is,  and  consider  the  limits 
which  have  been  set  to  desire  in  the  soul,  by 
the  nature  of  the  soul  itself.  We  are  individual 
beings,  and  must  continue  so,  unless,  in  the  pur- 
suit of  enjoyment,  we  abandon  the  ground  of 
all  enjoyment — our  own  consciousness — and  are 
willing  to  lose  ourselves,  in  order  to  find  our- 
selves-again,  in  another  being,  that,  after  all, 
is  not  and  never  can  be,  our  self.  Even  if  I 
should  lose  myself  in  Deity,  as  mysticism  re- 
quires, without  any  further  feeling  or  conscious- 
ness of  myself;  it  would  no  longer  be  I  that 
enjoyed.  The  Godhead  would  have  swallowed 
me  up,  and  would  enjoy  in  my  stead.  How 
well  has  Providence  contrived,  therefore,  in 
awakening  the  music  of  our  sensations  gradually 
in  various  tones  and  modes;  now  exciting  de- 
sire, now  checking  it,  exercising  it  here  actively, 
there  passively,  and  ever,  after  the  most  honey* 
ed  enjoyment,  throwing  us  back  upon  our  poor 
self,  as  if  saying  to  us,  'Thou  art  but  a  limited 
individual  creation.  Thou  thirstest  after  per- 
fection, but  findest  it  not.  Do  not  pine  at  the 
fountain  of  this  one  enjoyment,  but  gather  thy- 
self up  and  strive  for  something  further.' 

Let  us  look  at  this  in  some  of  the  most  striking 
proofs  and  examples. 

All  robber-like  enjoyment,  all  enjoyment  which 


HERDER.  211 


destroys  its  object,  is  given  us  merely  as  a  want 
by  tbe  hand  of  Necessity.  It  uses  itself  up  and 
dies  in  itself.  Man  is  a  tyrant  in  the  universe, 
but  how  soon  is  even  this  little  tyrant  satiated 
with  plunder,  if  he  keeps  within  the  bounds  of 
nature  !  Every  sensual  enjoyment  is,  strictly, 
but  a  modified  necessity.  Where  mutual  de- 
struction ends,  there,  first,  begins  a  freer,  finer  en- 
joyment,— a  joyful  consorting  together  of  several 
beings  who  mutually  seek  and  love  each  other. 
A  tyrant  who  would  be  all  in  himself,  who 
would  devour  all,  as  Saturn  devours  his  chil- 
dren, is  capable  neither  of  friendship  nor  of 
love,  not  even  of  paternal  affection.  He  op- 
presses and  suppresses.  Nothing  can  grow  by 
his  side,  much  less  together  with  him,  in  a  com- 
mon crown. 

Where  several  beings  are  in  pleasant  juxta- 
position, and  wish  mutually  to  enjoy  one  another, 
it  is  evident  that  no  one  of  them  must  aim  at 
individual,  peculiar,  consequently,  not  at  the 
highest  enjoyment:  otherwise  he  destroys  all 
around  him.  He  must  give  and  take,  suffer  and 
act,  attract  toward  himself  and  gently  impart  of 
himself.  This,  indeed,  makes  every  enjoyment 
imperfect;  nevertheless,  it  is  the  true  tact  and 
the  very  pulse  of  life; — the  modulation  and  eco- 
nomy of  desire,  of  love,  and  of  all  the  sweets 
of  longing.  Here  I  direct  attention  to  the  beau- 
tiful wisdom  of  Nature,  who,  with  sexes,  mo- 
ments, circumstances,  ages,  situations,  has  divided 
and,  as  it  were,  cradled  all  things  in  this  systole 
and  diastole  of  passive  and  active,  giving  and 
receiving.  As  yonder  in  the  heavens  two  lights, 
so  God  has  created  here  on  the  earth,  two  sexes 
which  are  designed  to  afford  each  other  a  mu- 
tual counterpoise,  in  the  oscillation  of  feeling. 
One  supplies  to  the  other  what  is  wanting  of 
tenderness  on  the  one  side,  and  of  strength  on 
the  other.  And  in  the  domain  of  love  tender- 
ness is  mightier  than  strength.  God  has  indem- 
nified and  veiled  with  attractions  the  weakness 
of  woman.  Where,  in  compliance  with  some 
necessity,  he  has  departed  from  the  law  of 
beauty,  there  he  has  flung  around  her  the  girdle 
of  love  endowed  with  Desire,  which,  as  said  the 
Goddess,  "  vanquished!  all  strength."  In  friend- 
ship also,  one  party  is  always  the  more  active, 
the  other,  auxiliary  and  passive  ;  one  masculine, 
the  other  feminine;  and  often,  in  the  inverse 
order  of  the  sexes.  In  this  marriage  of  souls, 
a  monotone  is  neither  agreeable  nor  profitable, 
nor  possible.  Consonant  tones  are  required  for 
the  melody  of  life  and  enjoyment,  not  unison. 
Otherwise,  friendship  is  soon  lost  in  mere  fel- 
lowship. 

Hence  it  is  evident,  moreover,  that  the  attrac- 
tive power  of  an  individual,  human  soul  neither 
can  nor  ought  to  extend  itself  without  limit. 
Nature  has  drawn  narrow  boundaries  around 
each  individual,  and  it  is  the  most  dangerous  of 
all  dreams  to  imagine  one's  self  unlimited  where 
one  is  limited,  to  believe  one's  self  the  Despot 
of  the  universe  when  one  is  living  oidy  on  single 
alms.  To  embrace  the  whole  creation  with  love 
2f 


sounds  beautiful,  but  we  must  begin  with  the 
individual,  with  the  nearest.  And  he  who  can- 
not love  that,  deeply,  intensely,  entirely,  how 
should  he  be  able  to  love  that  which  is  remote 
and  which  throws  but  feeble  rays  upon  him 
from  a  foreign  star?  How  should  he  be  able  to 
love  it  with  any  feeling  which  deserves  the 
name  of  love?  The  greatest  cosmopolites  are 
generally  the  neediest  beggars,  and  they  who 
embrace  the  entire  universe  with  love,  for  the 
most  part,  love  nothing  but  their  narrow  self. 

I  come  to  the  comparison  which  Herr  H. 
makes  between  the  States  of  Greece  and  our 
own;  in  which  he  seems  to  reproach  the  Chris- 
tian religion  with  lessening  the  interest  of  its 
followers  in  the  transient  welfare  of  the  secular 
State,  through  over -much  care  for  the  eternal 
well-being  of  the  individual.  The  reproach 
would  be  well  founded  if  the  care  for  the  eter- 
nal were  opposed  to  the  care  for  the  temporal ; 
and  if  a  happy  State  could  be  anything  else  than 
a  collection  of  happy  individuals.  It  is  only  a 
misunderstood  religion,  a  religion  of  priests,  that 
will  maintain  the  former.  And  with  regard  to 
the  latter,  the  individual  can  only  care  for  his 
own  welfare  and  leave  it  to  him  who  has  con- 
trived or  who  trains  the  machine,  (as  Herr 
Hemsterhuis  himself  calls  the  State,)  to  care  for 
the  welfare  of  the  whole,  according  to  his  good- 
will or  power.  That  lawgivers  have,  almost 
uniformly,  misused  the  Christian  religion  and 
mixed  it  up  with  their  barbarous  feudal  and 
knightly  institutions,  is  the  crying  evil  in  all 
Christian  history.  But,  for  this,  we  are  not  to 
blame  the  religion,  but  the  coarse  hands  which 
have  kneaded  it  with  this  heterogeneous  politi- 
cal dough.  Religion,  as  our  author  has  justly 
defined  it,  is  the  free  relation  of  the  individual 
to  the  Supreme  Being.  Those  who  have  sought 
to  honour  it  with  the  name  of  a  political  ma- 
chine, have,  more  than  any  others,  deformed 
and  degraded  it. 

But  to  our  subject!  Nature  always  begins 
with  the  individual,  and  not  till  she  has  adjusted 
and  satisfied  the  propensities  of  the  individual, 
in  his  own  little  circle,  does  she  connect  several 
together,  and  arrange  their  sentiments  into  a 
common  weal.  The  welfare  of  the  State  con- 
sists of  happy  families,  or  else  it  is  an  imaginary 
quantity.  When,  in  the  individual  man,  sensual 
and  spiritual  joys,  friendship  and  love,  parental 
affection  and  personal  virtue,  are  well-ordered 
and  well-paired,  then  he  is  happy  in  himself 
and  in  others.  He  cannot,  like  ocean-slime, 
commingle  with  all ;  he  cannot  love,  praise,  and 
approve  all  in  an  equal  degree,  or  change  every 
mote  into  a  sunbeam,  in  order  to  love  it  as  a 
sunbeam.  In  attempting  to  do  this,  he  injures 
the  good  as  well  as  the  bad,  and,  at  last,  loses 
entirely  his  judgment  and  his  stand-point.  Who- 
so cannot  repel,  neither  can  he  attract.  The 
two  powers  are  but  one  pulsation  of  the  soul. 

Thus  it  is  with  us  in  this  world;  and  how 
will  it  be,  farther  on,  in  our  eternal  pilgrimage? 
It  can  scarcely  be  otherwise.  The  existence  of 
21 


242 


HERDER. 


others,  so  far  as  they  are  connected  with  us,  by 
love  and  longing,  rests  wholly  on  our  own  being 
and  consciousness.  If  we  could  lose  that,  we 
could  have  no  enjoyment  from  those.  With  each 
succeeding  step,  our  existence  must  necessarily 
become  more  free  and  effective.  Our  enjoy- 
ments will  become  less  corrupting  and  destruc- 
tive. We  shall  learn  evermore  to  find  pleasure 
in  giving  and  in  doing,  rather  than  in  passive 
reception.  Nevertheless,  it  should  seem  that 
the  mutual  relation  which  constitutes  the  sum 
of  our  whole  happiness,  can  never  entirely 
cease.  In  order  to  give,  there  must  always  be 
objects  to  receive.  In  order  to  act,  there  must 
always  be  those  for  whom  to  act.  Friendship 
and  love  can  never  exist  except  between  beings 
mutually  free, — consonant,not  unison,  least  of  all 
identified.  And  finally,  as  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  Highest,  it  must  always  be,  as  our  author 
says,  "  hyperbole  and  asymptote."  The  hyperbole 
forever  approaches  the  asymptote,  but  never 
reaches  it.  It  is  our  happiness  that  we  can 
never  lose  the  conception  of  our  own  being  and 
attain  to  the  infinite  one, — that  we  are  God. 
We  shall  always  remain  creatures,  though  we 
should  become  the  creators  of  vast  worlds.  We 
shall  approach  perfection,  but  never  become  in- 
finitely perfect.  The  greatest  good  which  God 
could  bestow  on  his  creatures  was,  and  will  be, 
their  individual  existence.  It  is  even  through 
this  that  He  exists  for  them  ;  and,  through  this, 
he  will  be  to  them  more  and  more,  from  stage 
to  stage,  ALL  IN  ALL. 


TITHON  AND  AURORA. 

Although,  in  general,  no  epitaph  or  pane- 
gyric uses  to  notice  how  long  a  man  has  outlived 
himself,  yet  is  this  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  not  infrequent  phenomena  in  the  history  of 
human  lives.  The  earlier  the  play  of  the  facul- 
ties and  passions  begins,  the  more  impetuously 
it  is  continued,  and  assailed  in  various  ways  by 
external  accident,  the  oftener  shall  one  discover 
cases  of  that  early  exhaustion  of  the  soul,  —  of 
the  warrior  laid  prostrate  without  death  or 
wound.  —  of  a  manly,  and,  often  even,  of  a 
youthful  extreme  age.  A  man  may  go  about  for 
a  long  while,  with  a  living  body,  like  the  image 
of  his  own  funeral  monument;  his  spirit  gone 
from  him,  —  a  shadow  and  a  memory  of  his 
former  name.  Many  causes  may  contribute  to 
this  early  death  :  qualities  of  mind  and  heart, 
too  great  activity  and  too  sluggish  patience,  re- 
laxation as  well  as  over-tension,  too  rapid  pros- 
perity and  too  protracted  adversity.  For  it  is  a 
general  truth,  that  health,  cheerfulness,  pleasure, 
and  virtue,  are  ever  the  medium  between  two 
extremes.  Either  on  the  precipitous  or  the  shal- 
low shore  of  the  stream,  the  vessel  may  be 
wrecked.  In  the  middle,  it  is  easy  and  pleasant 
sailing.  Many  a  one  has  grown  old  because  he 
wanted  the  true  interior  source  of  activity.  He 


was  a  brook  that  contracts  its  waters  into  itself 
and  soon  dries  up  and  shows  its  melancholy 
bed.  This  one  endeavoured  to  make  seeming 
supply  the  place  of  being.  The  darkness  pass- 
ed away,  and  the  glow-worms  in  the  hair  glit- 
tered as  sparkling  diamonds  no  longer.  That 
one  would  accomplish  by  toil  and  memory, 
what  intelligence  and  genius  alone  can  perform. 
The  overloaded  memory  gave  way,  excessive 
labor  tired,  and  the  want  of  the  essential  was 
at  last  painfully  apparent.  Another,  while  a 
youth,  overstrained  his  nobler  powers;  he  piled 
up  mountains  of  imagination  to  the  skies,  and 
soon,  without  the  lightning  of  Jupiter,  found 
under  them  his  grave.  Still  another,  whose 
learning  and  effort  had  no  object  but  his  own 
ease,  abandoned  learning  and  effort  as  soon  as 
he  had  obtained  that  ease,  and  buried  himself 
in  a  blessed  decay.  Here,  one,  without  desert, 
has  had  his  brain  turned  by  an  unexpected  pros- 
perity, a  too  rapidly  acquired  fame,  an  unlooked 
for  success  in  action.  He  has  no  longer  any 
thought  beyond  this  success.  His  seductive 
goddess,  Fortune,  has  crowned  him  at  once  with 
laurel,  with  poplar,  and  with  poppy.  He  falls 
asleep  or  babbles  nonsense  in  her  enervating 
lap.  There,  one  of  great  merit  has  suffered  too 
long  with  undeserved  misfortune,  until  his 
shoulders  are  bowed,  his  breast  contracted,  his 
arm  paralysed,  and  he  can  no  longer  stand  erect 
and  recruit  himself.  A  thunderbolt  from  heaven 
has  stricken  the  oak  even  to  its  root  and  de- 
prived it  of  the  power  of  life.  To  this  one — a 
man  of  manifold  capacity — there  was  wanting 
a  capacious  breast  to  despise  envy  and  to  wait 
for  better  times.  He  suffered  himself  to  be 
drawn  into  conflict  with  it,  and  the  flying  eagle 
was  unworthily  vanquished  by  the  viper  that 
held  him  in  her  folds.  That  one,  —  a  man  of 
honest  industry, — was  wanting  in  intelligence. 
His  more  cunning  enemies  soon  made  him 
powerless  and  wretched.  And  thus  it  befell 
ten  other  characters,  in  other  situations.  Hard 
by  the  theatre  of  civil  life,  there  is  generally  a 
hospital,  and  in  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
actors  gradually  lose  themselves. 

Two  things  especially  contribute  to  this  re- 
sult, and  they,  too,  are  extremes.  In  the  first 
place,  the  arbitrariness  of  the  ruling  great;  and, 
secondly,  a  too  refined  delicacy  and  carefulness. 
As  to  the  former,  it  is  a  well-known  and  favorite 
saying,  that  nothing  is  so  troublesome  as  grati- 
tude, nothing  so  insupportable  as  continued  re- 
spect and  the  daily  spectacle  of  acknowledged 
merit.  Accordingly,  new  favor  purchases  for 
itself  new  gratitude ;  and  creatures  wrhom  the 
great  purposely  attract  to  themselves, — in  whom 
they  even  pretend  to  find  gifts  and  merits  which 
the  gods  never  gave  them,  —  have,  for  them,  a 
peculiar  charm,  as  their  own  creation.  The  sap 
is  withdrawn  from  the  old  trees  that  the  young 
world  may  bloom  and  thrive.  Whoso,  in  such 
cases,  is  not  greater  than  he  on  whom  he  de- 
pends, dies  inwardly  with  self-consuming  vexa- 
tion.   The  majestic  voice  of  Philip  the  second, 


HERDER. 


243 


"  Yo  el  has  slain  many  a  one  of  this  de- 

scription. Opposed  to  this  murder  of  human 
merits  and  powers,  there  is  another,  which  may 
be  termed  the  most  refined  species  of  self-mur- 
der. It  is  the  more  to  be  lamented  because  it 
occurs  only  in  the  case  of  the  most  elect  of  men  ; 
I  suddenly  or  gradually  breaking  in  pieces  their 
costly  mechanism.  Men  of  extreme  delicacy 
of  feeling  have  a  '  Highest'  after  which  they 
strive, — an  idea  to  which  they  attach  themselves 
with  unspeakable  longing, — an  ideal  perfection 
which  they  pursue  with  irresistible  impulse. 
When  deprived  of  this  idea,  when  this  fair 
image  is  destroyed  before  their  eyes,  the  heart 
of  their  flower  is  broken,  and  feeble,  withered 
leaves  alone  remain.  Perhaps,  more  of  the 
dead  of  this  description  go  about  in  society, 
than  one  might  at  first  suppose,  because  they, 
of  all  men,  most  carefully  conceal  their  grief, 
and  hide  even  from  their  friend  the  slow  poison 
of  their  death,  —  that  sad  secret  of  the  heart. 
Shakspeare,  who  depicted  all  conditions  of  the 
soul,  has  delineated,  also,  this  epoch  of  the  sink- 
ing or  confusion  of  the  faculties,  in  various  situa- 
tions and  characters,  with  great  truth  and  exact- 
ness. One, — perhaps  the  crown  of  lamentations 
over  such  a  state,  —  may  serve  as  an  example 
of  all. 

0 !  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown ! 

The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 

The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  State, 

The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form, 

The  observed  of  all  observers !  quite,  quite  down ! 

 Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 

Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh ; 
That  unmatched  form  and  stature  of  blown  youth, 
Blasted  with  extasy. 

Not  only  individual  persons  outlive  them- 
selves, but  much  oftener  and  longer,  those  poli- 
tico-moral persons,  so  called, — institutions,  forms 
of  polity,  classes,  corporations.  Often,  their  body 
remains,  for  centuries,  as  a  show,  when  the  soul 
of  that  body  has  long  since  fled  ;  or  they  creep 
about  as  shadows  among  living  forms.  To  be 
convinced  of  this,  let  any  one  enter  a  Jewish 
synagogue,  or  read  Anquetil*s  Zend-Avesta,  and 
the  sacred  books  of  the  Brahmins.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  all  these  religious  institutions  were 
once  very  useful,  and  that,  in  every  one  of  these 
hulls,  lay  the  germs  of  a  great  development. 
Time  has  developed  each  of  them  more  or  less, 
— one  happily,  so  that  we  are  disposed  perhaps 
to  look  for  more  in  it  than  was  there ;  another 
imperfectly  and  feeble;  as  in  the  great  course 
of  Nature  it  will  fall  out.  Nevertheless,  every- 
thing has  its  goal,  and  the  Rabbi,  the  Destur,  the 
Mobed, — perhaps  also  the  Brahmin, — has,  in  the 
great  whoie,  outlived  himself.  In  some  regions 
of  Mahommedanism,  something  similar  is  al- 
ready reported  of  the  Koran,  although  that  is 
the  youngest  of  bibles.  And  in  Christendom, 
true  as  its  pure  fountain  streams,  with  the  water 
of  eternal  life,  how  many  a  vessel  is  already 
broken  that  was  thought  to  have  exhausted  this 
fountain !  How  many  a  form  which  still  stands 
j  there,  had  long  ago  outlived  itself!  Look  at  the 


Romish  Mass!  Listen  to  many  of  their  litanies 
and  prayers!  Into  what  times  do  they  take  us 
back !  What  a  strange  savor  of  long-perished 
ages!  As,  in  Religion,  the  priestly  order,  so  in 
other  institutions  the  orders  connected  with  them 
follow  each  its  living  or  its  dead.  Consider  so 
many  institutions  and  orders  of  the  middle  ages  ! 
Where  they  could  not  follow  the  Genius  of  opi- 
nion and  renew  their  youth  with  him,  they 
either  remained  stationary  on  the  shore  or  else 
the  stream  bore  them  lifeless  on,  until  they  found 
somewhere  their  place  of  rest.  Even  in  Cer- 
vantes' days  the  Duke  of  Bejar  would  not  allow 
that  Don  Quixote  should  be  dedicated  to  him, 
so  long  as  he  supposed  it  to  be  a  serious  book 
of  knight-errantry;  because  the  taste  for  such 
things  had  already  begun  to  be  ridiculous.  He 
accepted  the  Dedication  gladly  when,  as  the 
book  was  read  to  him,  he  discovered  its  true 
character.  Time  has  enacted  novels  of  this 
kind  with  several  institutions.  The  princes  and 
heroes  of  Corneille  are  for  the  most  part  insup- 
portable to  us,  and  we  wonder  how  other  times 
could  ever  put  together,  believe  and  admire 
such  nonsense.  Shakspeare's  court-scenes  seem 
to  us  like  Capital  and  State  acts.  The  knights 
of  our  day  are  no  longer  of  the  ancient  order ; 
and  that  kingly  word  of  Louis  XIV. :  "  L'Etat? 
e'est  moi !''  will  ever  remain  the  appropriate 
epitaph  of  that  great  world-monarch. 

"  Whatsoever  had  a  birth  must  die,"  says  the 
Brahmin ;  and  that,  which  seeks  to  defer  its 
downfall  by  artificial  methods,  in  resorting  to 
such  methods,  has  already  outlived  itself.  In 
the  early  spring,  the  foliage  and  grass  of  the 
former  year  are  often  still  visible ;  much  of  it 
has  retained  its  place  ;  but,  in  a  short  time,  the 
whole  is  vanished,  and  a  new  raiment  covers 
the  trees  and  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

If  there  is  anything  in  the  circle  of  Humanity 
which  ought  not  to  outlive  itself,  it  is  Science 
and  Art.  The  nature  of  these  is  eternal,  and 
they  are  capable  of  the  purest  truth  and  of  infi- 
nite extension.  And  indeed  the  real  essence 
of  Art  and  Science  never  dies,  never  changes. 
But  their  forms  are  all  the  more  perishable,  as 
they  appear,  above  all  things,  to  depend  on  their 
masters  and  discoverers, — to  originate,  to  flou- 
rish, and  to  perish  with  them.  So  long  as  the 
discoverer  lives,  so  long  as  the  master  teaches 
and  directs,  men  draw  living  thoughts  from  his 
living  fountain.  In  the  second  and  third  gene- 
ration, one  already  wanders  through  schools  that 
echo  and  ape  him.  The  image  of  the  master 
stands  there  dead.  His  science  and  his  art  has 
outlived  itself,  not  in  his  own,  but  in  his  suc- 
cessors' works. 

Travels  give  us  a  long  catalogue  of  things 
which  have  thus  outlived  themselves.  Travels 
in  the  history,  as  well  as  in  the  actual  inspection 
of  regions,  countries,  institutions,  persons,  classes. 
Who  that  enters  an  ancient  castle,  an  old-fa- 
shioned knightly  hall,  an  archive  of  old  diplo- 
mas and  treaties,  of  old  arms  and  decorations ; 


244 


HERDER. 


old  court-houses,  churches,  convents,  palaces  and 
imperial  cities,  does  not  feel  himself  translated 
into  a  perished  century?  In  a  tour  through  Ger- 
many, one  often  finds,  within  a  circle  of  a  few- 
miles,  the  ancient,  the  middle,  the  modern  and 
most  modern  ages  together.  Here,  we  hreathe 
still  the  air  of  the  twelfth  century;  there,  we 
hear  the  melodies  of  the  sixteenth,  the  tenth,  the 
fourth.  All  at  once,  you  enter  cabinets  which 
have  been  instituted  under  the  luxurious  Ducal 
Government,  —  galleries  collected  under  Louis 
XIV.,  and  end  with  institutions  which  seem  to 
have  been  devised  for  the  twentieth  century. 
Instructive  as  this  chaos  may  be  for  the  travel- 
ler, it  would  be  very  confusing  and  oppressive 
for  the  resident,  did  not  human  nature  accustom 
itself  to  all  things.  "  Lord,  by  this  time  he  stink- 
eth,  for  he  hath  been  dead  four  days ;"  said  the 
sorrowing  sister ;  one  might  say,  with  regard  to 
many  institutions,  four  centuries,  and  still  they 
are  not  offensive  to  their  brothers  and  sisters. 
These  are  accustomed  to  the  odor,  and  find  it 
nourishing. 

Italy  seems  to  me  the  most  instructive  theatre 
of  these  life-epochs  and  world-ages.  There, 
yon  can  be  with  Egyptians,  Greeks,  Romans, 
Etruscans,  nay,  if  you  please,  with  Chineses,  with 
Hindoos,  and  with  the  people  of  Madagascar! 
In  Rome,  alone,  you  may  follow  Paganism  from 
Romulus  to  Diocletian,  and  Christianity  from 
Constantine  to  Pius.  There,  and  in  the  Italian 
provinces,  you  may  live  at  pleasure  in  the  fif- 
teenth, the  sixteenth,  or  the  eighteenth  century. 
And  if  you  investigate  the  monuments  of  Na- 
ture, you  will  come  upon  self-survivals  which 
will  take  you  beyond  the  bounds  of  history.  It 
requires  a  capacious  mind  to  embrace,  to  dis- 
tinguish, to  classify  all  these  scenes.  But,  to 
such  a  mind,  they  exhibit  a  compend  of  all  his- 
tory, which  floods  us,  at  last,  with,  I  know  not, 
what  pleasing  but  dissolving  melancholy. 

The  cloud-capt  towers,  &c.  &c. 

 We  are  sucli  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

Enough  of  sleep  and  of  dying  out!  Let  us 
now  speak  of  waking  and  rejuvenescence ! 
How  is  this  brought  about?    By  Revolution? 

I  confess  that,  among  the  misused  words  of 
our  modern,  fashionable  vocabulary,  few  are  so 
displeasing  to  me  as  this  ;  because  it  has  entirely 
departed  from  its  original,  pure  signification, 
and  carries  with  it  the  most  mischievous  con- 
fusion of  thought.  In  astronomy,  we  call  revo- 
lution a  movement  of  the  great  world -bodies 
which  returns  into  itself, — determined  by  mea- 
sure, number  and  forces;  a  movement,  which 
is  not  only  the  most  peaceful  order  in  itself,  but, 
in  connection  with  other  harmonious  powers, 
establishes  the  kingdom  of  eternal  order.  Thus 
the  earth  revolves  around  itself  and  makes  day 
and  night,  and  by  means  of  these,  arranges  and 
regulates  the  sleep  and  the  waking  of  its  crea- 
tures, their  time  for  rest  and  the  circle  of  their 


occupations.  Thus  the  earth  moves  around  the 
sun  and  makes  the  year,  and  by  means  of  that, 
the  seasons,  and  by  means  of  them,  the  changes 
of  labour  and  of  mortal  enjoyment.  The  revo- 
lution of  the  moon  around  our  earth  gives  to  the 
sea  its  ebb  and  flood,  determines  the  periods  of 
diseases,  and  perhaps,  of  the  growth  of  plants. 
In  this  sense  it  is  useful  to  notice  revolutions ; 
for,  in  them,  we  observe  a  course  of  affairs 
which  returns  into  itself,  and,  in  that  course  of 
things,  the  laws  of  a  perpetual  order.  In  such 
a  course  there  is  nothing  abrupt,  arbitrary,  with- 
out reason.  There  is  nothing  of  destruction  in 
it,  but  a  gently  vibrating  thread  of  conservation. 
Revolutions  of  this  kind  are  the  dance  of  the 
Hours  around  the  throne  of  Jupiter.  They  are 
the  chaplet  of  victory  on  the  immortal  head  of 
the  god,  after  the  conquest  of  chaos. 

Also,  if  we  draw  down  this  idea  of  Revolu- 
tion from  heaven  to  earth,  it  can  be  no  other 
than  the  idea  of  a  silent  progress  of  things,  of 
a  re-appearance  of  certain  phenomena,  accord- 
ing to  their  peculiar  nature,  consequently,  of  the 
design  of  an  ever-working  Wisdom,  Order  and 
Goodness.  In  this  sense,  we  speak  of  the  revo- 
lutions of  arts  and  sciences,  that  is,  a  periodical 
return  of  them,  the  causes  of  which,  we  en- 
deavor to  investigate  in  history,  and,  as  it  were, 
to  calculate  astronomically.  Thus  the  Pytha- 
goreans spoke  of  the  revolutions  of  the  human 
soul,  that  is,  of  its  periodical  return  into  other 
forms.  Thus  have  men  investigated  the  laws 
of  the  revolution  of  human  thoughts ;  when 
they  return  from  oblivion  into  remembrance  ; 
when  visions  and  desires,  when  activities  and 
passions  which  had  gone  to  sleep,  reappear 
once  more.  In  all  these  things,  it  has  been  at- 
tempted to  discover  the  laws  of  a  hidden,  silent 
order  of  Nature. 

But  the  meaning  of  this  word  has  undergone 
a  detestable  change,  because,  in  the  barbarous 
centuries,  men  knew  of  no  other  revolutions 
than  conquests,  overturns,  oppressions,  confu- 
sions without  motive,  aim  or  order.  Then  it 
was  called  revolution,  when  the  nethermost 
was  made  uppermost, — when,  by  the  so-called 
right  of  war,  a  nation  lost  more  or  less  of  its 
property,  its  laws,  its  goods ;  or  when,  by  the 
right  of  monarchy,  all  those  so-called  rights 
were  enforced,  which  St.  Thomas,  Machiavel 
and  Naude  afterwards  collected  from  actual 
events  and  brought  together  in  one  chapter. 
Then,  finally,  it  was  called  a  revolution,  when 
the  ministers  did  what  the  rulers  themselves 
would  not  do ;  or  when,  here  and  there,  the 
People  undertook  that  which  they  could  rarely 
execute  so  well  as  kings  or  ministers.  Hence 
the  numerous  Histoires  des  Revolutions, — a  kind 
of  book  whose  title  is  all  the  more  popular,  that 
its  contents  are,  for  the  most  part,  unintelligible 
or  abominable.  The  notion  of  an  aim  or  object 
was  almost  lost  sight  of.  History  became  an 
exhibition  of  entanglements  without  a  denoue- 
ment. For.  after  the  conclusion  of  each  revolu- 
tion, so  called,  the  confusion,  in  the  kingdoms 


HERDER. 


245 


where  they  occurred,  was  greater  than  before. 
Revolutions  of  this  sort,  whencesoever  they 
may  derive  their  origin,  are  signs  of  barbarism, 
of  an  insolent  force,  of  a  mad  wilfulness. 
The  more  reason  and  moderation  increase 
among  men,  the  rarer  they  will  become,  until, 
at  last,  they  entirely  disappear.  Then  the  word 
Revolution  will  revert  to  its  pure  and  true  mean- 
ing. Then  it  will  mean,  in  history  also  as 
elsewhere,  a  course  of  things  arranged  accord- 
ing to  laws, — a  course  of  events  which  peace- 
fully returns  into  itself.  In  this  view  alone  is 
history  worth  the  study;  for,  as  to  the  revolu- 
tions of  wild  elephants,  when  they  tear  up  trees 
and  devastate  villages, — from  these  there  is  not 
much  to  be  learned. 

Not  to  mislead,  therefore,  with  this  abused 
word,  and  not  to  make  destructive  violence  a 
medicine  for  mortal  ills,  we  will  keep  the  path  of 
healing  Nature.  Not  Revolutions,  but  Evolutions 
are  the  silent  process  of  the  great  mother,  where- 
with she  awakens  slumbering  powers,  brings 
germs  to  maturity,  gives  renewed  youth  to  pre- 
mature age,  and  new  life  to  seeming  death. 
Let  us  see  what  this  remedy  comprehends,  and 
how  it  heals. 

If  we  suppose  Nature  to  have  an  aim  on  the 
earth,  that  aim  can  be  no  other  than  the  develop- 
ment of  her  powers  in  all  forms,  kinds  and  ways. 
These  evolutions  proceed  slowly,  often  imper- 
ceptibly; and,  for  the  most  part,  they  appear 
periodically.  After  a  night  of  sleep,  follows  a 
morning  of  awakening.  Under  the  shade  of 
the  former,  Nature  had  re-collected  her  powers, 
in  order  to  meet  the  latter  with  spirit.  In  the 
ages  of  man,  childhood  continues  long;  body 
and  mind  advance  with  a  slow  growth,  until, 
with  collected  energies,  the  flower  of  youth 
breaks  forth,  and  the  fruit  of  later  years  comes 
gradually  to  maturity.  Very  improperly  have 
these  periods  of  development  been  called  revo- 
lutions. There  is  nothing  here  that  revolves, 
but  faculties  are  evolved,  developed.  Ever, 
the  more  recondite  and  deeper-lying  come  forth 
to  view,  which,  without  many  a  preceding  one, 
could  not  have  been  brought  into  action.  There- 
fore Nature  made  periods.  She  gave  the  crea- 
ture time  to  recover  itself  from  one  exertion 
gone  through  with,  in  order  to  begin,  with  joy, 
and  to  accomplish  another  and  more  difficult. 
For  when  the  plant  puts  forth  a  flower,  or  when 
the  fruit  is  forming  in  it,  unquestionably  more 
inward  and  finer  forces  are  put  in  action  than 
when  the  sap  was  entering  the  stem,  and  the 
lowest  leaves  were  brought  forth.  In  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  things,  Nature  does  not  leave  her 
work  until  all  its  physical  powers  have  been 
brought  into  action  ;  the  innermost,  as  it  were, 
turned  outward,  and  the  development,  which, 
at  every  step,  is  assisted  by  a  kindly  cpigenesis, 
has  become  as  perfect  as  it  could  become,  un- 
der the  given  conditions. 

Men  are  accustomed  to  regard  each  individual 
object,  and  especially  each  living  individual  as 
an  isolated  whole ;  but  a  nearer  view  shows  it 


to  be  connected  with  soil,  climate,  weather; 
with  the  periodical  breath  of  all  Nature  ;  and 
that,  according  to  these,  it  lasts  for  a  longer  or 
shorter  time,  grows  early  old  or  easily  renews 
its  youth.  Man,  a  rational,  moral  and  political 
creation,  lives,  by  means  of  these  capacities  and 
powers,  in  a  peculiar  and  infinitely  extended  ele- 
ment. His  reason  is  connected  with  the  reason 
of  others,  his  moral  culture  with  the  conduct  of 
others,  his  capacity  to  constitute  himself  a  free 
being, — both  in  himself  and  in  connection  with 
others, — is  so  intimately  connected  with  the  way 
of  thinking,  the  reasonableness,  the  active  enter- 
prise of  many,  that  out  of  this  element,  he  must 
needs  be  like  a  fish  on  dry  land,  or  a  bird  in  a 
space  destitute  of  air.  His  best  powers  die  out, 
his  capacity  remains  a  dead  capability;  and  all 
effort,  out  of  time  and  place,  and  without  the 
co-operation  of  the  elements,  is  like  a  flower  in 
the  midst  of  winter.  It  is  Nature  that  makes 
seasons  ;  it  is  she  that  furthers  capacities.  She 
furthers  them  also  in  human  kind.  Individual 
men,  classes,  corporations,  whole  societies  and 
nations,  can  only  advance  with  this  stream,  they 
have  done  all  if  they  steer  wisely  upon  it.  Let 
no  one  think  that,  if  all  the  regents  of  the  earth 
from  the  proudest  Negro  King  to  the  mightiest 
Khan  of  the  Tartars  should  combine  to  make 
to-day  yesterday  and  to  hinder  forever  the  pro- 
gressive development  of  the  human  race,  whe- 
ther it  lead  to  youth  or  to  old  age  they  eould 
ever  accomplish  their  aim.  This  can  never  be 
an  aim  with  wise  rulers,  simply,  because  there 
is  no  sense  in  such  fruitless  endeavor. 

A  wise  ruler  then  will  always  regard  himself 
as  the  householder,  not  as  the  antagonist  of  Na- 
ture. He  will  improve  every  circumstance  which 
she  offers,  to  the  best  issues.  Here  leaves  are 
falling,  there  a  whole  autumn  of  leaves  lie  al- 
ready in  their  shrouds.  He  will  not  attempt  to 
restore  them  again  to  their  former  places  on 
limb  and  twig.  Can  he  give  them  back  their 
former  freshness  and  sap  which  made  them  a 
living  whole  with  the  tree  on  which  they  hung? 
And  if  he  cannot  do  this,  how  then?  Will  he 
crown  himself  with  a  withered  wreath  of  dried 
leaves,  because  they  were  other  once  than  they 
are  now  ?  What  Nature  could  not  keep,  will 
the  gardener  keep  it  ?  and  that  too,  not  in  con- 
formity with  the  ends  of  Nature,  but  in  direct 
opposition  to  them  ?  Infinitely  more  beautiful 
the  task  to  follow  Nature,  to  mark  her  times,  to 
awaken  powers  wherever  they  slumber,  to  pro- 
mote thought,  activity,  invention,  joy  and  love, 
in  whatsoever  field  of  useful  employment.  Ne- 
cessity comes  at  last  and  compels  with  iron 
sceptre.  He  who  obeys  reason  and  measure 
will  prevent  necessity.  Often,  he  will  need 
only  to  beckon  with  the  lily-staff  of  Oberon,  and 
here  new  flowers  will  spring  instead  of  the 
withered  ones,  and  there,  if  the  blossom-time  is 
past,  nourishing  fruits  will  come  to  maturity. 
He  will  come  to  the  aid  of  the  young  shoot  and 
take  it  under  his  protection  against  oppressive 
weeds.  The  old  wild  tree  he  will  not  cut  down, 
21* 


HER 


DER. 


but  graft  more  genial  fruits  upon  it,  and  the 
rejuvenized  tree  will  wonder,  itself,  at  its  nobler 
existence.  A  slight  anticipation  of  this  kind,  by 
which  one  nation  had  got  the  start  of  another, 
has  often  secured  to  it,  for  centuries,  unattaina- 
ble advantages.  England  acquired  the  position 
which  she  now  occupies,  by  a  somewhat  earlier 
adoption  and  application  of  certain  points  of 
constitutional  finance  and  commerce,  which  had 
long  before  germinated  in  other  countries,  but 
which  folly  and  passion  had  suppressed.  After 
many  violent  revolutions  which  passed  over 
her,  like  bloody  thunder-showers,  it  was  given 
to  the  most  peaceful  and  silent  revolution,  to 
awaken  a  new  activity,  and  thereby  to  establish, 
for  centuries,  the  prosperity  of  a  living  constitu- 
tion. If  in  the  time  of  William  the  Third,  she 
had  attempted  to  renew  the  feudal,  military  and 
forest  laws  of  William  the  Conqueror,  where 
would  she  be  now  ? 

All  orders  and  arrangements  of  society  are  the 
children  of  Time.  This  ancient  mother  produced, 
nourished,  educated  them ;  she  adorned  and 
fitted  them  out;  and  after  a  longer  or  shorter 
term  of  life,  she  buries  them  as  she  buries  and 
renews  herself.  Whoever  therefore  confounds 
his  own  being  with  the  duration  of  an  order  or 
institution,  gives  himself  unnecessary  torment. 
That  which  was  before  thee,  will  be  behind 
thee  too,  if  it  is  to  be.  For  thine  own  part,  act 
understanding^  and  wisely;  time  will  proceed 
in  its  great  course  and  accomplish  its  own.  Be 
in  thine  own  person  more  than  thine  order;  and 
then,  however  that  may  grow  old,  thou  wilt  be, 
for  thyself  and  for  others,  always  young.  Yea, 
the  darker  the  night,  the  brighter  shalt  thou 
beam  a  star !  He  who  does  not  raise  himself 
above  the  breastwork  of  his  order,  is  no  hero 
within  it.  An  order,  as  such,  makes  only  pup- 
pets. Personality  makes  worth  and  merit.  The 
more  that  idle,  dead  hull  which  conceals  the 
best  as  well  as  the  poorest  kernel  falls  away, 
the  more  the  fair  and  ripe  fruit  appears.  Assu- 
redly, therefore,  it  is  no  retrocession,  but  an 
evolution  of  the  times,  when  the  order  ceases  to 
be  all,  and  men  demand  to  see,  in  each  order, 
persons,  men,  active  beings.  And  since,  without 
a  new  incursion  of  barbarism,  and  with  the  daily 
increasing  necessities  of  Europe,  this  feeling 
must  necessarily  increase,  there  remains  only 
one  counsel  which  can  secure  each  one  against 
the  senescence  of  his  order.  Be  something  in 
your  order,  and  then  you  will  be  the  first  to 
perceive,  to  avoid  and  to  amend  its  defects. 
Its  old  age  will  appear  rejuvenized  in  you, 
precisely  because  there  is  something  in  you 
which  would  grace  every  form  and  live  in  all. 

The  excellent  Paolo  Sarpi  wrote  a  treatise, 
the  title  of  which  attracted  me  exceedingly : 
"How  opinions  are  born  and  die  in  us."  I  was 
very  curious  to  become  acquainted  with  its  con- 
tents. And  although  I  saw  from  Foscarini's 
extract  in  Grisellini,  that  it  was  not  likely  to 
contain  what  I  had  supposed,  this  capital  pro- 
blem nevertheless  was  often  in  my  thoughts. 


Many  are  the  ways  in  which,  from  earliest 
childhood,  we  arrive  at  opinions  with  which 
we  clothe  ourselves,  body  and  soul.  Many  of 
them  cleave  to  us  with  great  tenacity,  and  the 
silliest  we  generally  keep  concealed  behind  our 
innermost,  ninth  skin,  where,  let  no  one  pre- 
sume to  touch  them  !  Unfortunately,  however, 
Time  will  touch  them,  and  often  with  very  rude 
hands.  And  he  who,  in  order  to  save  his  life, 
that  is,  his  reason,  peace  and  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  internal  worth,  cannot  yield  the  skin 
and  hair  of  his  opinions  to  the  meddling  Satan, 
is  in  bad  hands.  For  that  which  is  mere  opi- 
nion, or  even  false  opinion,  will  assuredly  perish 
in  the  fierce  fire  of  purification.  But  is  it  not 
something  better  that  shall  arise  in  its  place? 
Instead  of  opinions  received  on  authority  or 
even,  as  Franklin  relates,  from  politeness,  know- 
ledge from  conviction,  reason  approved  by  our 
own  investigation,  and  a  self-acquired  felicity 
shall  be  our  portion.  The  old  man  in  us  must 
die  that  a  new  youth  may  spring  up. 

"  But  how  may  this  be !  Can  a  man  return 
into  his  mother's  womb  and  be  born  again?" 
To  this  doubt  of  old  Nicodemus,  the  only  an- 
swer that  can  be  given  is:  '  PalingenesiaP — not 
Revolution,  but  a  happy  Evolution  of  the  faculties 
which  slumber  in  us,  and  by  means  of  which 
we  renew  our  youth.  What  we  call  outliving 
ourselves,  —  that  is,  a  kind  of  death,  —  is,  with 
souls  of  the  better  sort  but  sleep,  which  precedes 
a  new  waking,  a  relaxation  of  the  bow  which 
prepares  it  for  new  use.  So  rests  the  fallow- 
field,  in  order  to  produce  the  more  plentifully 
hereafter.  So  dies  the  tree  in  winter,  that  it 
may  put  forth  and  blossom  anew  in  the  spring. 
Destiny  never  forsakes  the  good,  as  long  as  he 
does  not  forsake  himself,  and  ignobly  despair 
of  himself.  The  Genius  which  seemed  to  have 
departed  from  him,  returns  to  him  again,  at  the 
right  moment,  bringing  new  activity,  fortune 
and  joy.  Sometimes  the  Genius  comes  in  the 
shape  of  a  friend,  sometimes  in  that  of  an  un- 
expected change  of  times.  Sacrifice  to  this 
Genius  even  though  you  see  him  not!  Hope  in 
back-looking,  returning  Fortune,  even  when  you 
deem  her  far  off!  If  the  left  side  is  sore,  lay 
yourself  on  the  right;  if  the  storm  has  bent  your 
sapling  one  way,  bend  it  the  other  way,  until  it 
attains,  once  more,  the  perpendicular  medium. 
You  have  wearied  your  memory?  Then  exercise 
your  understanding.  You  have  striven  too  dili- 
gently after  seeming,  and  it  has  deceived  you? 
Now  seek  being.  That  will  not  deceive.  Un- 
merited fame  has  spoiled  you  ?  Thank  Heaven 
that  you  are  rid  of  it,  and  seek,  in  your  own 
worth,  a  fame  which  cannot  be  taken  away. 
Nothing  is  nobler  and  more  venerable  than  a 
man,  who,  in  spite  of  fate,  perseveres  in  his 
duty,  and  who,  if  he  is  not  happy  outwardly,  at 
least  deserves  to  be  so.  He  will  certainly  be- 
come so,  at  the  right  season.  The  Serpent  of 
time  often  casts  her  slough,  and  brings  to  the 
man  in  his  cave,  if  not  the  fabled  jewel  on 
her  head  and  the  rose  in  her  mouth,  at  least 


247 


medicinal  herbs  which  procure  him  oblivion  of 
the  past,  and  restoration  to  new  life. 

Philosophy  abounds  in  remedies  designed  to 
console  us  for  misfortunes  endured,  but  unques- 
tionably, its  best  remedy  is  when  it  strengthens 
us  to  bear  new  misfortunes,  and  imparts  to  us  a 
j  firm  reliance  on  ourselves.  The  illusion  which 
weakens  the  faculties  of  the  soul,  comes,  for  the 
most  part,  from  without.  But  the  objects  which 
environ  us  are  not  ourselves.  It  is  sad  indeed, 
when  the  situation  in  which  a  man  is  placed,  is 
so  embittered  and  made  so  wretched,  that  he 
has  no  desire  to  touch  one  of  its  grapes  or 
flowers,  because  they  crumble  to  ashes  in  his 
hands,  like  those  fruits  of  Sodom.  Nevertheless, 
the  situation  is  not  himself;  let  him,  like  the 
tortoise,  draw  in  his  limbs  and  be  what  he  can 
and  ought.  The  more  he  disregards  the  conse- 
quences of  his  actions,  the  more  repose  he  has 
in  action.  Thereby  the  soul  grows  stronger  and 
revivifies  itself,  like  an  ever-springing  fountain. 
The  fountain  does  not  stop  to  calculate  through 
what  regions  of  the  earth  its  stream  shall  flow, 
what  foreign  matter  it  shall  take  in,  and  where 
it  shall  finally  lose  itself.  It  flows  from  its  own 
fulness,  with  an  irrepressible  motion.  That 
which  others  show  us  of  ourselves  is  only  ap- 
pearance. It  has  always  some  foundation,  and 
is  never  to  be  wholly  despised ;  but  it  is  only 
the  reflection  of  our  being  in  them,  mirrored 
back  to  us  from  their  own ;  often  a  broken  and 
dim  form,  and  not  our  being  itself.  Let  the 
little  insects  creep  over  and  around  you,  and  be 
at  the  uttermost  pains  to  make  you  appear  dead  ; 
they  work  in  their  nature.  Work  you  in  yours, 
and  live !  In  fact,  our  breast,  our  character, 
keeps  us  always  more  and  longer  upright,  than 
all  the  acumen  of  the  head,  than  all  the  cunning 
of  the  mind.  In  the  heart  we  live,  and  not  in 
the  thoughts.  The  opinions  of  others  may  be  a 
favorable  or  unfavorable  wind  in  our  sails.  As 
the  ocean  its  vessels,  so  circumstances  at  one 
time  may  hold  us  fast,  at  another  may  power- 
fully further  us ;  but  ship  and  sail,  compass, 
helm  and  oar,  are  still  our  own.  Never,  then, 
like  old  Tithonus,  grow  gray  in  the  conceit  that 
your  youth  has  passed  away,  Rather,  with 
newly  awakened  activity,  let  a  new  Aurora 
daily  spring  from  your  arms. 

I  ought  now  to  speak  to  the  greater  problem, 
so  peculiarly  adapted  to  our  times:  Whether 
nations,  countries,  states,  must  also  decline  with 
old  age,  or  whether  they  too  are  capable  of  a 
new  youth?  And  by  what  means  that  youth 
may  be  renewed  ?  On  this  question  there  is 
great  division  of  opinion,  and,  as  each  opinion 
knows  how  to  fortify  itself  with  examples  from 
history,  this  very  difference  in  the  answers  is 
itself  a  proof  of  the  indefiniteness  of  the  ques- 
tion. What  is  it  that  can  grow  old  in  a  nation, 
a  country,  a  state?  What,  in  them,  can  or  ought 
to  be  made  young  again  ?  Is  it  the  soul,  the 
air,  the  sky?  And  how  are  these  changed  for 
the  better  or  worse  ?  Is  it  the  farms,  meadows, 
forests,  salt-springs,  mines,  trees?     Or  is  it  the 


manner  of  working  them,  the  profit  and  the  ap- 
plication of  their  products  ?  Is  it  these  alone, 
or  is  it  man  himself,  his  race,  his  manners,  his 
education  and  mode  of  living,  his  principles  and 
opinions,  his  relations  and  conditions?  And 
how  shall  these  be  changed  ?  By  speeches  and 
writings,  or  by  institutions  and  well-directed, 
consistent,  continued  action  ?  And  what  object 
shall  this  change  accomplish  ?  Superfluity  for 
the  few,  comfort  and  idleness  for  the  many,  or 
the  happiness  of  all?  And  wherein  consists 
the  happiness  of  all?  In  arts  and  sciences? 
In  seeming  or  in  being?  In  loquacious  enlight- 
enment or  in  genuine  culture?  All  these,  and 
perhaps  other  questions,  should  be  considered 
with  careful  reference  to  place,  time  and  cir- 
cumstances, and  a  comparison  with  more  an- 
cient examples  and  their  consequences.  And 
then,  it  would  probably  be  found  : 

1.  That  land  and  people  never  grow  old,  or 
only  at  a  very  late  period ;  but  that  States,  as 
human  institutions,  as  children  of  the  times,  or 
even,  in  many  cases,  as  the  mere  growth  of  ac- 
cident, have  their  age  and  their  youth,  and,  con- 
sequently, an  ever-progressive,  imperceptible 
movement  toward  growth,  toward  blossoming, 
or  toward  dissolution. 

2.  That  man,  often  individual  men,  may  re- 
tard or  promote  these  periods,  nay,  that  they  are 
mostly  promoted  by  opposite  measures. 

3.  That  when  forces  are  at  work,  either  for 
bloom  or  for  dissolution,  their  progress  is  rapid, 
and  everything  appears  to  assimilate  itself  with 
them,  until  trivial  circumstances, — often  again, 
individual  men, — give  the  stream  a  different  di- 
rection ;  which  new  direction,  again,  is  the  re- 
sult of  a  living  presence,  although  it  sometimes 
appears  to  be  the  effect  of  chance. 

4.  That,  finally,  in  order  to  forestall  those 
fearful  explosions  which  are  called  political  re- 
volutions, and  which  ought  to  be  entirely  foreign 
from  the  book  of  human  affairs,  the  State  has  no 
other  remedy,  but  to  preserve  or  to  restore  the 
natural  relation,  the  healthy  action  of  all  its 
parts,  the  brisk  circulation  of  its  juices,  and 
must  not  contend  against  the  nature  of  things. 
Sooner  or  later  the  strongest  machine  must  suc- 
cumb in  that  contest;  but  Nature  never  grows 
old.  She  only  renews  her  youth  periodically, 
in  all  her  living  forces. 

The  timid  nature  of  man,  always  compassed 
about  with  hope  and  fear,  often  prophesies  dis- 
tant evils  as  near,  and  calls  that  death,  which  is 
only  a  wholesome  slumber,  a  necessary,  health- 
bringing  relaxation.  And  so  it  generally  de- 
ceives itself  in  its  predictions  concerning  lands 
and  kingdoms.  Powers  lie  dormant  which  we 
do  not  perceive.  Faculties  and  circumstances 
are  developing  themselves,  on  which  we  could 
not  calculate.  But  even  when  our  judgment  is 
true,  it  usually  leans  too  much  to  one  side.  "  If 
this  is  to  live,"  we  say,  "  that  must  die/'  We 
do  not  consider,  whether  it  may  not  be  possible 
that  both  shall  live  and  act  favorably  on  each 
other  ? 


248 


HERDER. 


The  good  Bishop  Berkeley,  who  was  no  poet, 
was  inspired,  by  his  beneficent  zeal  for  America, 
to  write  the  following      *        *        *  * 

Westward  the  star  of  empire  takes  its  way; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
The  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day, 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last.* 

So  prophesied  the  good-natured  Bishop,  and 
if  his  spirit  could  now  glance  at  yonder  up- 
striving  America,  he  would  perhaps  discover, 
with  that  same  glance,  that,  in  the  arms  of  the 
old  Tithon,  Europe,  also,  a  new  Aurora  was 
slumbering.  Not  four,  scarcely  three  acts  in  the 
great  drama  of  this,  still  youthful,  quarter  of  the 
globe,  are  past;  and  who  shall  say  how  many 
times  yet  the  old  Tithon  of  the  human  race  may 
and  will  renew  his  youth  upon  our  earth ! 


METEMPSYCHOSIS, 

IN  THREE  DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE  I. 
CHARICLES  AND   THE  AGES. 

Char.  You  are  just  the  person  I  wished  to 
see,  Theages.  You  will  be  surprised  to  find  me 
in  this  laboratory  of  learning. 

Theag.  What  books  are  these  ?  Greek,  Latin, 
English,  even  Hebrew !  What  are  they  all 
about1? — Metempsychosis.  Well!  to  be  sure,  that 
is  a  fertile  subject  to  talk  about  and  to  write 
about. 

Char.  Let  us  talk  about  it  then. 

Theag.  With  all  my  heart;  I  have  nothing 
else  to  do.  An  hypothesis  so  rich  and  concerning 
things  so  remote  ;  for  and  against  which  so 
much  may  be  said,  certainly  deserves  a  few 
words  for  and  against.  But  we  must  first  come 
to  an  understanding  with  ourselves  as  to  the 
meaning  of  metempsychosis.  There  are  three 
sorts,  an  ascending,  a  descending,  and  a  circular. 
Do  we  understand  each  other? 

Theag.  Perfectly.  The  ascending  is  the  re- 
fining of  lower  germs  of  life  into  higher;  as  if, 
for  example,  the  soul  of  a  plant  should  become 
an  animal,  the  soul  of  an  animal  a  man,  &c. 
The  descending  is  the  Brahminical  hypothesis ; 
that  good  men  are  rewarded  by  being  changed 
into  cows,  sheep,  and  white  elephants,  and  the 
wicked  punished  by  becoming  tigers  and  swine. 
The  third  or  circular  is— circular.  Which  shall 
we  discuss  first  ? 

Theag.  Whichever  you  please.  The  first  or 
ascending  is  very  probable,  and,  if  true,  destroys 
the  second  and  the  third.  If  the  upward  course 
is  the  law  of  Nature  with  all  living  things,  then 
nothing  can  move  backward  or  in  a  perpetual 
circle.  Then  man  too  must  forward.  The  chain 
cannot  break  with  him — the  highest  Jink  that 
we  know.  He  is  a  being  like  all  other  beings, 
and  if  everything  else  advances,  according  to  a 

*  The  original  gives  the  entire  poem  of  which  the  above 
is  the  concluding  stanza,  together  with  a  German  version 
of  it. 


universal  law  of  Nature,  then  he  too  must  ad- 
vance. 

Char.  But  we  are  supposing  this  law  of  Na- 
ture already  proved. 

Theag.  We  will  not  suppose  it  then.  For  the 
present,  we  will  know  nothing  of  the  first  sort 
of  metempsychosis;  whether,  e.  g.,  man  was 
first  a  plant,  then  an  animal,  and  has  reached 
his  present  condition  by  a  constant  progress. 
We  will  speak  only  of  the  second  and  third 
journey, — backwards  and  round  about.  We  will 
inquire  whether  there  are  data  in  nature,  expe- 
riences of  the  human  species,  fore-feelings  in  our 
soul,  ideas  in  God,  as  far  as  he  is  known  to  us,  or 
in  the  general  course  of  the  world,  which  autho- 
rize such  a  supposition.  Do  you  trust  yourself 
to  answer  that  question? 

Char.  Almost.  And  I  will  begin  with  the 
most  intelligible  —  with  the  experiences  of  hu- 
man kind.  Do  you  not  know  great  and  rare 
men  who  cannot  have  become  what  they  are, 
at  once,  in  a  single  human  existence  ?  Who 
must  have  often  existed  before,  in  order  to  have 
attained  that  purity  of  feeling,  that  instinctive 
impulse  for  all  that  is  true,  beautiful  and  good; 
in  short,  that  elevation  and  natural  supremacy 
over  all  around  them  ?  Do  you  know  none 
such  ? 

Theag.  I  know  none. 

Char.  Have  you  never  read  of  such  rare, 
great,  eminent  characters  ? 

Theag.  0  friend,  why  amuse  ourselves  with 
ranging  great  men  according  to  uniforms?  I 
know  great  men  in  life  and  in  history,  but  no 
one  who  must  necessarily  have  been  several  I 
times  in  a  human  mother's  womb,  in  order  to 
be  the  man  he  is.  The  greatest  men,  I  have 
always  found,  were  the  most  modest  and  sin- 
cere. They  made  no  mystery  of  what  they 
seemed  to  themselves,  of  what  they  once  were, 
of  what  they  became  and  how.  They  did  not 
throw  themselves  into  mount  iEtna  in  order  to 
become  gods  ;}■  for  the  iron  sandals  will  come 
to  light  in  time.  On  the  contrary,  they  confessed 
and  gave  their  "  Confessions"  to  the  world  and 
to  posterity. 

Char.  And  what  did  they  confess  ?  Do  not 
you  remember  Pythagoras  who  had  been  Eu 
phorbus?  Do  you  not  remember  Apollonius  of 
Tyana  ? 

Theag.  We  will  leave  these  fabulous  shades, 
and  come,  if  you  please,  to  persons  who  stand  it 
the  light.  Petrarch's,  Cardanus's,  Montaigne's,  Lu 
ther's,  Rousseau's  Confessions, — do  they  breathe 
a  syllable  of  those  great,  or  at  least  rare  men 
having  been  in  the  world  before  ?  of  their  feeling 
that  they  could  not  otherwise  have  become  what 
they  endeavored  to  be?  On  the  contrary,  do  they 
not  candidly  confess  how  they  had  worked  their 
way  upward,  how,  with  difficulty,  they  had 
raised  themselves  out  of  nothing,  how  they  still 
felt  all  manner  of  faults  and  weaknesses  within 

t  Deus  immortalis  haberi 
Dura  cupit  Empedocles,  ardentem  frigidus  iEtnam 
Insiluit.— Uorat. 


HERDER. 


219 


themselves,  and  how,  carried  away  thereby, 
they  would  undoubtedly  have  become  bad  men 
if  they  had  given  themselves  the  reins?  You 
remember  what  Socrates  said  of  the  physiogno- 
mist? And  Socrates  was  certainly  very  capable 
of  Pythagorean  dreams. 

Char.  Perhaps,  of  this  Pythagorean  dream, 
too.  But  altogether,  we  know  too  little  about 
Socrates  from  his  own  mouth;  he  speaks  only 
through  the  mouth  of  others.  Therefore  leave 
examples,  and  say  :  do  you  not  think  there  have 
been  very  few  truly  great  people  in  the  world? 

Theag.  They  would  not  be  called  great,  were 
there  not  few  of  them. 

Char.  Do  you  suppose  that  these  great  men, 
rare  as  they  have  been  in  all  centuries,  became 
what  they  were  and  what,  in  all  time,  they  will 
be,  by  mere  industry,  by  pains-taking  of  which 
every  mechanical  mind  is  capable?  or  by  Na- 
ture alone,  by  a  kind  of  native  sense,  by  an  in- 
spiration which  they  did  not  give  to  themselves, 
which  never  deserted  them,  which  no  one  could 
imitate,  and  which  every  one  who  attempted  to 
imitate,  failed  ?  They  appeared  like  Genii,  they 
vanished  like  Genii,  and  men  could  only  say : 
"  there  he  was,  there  he  stood  ;  he  is  no  more  ; 
where  is  there  another  like  him?"  Is  not  that 
your  opinion  ? 

Theag.  I  need  not  opine,  for  all  history  con- 
firms it.  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  metem- 
psychosis ? 

Char.  Hear  me  further.  Do  not  these  great 
characters  appear,  for  the  most  part,  all  at  once  ? 
Like  a  cloud  of  celestial  spirits,  they  descended 
from  on  high; — like  men  risen  from  the  dead, 
born  again,  who,  after  a  long  night  of  sleep, 
brought  back  the  old  time,  and  stood  forth  as 
youths  in  new  and  celestial  beauty.  Does  it 
not  seem  as  if  the  wheel  of  the  times  must  re- 
volve in  order  to  produce  the  human  race  anew, 
to  waken  the  understanding,  to  renovate  virtue? 
What  if  these  revolutions  in  the  visible  world 
are,  what  the  name  imports,  revolutions  also  in 
the  invisible, — the  spirit-world, — a  coming  again 
of  old,  noble  spirits  and  races  of  men? 

Theag.  That  sounds  fine.  Let  us  see  what 
the  splendid  vision  amounts  to.  That  great 
spirits  are  rare,  I  do  not  deny.  I  grant  further, 
that  what  they  were,  they  could  be  by  nature 
alone,  and  not  by  an  vmprobiis  labor.  But  this  is 
no  argument  for  Metempsychosis.  Among  brutes 
also,  there  are,  in  every  species,  large  gradations 
and  differences  of  faculty  which  only  those  ob- 
serve, who  live,  as  it  were,  on  intimate  terms 
with  that  species.  Must  the  souls  of  these  ani- 
mals have  therefore  migrated?  Must  the  more 
intelligent  dog  have  been  many  times  a  dog,  in 
order  to  become  what  he  is?  Or  is  it  not  rather 
evident,  that  everything  depends  on  happier 
organization,  a  more  sprightly  genesis,  a  nobler 
lineage,  on  favorable  local  circumstances,  on 
climate,  birth,  training  and  hundred-armed  ac- 
cident, which,  with  all  its  ramifications,  it  is  so 
difficult  to  compute  and  to  mould  ?  Now  com- 
pare brutes  with  man,  a  two-stringed  fiddle  with 
2g 


the  organ !  What  an  infinite  diversity  must 
there  not  be  in  the  human  species,  even  because 
the  extent  of  man's  powers  is  so  great,  his  for- 
mation so  delicate,  his  faculties  so  manifold,  the 
climate  in  which  he  lives,  the  world  of  circum- 
stances which  acts  upon  him  so  wonderfully 
diverse,  in  short,  the  links  of  his  chain  so  com- 
mensurable and  so  incommensurable,  as  you 
please  to  consider  it!  What  may  not  man  become? 
Who  has  ever  determined  the  goal  —  so  much 
and  no  more?  What  may  not  come  to  pass  out 
of  so  great  a  multitude,  in  the  stream  of  the 
ever-progressive  development  of  the  world  and 
of  human  kind?  Would  it  not  be  a  far  greater 
wonder,  if  all  men  were  born  blockheads,  than 
that  there  should  bp,  occasionally,  a  man  of 
sense,  as  is  now  the  case?  Shall  the  electric 
spark,  in  no  instance,  shine  forth  pure  and 
bright?  Shall  not  the  genuine  human  form 
show  itself  here  and  there  in  an  army  of  larva  ? 
What  need  of  goblins  and  revenants?  since  this 
nobler  form  is  the  true  and  peculiar  form  of 
humanity,  from  which  we  have  only  degene- 
rated, by  malformations  too  easily  accounted  for. 
You  might  as  well  maintain  that  angels  embody 
themselves  in  these  higher  specimens  of  huma- 
nity, or, — if  their  genius  works  instinctively,— 
that  certain  animals  endowed  with  certain  art- 
istic faculties  are  reproduced  in  them.  I  see 
not  why  we  must  needs  disturb  the  dead  and 
conjure  up  the  prophet  Samuel  in  his  night- 
gown, merely  that  we  may  say ;  "  I  see  gods 
arise  out  of  the  earth."  View  Humanity  hu- 
manly, and  it  will  appear  human  to  you.  View 
individual  great  men  in  their  organization,  their 
birth,  their  education,  their  place  and  position, 
and  you  will  not  need  to  cross  the  sea,  in  quest 
of  shadows. 

Char.  But  that  these  rare  men  should  be,  for 
the  most  part,  cotemporary  ? — 

Theag.  Is  that  your  proof,  my  good  metemp- 
sychosist?  As  though  a  heap  of  shadows  were 
blown  along,  as  in  Dante's  hell,  by  a  gust  of 
wind ;  or  as  if  a  troop  of  giants,  as  in  Bodmer's 
Noah,  came  sailing  in  a  balloon,  and  were 
pleased  to  alight  here !  Consult  history,  you 
will  always  find  that  men  are  awakened  by 
external  causes,  that  circumstances,  a  demand, 
a  want,  a  reward,  called  them  forth  ;  that  emu- 
lation stimulated  them  ;  that  a  long  series  of 
errors  had  just  run  itself  out;  that  a  night  of  the 
ages  had  past  away,  and  it  was  time,  at  last, 
that  morning  should  dawn  once  more.  Gene- 
rally, there  had  been  so  much  preparatory  labor 
and  discipline,  that  these  more  fortunate  men 
needed  only  to  profit  by  the  failures  and  pains 
of  their  ancestors,  to  attain  to  honor.  After 
many  dissonances,  they  hit  at  last  the  consonant 
points  of  the  cord. — That  is  all  that  our  eye  can 
discover  from  a  comparison  of  periods  and  of 
men.  As  to  groping  farther  into  the  invisible 
after  the  finger  of  the  Godhead,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  ascertain  when  and  how  he  causes  men 
to  be  born ; — I  hold  that  to  be  above  our  sphere. 
I  If  we  are  going  to  poetise,  I  can  as  well  derive 


250 


HERDER. 


them  from  the  moon,  under  certain  happy  phases, 
as  by  a  palingenesia  from  the  fore-world,  which 
does  not  change  quite  so  regularly  as  the  moon. 

Char.  The  latter  circumstance  matters  not. 
We  are  as  yet  far  too  young  in  history,  we  have 
experienced  too  few  of  those  periodical  revolu- 
tions, to  be  able  to  compute  them  as  we  do  the 
changes  of  the  moon. 

Thcag.  Then  also  we  are  too  young  to  cherish 
fictions  which  we  cannot  prove,  for  which  all 
history  furnishes  no  sure  data.  Young  or  old, 
the  return  of  the  human  species  must  have  be- 
come perceptible,  the  ebb  and  flood  of  spirits 
must  have  been  observed,  though  only  by  way 
of  conjecture.  Nay,  if  with  that  return,  the  hu- 
man understanding  and  moral  refinement,  the 
inward  activity  and  elasticity  of  men  be  sup- 
posed to  increase;  heavens!  what  glorious  men 
we  should  have,  by  this  time,  in  those  who  have 
been  here  ten  times  before !  And  where  are 
these  ?  Where  are  they,  my  friend  ?  The  wisest, 
best  and  strongest  men, — have  they  lived  in 
modern  times  or  in  antiquity  ?  And  how  often 
have  the  Homers,  the  Socrateses,  the  Pythago- 
rases,  the  Epaminondases,  the  Scipios  appeared 
in  the  world  1  to  say  nothing  of  their  having 
grown  from  century  to  century.  The  human 
phoenixes  have  always  been  rare,  and  will  al- 
ways remain  so.  We  need  not  expect  that, 
suddenly,  with  the  year  1800,  gods  will  walk 
the  earth  instead  of  men,  because  the  revolving 
wheel  has  dried  the  wet  clay  and  brought  the 
figures  into  shape.  Let  us  therefore  leave  these 
divinations  in  their  proper  place,  and  content 
ourselves  with  being  men,  such  as  our  forefathers 
were,  once  -  baked  men,  and  not  sewed  up,  a 
second  time,  in  Jupiter's  thigh.  Or  if,  my  dear 
migrationist,  you  know  any  story  out  of  your 
primeval  world,  which  I  also  remember,  bring 
it  forwards. 

Char.  You  shall  have  it;  only  I  beg  you  to 
be  candid,  and  not  to  deny  the  thoughts  and 
reminiscences  of  your  youth,  especially  of  your 
early,  unsophisticated  childhood.  Have  you 
never  had  remembrances  of  a  former  state, 
which  you  could  find  no  place  for  in  this  life  ? 
In  that  beautiful  period,  when  the  soul  is  yet  a 
half-closed  bud,  have  you  not  seen  persons,  been 
in  places,  of  which  you  were  ready  to  swear 
that  you  had  seen  those  persons,  or  had  been  in 
those  places  before?  And  yet  it  could  not  have 
been  in  this  life,  as  you  can  satisfy  yourself  on 
reflection.  Whence,  then  are  those  remini- 
scences ?  Whence  can  they  be,  but  from  some 
former  state  ?  Therefore  are  they  so  sweet,  so 
elevating!  The  most  blessed  moments,  the 
grandest  thoughts,  are  from  that  source.  In  our 
more  ordinary  seasons,  we  look  back  with  asto- 
nishment on  ourselves,  we  do  not  comprehend 
ourselves.  And  such  are  we  ;  we  who,  from  a 
hundred  causes,  have  sunk  so  deep  and  are  so 
wedded  to  matter,  that  but  few  reminiscences 
of  so  pure  a  character  remain  to  us.  The  nobler 
class  of  men  who,  separated  from  wine  and 
meat,  lived  in  perfect  simplicity,  temperate,  and 


according  to  the  order  of  Nature,  carried  it  fur- 
ther, no  doubt,  than  others,  as  we  learn  from  the 
example  of  Pythagoras  of  Iarchas,  of  Apollonius 
and  others,  who  remembered  distinctly  what 
and  how  many  times  they  had  been  in  the 
world  before.  If  we  are  blind,  or  can  see  but 
two  steps  beyond  our  noses,  ought  we  therefore 
to  deny  that  others  may  see  a  hundred  or  a 
thousand  degrees  farther,  even  to  the  bottom  of 
time,  into  the  deep,  cool  well  of  the  fore-world, 
and  there  discern  everything  plain  and  bright 
and  clear? 

Theag.  You  are  a  true  Pythagorean,  my  friend, 
and  worthy  to  attain  to  the  deepest  well  of  the 
fore-time;  yea!  to  the  original  fountain  of  truth 
itself,  if  men  ever  arrive  there.  I  will  freely 
confess  to  you,  that  those  sweet  dreams  of  me- 
mory are  known  to  me  also,  among  the  expe- 
riences of  my  childhood  and  youth.  I  have 
been  in  places  and  circumstances  of  which  I 
could  have  sworn  that  I  had  been  in  them  be- 
fore. I  have  seen  persons  with  whom  I  seemed 
to  have  lived  before ;  with  whom  I  was,  as  it 
were,  on  the  footing  of  an  old  acquaintance. 
But  may  there  not  be  some  other  cause  for  such 
experiences? 

Char.  I  know  of  none  but  the  remembrance 
of  a  former  state. 

Theag.  Certainly,  of  a  former  state  ;  only  not 
beyond  this  life,  and  in  another  body.  Have 
you  never  watched  yourself,  and  observed  how 
the  soul  is  always  occupied  in  secret?  how, 
especially,  in  childhood,  it  makes  plans,  corn- 
bines  thoughts,  builds  bridges,  meditates  ro- 
mances, and  repeats  all  this  in  dreams,  with 
the  magic  colors  of  the  dream-world?  Look  at 
that  child  playing  and  entertaining  itself  ill 
silence.  He  talks  with  himself;  he  is  in  a 
dream  of  vivid  images.  These  images  and 
thoughts  will  some  time  return  to  him,  at  a  time 
when  he  does  not  expect  it,  and  no  longer  re- 
members whence  they  are.  They  will  appear 
to  him  with  all  the  decorations  of  the  scene  in 
which  he  first  conceived  them,  or  which,  it  may 
be,  a  youthful  dream  brought  before  his  mind. 
The  situation  will  create  a  pleasant  delusion, 
as  every  retrospect  which  brings  agreeable 
images  before  the  mind  deludes  us.  It  will  be 
taken  for  an  inspiration  because  it  actually 
comes  like  an  inspiration  from  another  world ; 
that  is,  rich  in  images  and  without  pains.  A 
single  trait  of  the  present  picture  will  recall  it; 
a  single  sound  which  now  touches  the  soul, 
awakens  all  the  slumbering  tones  of  former 
times.  These  are  moments  of  the  sweetest 
rapture,  especially  in  beautiful,  wild,  romantic 
spots,  in  moments  of  pleasant  intercourse  with 
persons  who,  with  an  agreeable  illusion,  unex- 
pectedly create  in  us,  or  we  in  them,  the  feel- 
ing, as  it  were,  of  an  earlier  acquaintance :  re- 
miniscences of  paradise,  but  not  of  a  previous 
human  life ;  the  paradise,  rather,  of  youth,  of 
childhood,  or  of  pleasant  dreams  which  we  bad 
either  sleeping  or  waking,  and  which,  in  fact, 
are  the  true  paradise.  The  palingenesia  is  there- 


HERDER. 


251 


fore  correct,  only  not  so  wonderful  as  you  sup- 
pose, but,  on  the  contrary,  very  natural. 

Char.  Your  explanation  is  charming,  but — 
Theug.  I  think  it  will  prove  convincing,  if 
we  watch  ourselves.  Do  you  not  think  that 
man  experiences  the  highest  delight  and  even 
a  kind  of  ecstasy,  when  he  beholds  a  dream, 
which  the  soul  had  composed  out  of  its  dearest 
images,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  though  only 
partially  realized?  Must  not  the  soul  welcome 
such  a  dream  with  rapture,  and  embrace  it  as 
Adam  embraced  Eve,  when  it  sees  in  it  the 
image  of  itself,  the  creation  of  its  sweetest  mo- 
ments, the  fruit  of  its  secret  love?  Behold, 
my  friend,  hence  come  those  surprises,  those 
sudden  and  often  so  pleasing,  so  deeply  pro- 
phetic and  powerful  sympathies ;  hence  the 
divine  and  divining  power  of  first  impressions. 
The  second  impression  can  never  give  it.  That 
only  weakens  the  rapture  of  the  first  and  de- 
composes the  picture.  As  long  as  the  soul 
realizes  the  first  dream,  it  floats,  as  it  were,  in 
the  Elysium  of  childhood.  When  the  dream  is 
dissolved,  then,  alas!  the  gods  have  become 
men,  then  we  must  till  the  ground  and  eat  our 
bread  in  sorrow  and  in  the  sweat  of  our  face. 
Observe  particularly,  that,  with  well-organized 
men,  reminiscences  of  this  kind  are  mostly 
beautiful,  but  wild,  romantic,  often  exaggerated, 
precisely  like  the  impressions  and  feelings  of 
their  youth.  Sickly  people  retain  ideas  of  pain, 
weak  people  feelings  of  difficulty  and  trouble — 
the  reflections  of  their  early  impressions.  These 
feelings  return,  at  certain  times,  in  moments  of 
weakness,  of  sudden  attack,  when  the  soul  is 
off  its  guard  and  gives  itself  up  to  involuntary 
combinations  of  thought;  they  return  often; 
they  become  dominant  feelings.  I  could  men- 
tion striking  examples  of  this,  but  they  would 
lead  us  too  far  out  of  the  way.  Observe  people 
in  love,  and  insane  people,  —  especially  melan- 
choly love  and  mild  insanity, — you  will  see  the 
power  of  first  impressions,  the  entire  youth  of 
the  soul  in  every  trait  of  the  pictures  which 
filled  their  minds;  you  will  hear  them  in  all 
the  complainings  of  their  aberrations.  Nay, 
observe  your  own  soul  in  dreams.  There,  we 
all  wander  alike.  After  a  certain  age,  we  de- 
corate all  our  dreams  with  scenes  of  our  youth : 
the  very  persons  who  appear  in  them,  if  they 
were  our  nearest  and  most  beloved,  assume 
other,  and,  as  it  seems,  more  lovely  and  roman- 
tic forms.  In  all  the  fantasies  of  love  the  first 
impression  is  the  dearest,  the  most  indelible. 
In  short,  we  spell  together,  where  we  can,  an 
alphabet  out  of  our  youth  whose  traits  are  the 
most  agreeable,  the  most  impressive,  the  most 
familiar  to  us.  Have  I  satisfied  you  with  my 
solution  ? 

Char.  Not  entirely.  Some  reminiscences  are 
so  wonderful,  so  foreign,  and,  to  use  your  lan- 
guage, so  incapable  of  being  spelt  with  the  im- 
pressions of  the  youth  and  childhood  of  this 
life,  that — 

Theag.  That  they  necessarily  require  another 


world,  a  former  life?  Well,  then,  why  are  you 
not  true  to  your  own  hypothesis?  Why  do  you 
not  actually  assume  another  world,  a  foregone 
connection  in  the  world  of  spirits  and  of  souls, 
as  Plato  fabled,  as  the  old  Rabbins  and  many 
nations  conceived  ?  Methinks,  if  we  must  dream, 
we  shall  do  well  to  dream  the  freest  of  dreams. 
Imagine,  for  example,  how  once,  with  your  be- 
loved in  the  land  of  spirits  you 

"  Swarmed  unseen,  small  as  a  ray  of  light ; 
Think  how,  upon  an  orange  leaf, 
You  met  for  sport  and  jest ; 
In  the  luxurious  lap  of  young  auriculas, 
Oft  winged  with  converse  sweet  the  laggard  time." 

Why  must  you  make  your  scene  so  narrow  and 
let  the  soul  beg  so  often  and  laboriously,  in  our 
poor  humanity,  the  spiritual  alms  which  it 
may  have  far  cheaper  and  all  at  once  if  you 
send  it  into  the  realm  of  spirits  and  divest  it 
entirely  of  its  corporeal  nature.  Have  you  never 
read  letters  from  the  dead  to  the  living? 
Char.  Many. 

Theag.  Well,  then,  you  know  what  freedom 
and  absence  of  restraint  there  is  in  the  kingdom 
of  spirits.  Therefore  it  is  that  children  love 
dreams  of  this  kind  so  much,  because  they  blend 
them  with  their  own  dreams,  which  they  seem 
to  confirm  therewith  as  with  traditions  from 
another  world.  For  myself,  though  I  tolerate 
these  things  in  poetry,  and  once  delighted  in 
them,  at  my  present  time  of  life  I  am  content  to 
renounce  the  dream  of  pre-existence,  and  to 
study  my  soul  in  its  present  bonds,  in  its  poor 
actuality. 

Char.  And  what  results  do  you  draw  from 
your  studies  in  it  ? 

Theag.  Results  ?  That 's  more  than  I  know. 
But  the  study  itself,  it  seems  to  me,  is  very  pro- 
fitable, and  I  wish  that  we  might  study  our 
children  for  the  same  purpose. 

Char.  For  what  purpose  ? 

Theag.  To  notice  their  first  impressions,  the 
manner  in  which  their  souls  are  affected  by 
them,  the  secret  ideas  and  images  with  which 
they  entertain  themselves,  which  they  spin  and 
spin,  like  a  fine  invisible  web,  according  to  their 
own  will  and  pleasure.  Have  you  never  ob- 
served that  children  will  sometimes,  on  a  sud- 
den, give  utterance  to  ideas  which  make  us 
wonder  how  they  got  possession  of  them,  which 
presuppose  a  long  series  of  other  ideas  and  se- 
cret self-communings,  which  break  forth  like  a 
full  stream,  out  of  the  earth,  an  infallible  sign 
that  the  stream  was  not  produced  in  a  moment 
from  a  few  rain-drops,  but  had  long  been  flow- 
ing concealed  beneath  the  ground,  and,  it  may 
be,  had  broken  through  many  a  cave,  had  car- 
ried away  many  a  rock,  and  contracted  many 
defilements  ? 

Char.  And  if  we  do  observe  this,  who  can 
resist  Nature  ?  Can  we  arrest  the  course  of 
these  streams  or  bring  them  to  light  ?  Can  we 
change  the  constitution  of  the  earth  and  of 
human  souls  according  to  our  pleasure  ? 
|      Theag.  We  can  in  one  sense,  and  in  another 


252 


HERDER. 


sense  we  cannot.  We  can  as  far  as  we  ought, 
and  we  ought  as  far  as  we  can.  If  the  souls 
of  our  children  are  dear  to  us,  and  we  are  as 
deeply  convinced  as  I  am,  of  the  power  of  first 
impressions,  ought  we  not  imperceptibly  to 
guide  and  to  determine  these  first  impressions, 
so  far  as  they  are  in  our  power?  I  say,  imper- 
ceptibly, for  else  it  is  all  in  vain.  The  soul,  in 
its  most  secret  operations,  bears  no  restraint,  no 
mechanical  law;  it  works  freely  out  of  its  own 
nature ;  and  these  first  efforts  contain  the  em- 
blem of  all  its  future  workings  through  the 
whole  course  of  its  life.  To  watch  it,  therefore, 
and,  when  in  pleasant  wilds  and  agreeable 
labyrinths  it  wanders  and  loses  its  way,  to 
guide  it  in  the  shape  of  a  bright  star,  or  like 
Minerva  in  Homer,  in  the  form  of  a  foreign  tra- 
veller,— not  teacher  or  overseer, — in  short,  as  a 
certain  philosopher  desired  for  his  daily  por- 
tion, to  supply  to  our  children  joyful  morning- 
images  and  youthful  pictures,  that  hereafter  at 
evening  and  in  old  age,  they  may  have  glad 
reminiscences  from  the  Platonic  kingdom  of 
spirits  and  may  acquire  no  debasing  and  terrible 
ideas  of  metempsychosis  ; — that  I  think  we  can 
and  ought  to  do ;  although,  of  course,  subject  to 
the  power  of  fate. 

Char.  Yes !  to  be  sure,  subject  to  the  power 
of  fate. 

Theag.  For  we  are  not  masters  of  all  our 
own  ideas  and  impressions,  much  less  of  the 
impressions  of  our  friends  and  our  children.  It 
is  not  we  ourselves  who  have  placed  our  souls 
here,  much  less  have  we  armed  their  forces  against 
the  universe  which  streams  to  them  from  every 
side.  There  are  actually  persons  who  are  des- 
tined to  sorrows  and  misfortune,  for  whom  early 
impressions  and  ideas,  cares  and  disease  have 
in  a  great  measure  diminished  and  destroyed 
the  joy  of  life.  The  cup  which  they  are  to 
drink  has  been  made  bitter,  or  else  turbid  and 
distasteful ;  for  there  are  evils  which  cannot  be 
wholly  done  away  in  this  life.  These  persons, 
too,  must  content  themselves,  meanwhile,  to  bear 
with  cheerfulness,  at  least  with  equanimity,  the 
burden  which  is  laid  upon  them,  the  insepara- 
ble burden  of  life,  and  to  await  in  hope  another, 
freer,  better  being. 

Char.  Do  you  see  now  how  you  arrive  at  my 
metempsychosis?  Who  knows  what  these  peo- 
ple may  have  committed  in  their  former  state, 
that  they  are  now  made  so  miserable  by  the 
band  of  fate  and  not  by  their  own  fault?  But 
you  are  preparing  to  go. 

Theag.  It  is  late.  Another  time  we  will 
begin  where  we  leave  off,  as  is  the  law  of  me- 
tempsychosis. Sleep  well,  Charicles,  and  dream 
of  the  primeval  realms  of  love,  and  not  that 
you  were  once  Sejanus  or  Ra vail  lac. 

Char.  In  that  case  it  were  well  that  I  am  no 
longer  so,  and  that  my  evil  destiny  lies  already 
behind  me.    Sleep  well ! 

DIALOGUE  II. 
Charicles.  I  hope,  my  friend,  to  hear  you  speak 


more  reasonably  to-day  on  the  subject  of  our 
conversation.  Yesterday  you  were  somewhat 
w;arm. 

Thcages.  That  depends  on  what  you  mean 
by 'reasonable' and  'warm.'  If  equanimity  is 
shown  by  investigating,  then  I  had  it  yesterday; 
but  if  you  desire  that  laxity  and  coldness  to 
which  everything  is  indifferent — 

Char.  Not  exactly  indifferent.  To  whom  can 
it  be  a  matter  of  indifference  that  poor,  vexed 
man  should  find  some  indemnification  for  pre- 
sent, pressing  evils,  at  least  in  the  beautiful 
visions  of  hope  ?  that  he  should  receive  some 
light  concerning  God,  the  world,  the  course  of 
fate?  Where  Seneca's  reasons  cease,  where 
even  Religion  does  not  explain,  but  only  ties 
new  knots,  there — 

Theag.  Charicles,  let  us  not  bring  religion  into 
the  play,  especially  in  so  disparaging  manner. 
Religion,  most  surely,  knows  nothing  of  metem- 
psychosis, but  points  in  quite  another  direction, 
with  all  its  promises,  threats,  commands,  exam- 
ples. The  wheel  of  Ixion,  the  stone  of  Sisy- 
phus, the  drawing  of  the  Danaides — such  would 
be  the  eternal  revolution  of  human  destiny,  not 
a  comforting,  heavenly  recompense.  In  Dante's 
hell,  the  hypocrites  walk  with  leaden  mantles 
and  averted,  backward-looking-face,  in  a  perpe- 
tual circle ;  they  go  forever  and  never  move 
from  the  spot,  and  forever  look  behind  them 
with  their  twisted  necks. 

Char.  But,  my  friend,  do  you  also  look  back 
calmly,  a  few  moments.  How  many  wretches 
are  there  behind  you,  who  have  not  deserved  to 
fall  so  low,  who,  therefore,  must  rise  higher  in 
this  life  in  order  to  reconcile  us,  in  some  degree, 
with  Divine  justice  and  mercy. 

Theag.  To  reconcile?  You  would  then  be  an 
enemy  of  God,  if  there  be  no  migration  of  souls 
in  the  circulations  of  Humanity?  You  must 
needs  deny  his  justice  and  paternal  goodness,  if 
he  did  not  permit  you  to  return  to  this  earth 
again  and  again  ?  For  myself,  I  confess  I  am 
heartily  satisfied  with  having  been  once  on  the 
earth  and  lived  my  life,  as  man.  For  at  best, 
says  one  of  the  eldest  sages,  it  is  "  labor  and 
sorrow :''  and  that  is  its  everlasting  circle. 
"  Man  who  is  born  of  woman  is  of  few  days  and 
full  of  trouble.  He  cometh  forth  as  a  flower 
and  is  cut  down ;  he  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow 
and  continueth  not."    That  is  his  destiny. 

Char.  A  sad  destiny ! 

Theag.  Sad  or  consoling,  —  enough,  it  is  his 
destiny.  When  you  look  at  human  life  in  all 
its  connections,  does  not  everything  within  you 
seem  to  cry  aloud  :  "  God  be  praised !  I  am  to 
be  lived  but  once."  The  morning  of  our  days, 
how  soon  past!  The  bud  of  our  earthly  being 
how  soon  withered  !  Now  the  day  gets  sultry, 
weariness  of  life  succeeds  ;  gradually  the  evening 
draws  nigh,  and  the  sun  goes  down.  Man  fades 
as  he  bloomed,  he  forgets  his  own  thoughts,  he 
distrusts  his  own  powers,  he  dies  before  he  dies, 
and  rejoices  to  find  his  grave.  This  is  the  un- 
changeable circle  of  the  days  and  seasons,  of 


HERDER. 


253 


the  life-period  and  human  ages  on  our  earth. 
And  you  would  have  the  wretch  tread  this  circle 
a  thousand  times  when  he  rejoices  to  have  trod- 
den it  but  once  !  You  would  have  Nature,  like 
Penelope,  forever  weave  her  web  and  weave  it 
!  anew,  only  to  destroy  it  again.  Unfortunate 
1  Humanity  with  all  its  talents,  hopes  and  powers  ! 
Weak-minded  Penelope!  —  for  whose  under- 
standing at  least  I  would  not  be  a  suitor. 

Char.  But,  my  friend,  has  not  the  tree,  the 
flower,  the  day,  the  same  destiny?  and  do  they 
not  return  too?  It  appears  to  be  the  law  of 
Nature ;  why  should  weak,  proud  man  alone 
resist  it? 

Theag.  Truly,  he  would  be  weak  and  proud, 
to  resist  it  as  a  tree,  as  a  flower,  or  as  the  day ; 
but  he  is  neither  of  the  three  ;  and  furthermore 
these  three  do  not  return.  The  tree  stands  rooted 
in  the  earth,  and  if  it  has,  as  I  doubt  not,  a  life, 
it  is  only  the  first  germ  of  an  inferior  kind  of 
life.  This,  it  is  a  great  while  in  working  out, 
and  must  remain  long  in  its  place.  Every  year 
is  to  it  but  one  day ;  the  spring  its  morning,  the 
winter  its  sleep.  It  must  endure,  produce  many 
leaves,  blossoms  and  fruits  which  serve  the  air, 
animals,  man,  —  the  whole  superior  creation. 
Then  it  gradually  grows  old  and  dies.  That 
which  now  shoots  forth  around  it,  is  not  itself 
but  its  offspring.  What  has  become  of  its  life- 
power  and  life-breath,  in  odors,  blossoms,  leaves, 
fruits,  we  know  or  do  not  know.  Our  glance 
cannot  and  must  not  penetrate  the  kingdom  of 
productive  powers.  The  tree,  then,  does  not 
come  within  your  palingenesia ;  it  does  not  mi- 
grate, but  lives  out  its  life,  as  a  world  of  change- 
able, unreturning  leaves,  blossoms  and  fruits. 
The  same  of  the  flower.  And  the  simile  of 
the  day,  which  certainly  never  returns,  was,  un- 
doubtedly, meant  only  as  a  simile.  You  are, 
therefore,  entirely  without  example  in  the  order 
of  nature.  And  do  you  think  that  man,  man 
alone,  is  to  be  this  example  of  an  Ixionic-Tan- 
talistic-Danaidal  destiny?  an  example  without 
example,  nay,  almost  without  design? 

Char.  Not  entirely  without  design.  He  would 
learn  the  science  of  life  in  the  only  way  in  which 
it  can  be  learned  ;  by  the  most  many-sided  view 
of  it,  and  the  most  living  experience.  He  would, 
therefore,  always  be  tried,  purified,  refined,  con- 
firmed ;  the  thread  of  his  identity  would  con- 
tinue and  he  would  advance,  however  much  he 
might  seem  to  move  in  a  circle. 

Theag.  A  slow  progress !  in  which  Fate  would 
treat  us  as  Phrygians,  who  are  always  wise  be- 
hindhand, and  never  know  how  the  boy  feels 
who  receives  the  stripes,  until  they  have  re- 
ceived them  themselves.  And  to  receive  these 
Stripes  forever ! 

Char.  Fate  will  not  inflict  them  without  need  ; 
and  since  it  is  once  for  all  established,  that  we 
really  and  truly  know  only  that  which  we  have 
ourselves  tried  and  experienced — 

Theag.  It  seems  to  me,  my  friend,  that  you 
)  abuse  the  truest  of  propositions,  when  you 
apply  it  in  that  way.   I  need  not  try  everything 


in  this  world;  else,  wo  to  poor  humanity! 
What  wise  man  would  wish  to  be  inoculated 
with  the  plague  in  order  to  ascertain  its  true 
nature?  What  man  would  wish  to  be  a  patri- 
cide or  a  matricide,  in  order  to  learn  how  Nero 
or  any  other  monster  must  have  felt?  And 
what  kind  of  a  destiny  would  that  be,  which 
should  find  pleasure  in  making  me  perform  all 
sorts  of  detestable  parts,  in  order  to  give  me  the 
feeling  that  I  had  performed  them  ?  You  see 
what  a  system  it  is  that  can  furnish  occasion  for 
all  manner  of  enormities,  making  the  lusts 
which  the  villain  feels  within  himself,  his  pre- 
sent '■destination?  and  giving  him,  when  he  dies 
upon  the  gallows,  the  sweet  consolation  that 
"now  he  has  expiated  one  of  his  debts; — it 
was  his  destination  to  tread  that  path  at  pre- 
sent ;  what  he  has  not  yet  learned  and  expe- 
rienced, he  will  have  time  to  learn  in  other  sta- 
tions." 

Char.  We  will  not  speak  of  these  abuses. 
The  best  things  may  be  abused,  in  the  worst 
manner,  by  foolish  and  wicked  men.  I  return 
to  my  question.  How  will  you  vindicate  the 
goodness  of  God  who  has  made  the  lot  of  man 
so  unequal?  Either,  the  ideas  of  evil  and  good, 
perfect  or  imperfect,  happy  or  unhappy,  must 
be  very  indifferent  to  him  ;  or — 

Theag.  Or  we  ought  not  to  measure  him  by 
our  petty,  narrow,  pitiful  standard.  Who  is 
happy?  Who  is  unhappy?  Is  the  civilized 
man  more  so  than  the  savage?  The  slave  in 
golden,  more  than  the  slave  in  iron  chains? 
Where,  on  our  earth,  dwells  perfection  ?  Where 
has  it  built  itself  an  house  ?  Are  we  constituted 
its  judges?  We  who  live  only  on  the  dole  of  its 
grace  and  mercy?  God  created  us  not  to  judge 
the  human  species,  but  to  live  in  it  and  to  re- 
joice in  our  place,  and  to  bless  our  kind  wherever 
and  as  far  as  we  can.  He  himself  has  done  no 
more  than,  according  to  his  wisdom,  he  could; — 
than,  according  to  his  goodness,  he  should.  He 
took  counsel  of  both,  and  so  he  created  the  hu- 
man race.  Who  can  ask;  "why  no  higher?" 
"  why  no  lower?"  Enough,  it  exists;  and  let 
each  one  rejoice  that  he  too  exists,  enjoy  his 
being,  and  trust  in  Him  who  brought  him  hither, 
that  He  will  also  lead  him  forth  and  lead  him 
farther. 

Char.  So,  the  inequalities  of  the  human  con- 
dition, on  our  earth,  find  no  explanation  with 
you  ? 

Theag.  No  other  than  this:  "they  lay  in  the 
plan  of  creation."  Our  planet,  as  it  is  once  for 
all  constituted,  was  intended  to  bear  what  it 
can,  to  produce  what  it  can.  Therefore  it  has 
been  made  a  globe  with  all  varieties  of  climate, 
of  country,  of  vegetable,  animal,  human  kinds. 
The  ladder  is  erected  in  both  hemispheres,  its 
rounds  are  innumerable :  where  do  they  termi- 
nate? Through  an  hundred  gates  everything 
presses  into  the  kingdom  of  God,  and,  through 
hundred  thousand,  forth  again,  in  all  gradations, 
upwards,  forwards.  Where  God  shall  bless  the 
poor,  merchandised  negro?  whether  in  a  para- 
22 


254 


HERDER. 


dise  among  the  mountains,*  or  beneath  a  lazy 
bishop  s  mitre,  because  he  lias  once  ground  him- 
self weary, —  let  those  decide  who  can.  As 
diverse  as  this  world  is,  so  diverse  will  the 
future  also  be.  Or  if  not, — if  everything  is  to 
be  united  by  simpler  ends  and  more  determinate 
magnitudes, — why,  so  much  the  better  !  Enough, 
I  often  find  happiness  here,  where  I  sought  it 
not;  beauty  beneath  a  covering  which  seemed 
most  foreign  to  it;  wisdom  and  virtue,  for  the 
most  part,  in  rude,  despised  and  undistinguish- 
able  forms.  Precisely,  where  paint  and  prink- 
ing begin,  there  truth,  justice,  happiness  cease  ; 
and  shall  we  let  our  poor  pilgrim  migrate  to 
these  gilded  pagodas,  to  lose  the  truth  which 
they  possess  and  to  exchange  inward  worth  and 
wealth  for  wretched  outward  tinsel?  The  more 
I  learn  to  know  Humanity  by  other  tokens  than 
the  cut  of  the  cloak,  the  more  cause  I  find,  even 
in  this  stage  of  being,  to  adore  Providence  with 
kneeling  reverence.  Where  we  expect  the 
greatest  misery,  there  dwells  often  the  greatest 
happiness.  Simplicity  is  not  stupidity,  and  cun- 
ning is  neither  blessing  nor  wisdom.  I  there- 
fore still  hold  with  the  poet ; — 

"  Wisely  doth  Destiny  its  gifts  allot ; 
To  each,  food,  shelter,  raiment  and  what  not, 
Strength  to  the  poor  and  to  the  weak  man,  place." 

Char.  But,  my  dear  friend,  you  surely  know 
the  law  of  economy  which  holds  as  well  in  re- 
gard to  power  as  to  space  ?  It  rules  throughout 
all  Nature.  Is  it  not  very  probable  that  the 
Deity  is  guided  by  it  in  the  propagation  and 
progress  of  human  souls?  He  who  has  not 
become  ripe  in  one  form  of  Humanity,  is  put 
into  the  oven  again,  and,  some  time  or  other, 
must  be  perfected. 

Theag.  But  suppose  he  should  be  burned  in 
the  process?  The  mould  of  humanity  is  so 
narrow,  the  position — whether  here  or  there,  in 
rags  or  in  purple  —  has  so  little  to  do  with  the 
result,  that  he  who  cannot  be  upright  in  one 
costume,  will  scarcely  be  so  in  another.  At  all 
events,  there  must  be  no  necessity  about  it,  else 
all  the  morality  of  free-agency  is  at  an  end,  and 
man  is  thrown  about  like  a  stone,  and  shoved 
hither  and  thither  like  a  clod  of  earth.  Do  you 
see  where  your  hypothesis  is  leading  you  again? 
To  a  fatal  necessity  which  enfeebles  all  striving 
and  aspiration  after  happiness,  beauty,  virtue 
in  every  form,  under  every  mask,  and  binds  us 
in  fetters  of  blind  obedience  to  the  car  of  Des- 
tiny. But  we  have  been  prating  long  enough 
in  this  narrow  room ;  and  that  has  made  our 
conversation  assume  such  a  contracted,  meta- 
physical character.  Look  at  the  beautiful, 
starry  night!  Yonder  rises  the  moon.  I  pro- 
pose, that  we  should  betake  ourselves,  soul  and 
body,  out  of  this  metaphysical  atmosphere  into 
free  Nature. 

*  — "  Simple  Nature  to  his  hope  has  given 
Behind  the  cloud-topt  hill  an  humbler  heaven, 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced 
Some  happier  island  on  the  wat'ry  waste." 


They  went  forth  and  soon  the  tone  of  their 
conversation  was  changed.  The  holy  silence 
which  night  spread  around  them,  the  bright 
celestial  luminaries  suspended  like  lamps  above 
their  heads,  on  the  one  side  some  lingering 
shimmer  of  the  evening  red,  on  the  other  the 
moon  lifting  herself  softly  from  behind  the 
shadows  of  the  forest : — how  does  this  magnifi- 
cent temple  exalt,  expand,  enlarge  the  soul !  At 
such  moments,  one  feels  so  perfectly  the  beauty 
and  the  nothingness  of  earth,  and  what  refresh- 
ment God  has  provided  for  us  on  this  star,  on 
which  sun  and  moon,  the  two  fair  lights  of 
heaven,  alternating,  conduct  us  through  life, 
and  how  low  and  small  and  vanishing  is  this 
speck  of  our  earth,  compared  with  the  measure- 
less splendor  and  glory  of  stars,  suns  and  ; 
worlds. 

What  think  you  now,  said  Theages,  of  your  jj 
principium  minimi,  according  to  which,  you  would 
be  forever  knocking  about  on  the  earth,  chained 
to  a  grain  of  sand  ?  Look  at  the  heavens,  God's 
star-writing,  the  primeval  tradition  of  our  im- 
mortality, the  luminous  chart  of  our  far  pil- 
grimage! Where  does  the  universe  end?  And 
why  do  rays  come  down  to  us  from  yonder 
farthest  star?  Why  have  there  been  given  to 
man  the  glance  and  the  flaming  flight  of  im- 
mortal hopes  ?  Why,  when  we  have  been  ex- 
hausted with  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  bound  fast 
to  the  dust  all  the  day,  does  God  unveil  to  us  at 
night  this  sublime  field  of  infinite  eternal  pros- 
pects? We  stand  lost  amid  the  host  of  the 
worlds  of  God,  lost  in  the  abyss  of  his  immen- 
sity round  about  us.  And  what  should  bind 
my  spirit  to  this  weary  sand-grain,  when  my 
body,  the  hull,  has  sunk  into  the  ground?  All 
the  laws  which  bind  me  here,  evidently  relate 
to  my  body  only.  That  is  formed  of  this  earth 
and  must  return  to  this  earth  again.  The  laws 
of  motion,  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere, — 
everything  confines  that,  and  only  that,  here 
below.  The  spirit  once  escaped,  once  rid  of 
the  delicate  but  strong  bands  of  sense,  impulse, 
propensity,  duty  and  custom  which  bind  it  to 
this  little  sphere  of  visibility ;  what  earthly 
power  can  hold  it  longer?  What  law  of  Nature 
has  been  discovered  which  should  compel  souls 
to  revolve  in  this  narrow  race-course  ?  The 
spirit  is  raised  above  the  bounds  of  time,  it 
despises  space  and  the  slow  movements  of 
earth.  Once  disembodied,  it  is  immediately  in 
its  place,  its  sphere,  in  the  new  kingdom  to 
which  it  belongs.  Perhaps  that  kingdom  is 
around  us  and  we  perceive  it  not ;  perhaps  it 
is  near  us  and  we  know  not  of  it,  except  in 
occasional  moments  of  happy  fore-feeling,  when 
the  soul,  as  it  were,  attracts  it  to  itself,  or  it  the 
soul.  Perhaps,  too,  there  are  appointed  for  us 
places  of  rest,  regions  of  preparation,  other 
worlds  in  which, — as  on  a  golden  heaven-lad- 
der— ever  lighter,  more  active  and  blest,  we 
may  climb  upward  to  the  fountain  of  all  light, 
ever  seeking,  never  reaching  the  centre  of  our 
pilgrimage,  —  the  bosom  of  the  Godhead.  For 


HERDER. 


255 


we  are  and  must  ever  be  limited,  imperfect, 
finite  beings.  But  wberever  I  may  be,  through 
whatever  worlds  I  may  be  led,  I  shall  remain 
forever  in  the  hands  of  the  Father  who  hath 
brought  me  hither  and  who  calls  me  further; 
forever  in  the  infinite  bosom  of  God. 

j  I  am  sorry,  said  Charicles,  to  interrupt  you  in 
your  contemplations  which  remove  you  so  far 

,  from  our  earth ;  but  do  not  leave  me  behind. 
Wherever  you  are  free,  wise  and  active,  there 
is  heaven  ;  and  why,  then,  do  you  shun  and  flee 
the  earth?  If  you  can  live  more  freely,  wisely, 
happily,  in  some  other  human  form,  and  so 
ascend  continually  in  your  inward  condition, 
wliat  matters  place  and  scene?  Here  or  there, 
God's  world  is  God's  world;  one  theatre  is  as 
good  as  another.  Our  earth  too  is  a  star  among 
stars. 

Theag.  Well,  my  friend ;  but  how  far  is  it 
possible  to  climb  in  our  humanity'?  Is  not  its 
sphere  as  narrowly  bounded,  as  dusty  and  as 
filthy  as  this  star  itself?  The  best  of  hearts  is 
still  but  a  human  heart;  body  is  body  and 
earthly  life  is  earthly  life.  The  miserable  de- 
tails of  business,  the  cares  of  life,  so  necessary 
and  yet  so  unprofitable,  still  recur.  The  differ- 
ent life-periods,  with  their  changing  imperfec- 
tions, recur.  Even  in  regard  to  virtues,  the 
human  race  is  divided  into  its  two  sexes,  which 
stand  over  against  each  other,  on  one  root, 
mutually  embrace  and  crown  one  another,  but 
can  never  become  one  and  the  same  perfection, 
in  human  life.  What  the  one  has,  is  wanting 
to  the  other.  What  one  man  has,  another  man 
wants.  Birth,  station,  climate,  education,  office, 
mode  of  living  forever  limit  and  impede.  Man 
grows  for  a  few  years  only,  and  then  stands 
s,till  or  declines  and  recedes.  If  he  attempts, 
in  old  age,  to  appear  a  youth  and  to  imitate 
others,  he  becomes  ridiculous,  he  becomes 
childish.  In  short,  it  is  a  narrow  sphere,  this 
earthly  life;  and  do  what  we  will,  as  long  as 
we  are  here,  it  is  impossible  to  escape  this  nar- 
rowness without  greater  injury  and  the' entire 
loss  of  ourselves.  But  hereafter,  when  death 
shall  burst  these  bonds,  when  God  shall  trans- 
plant us  like  flowers  into  quite  other  fields  and 
surround  us  with  entirely  different  circumstan- 
ces, then,  —  Have  you  never  experienced,  my 
friend,  what  new  faculty  a  new  situation  gives 
to  the  soul?  a  faculty,  which,  in  our  old  corner, 
in  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  old  circumstances 
and  occupations,  we  had  never  imagined,  had 
never  supposed  ourselves  capable  of? 

Char.  Who  has  not  experienced  that?  From 
that  very  circumstance  I  drew  the  refreshing 
draught  of  the  Lethe  stream  with  which  my 
palingenesia  has  already  rejuvenized  me,  here 
on  this  earth.  I  feel,  as  you  do,  that,  in  spite 
of  all  our  striving  and  effort,  the  sphere  of 
humanity  is  insurmountable,  and  that  our  nature 
is  circumscribed  within  fixed  limits.  Here,  on 
this  earth,  no  tree  reaches  to  the  heavens ;  cer- 
tain stains,  once  contracted,  all  the  rivers  of  the 
world  cannot  wash  out;  many  weaknesses  and 


imperfections,  after  a  certain  length  of  time, 
can  scarcely  be  recognised,  much  less  laid  aside. 
Often,  the  coarser  are  exchanged  for  the  more 
refined  and  more  dangerous.  All  that  is  true. 
Moreover,  I  see  very  well,  that,  in  the  narrow, 
ever  repeated  circle  of  earthly  life,  nothing 
superlatively  great  is  to  be  effected.  There  is 
so  much  useless  trouble,  and,  from  renewed 
elfort,  so  little  of  fresh  acquisition.  The  do- 
main which  you  unfold  is  indeed  more  exten- 
sive, the  field  to  which  you  invite  is  infinite, — 
the  host  of  all  the  worlds  that  lie  in  my  eternal 
path  toward  the  Godhead.  But,  friend,  who 
shall  give  me  wings  for  such  a  flight?  It  seems, 
always,  as  if  something  hurled  me  back  to  my 
earth.  It  seems  to  me,  as  if  I  had  not  yet  used 
up  that,  had  not  yet  made  myself  sufficiently 
light  to  ascend  higher ;  who  shall  give  me  wings  ? 

Theag.  If  you  will  not  receive  them  from  the 
sacred  hand  which  points  thither,  then  receive 
at  least  some  feathers  from  friendly — from  your 
friend  Newton's  hands. 

Char.  From  Newton's? 

Theag.  Even  so.  The  system  which  he  con- 
structed out  of  stars  and  suns  —  let  that  be  to 
you  the  fabric  of  your  immortality,  of  an  ever- 
during  progress  and  upward  flight.  Are  not  all 
the  planets  of  our  solar  system  bound  to  each 
other  and  to  their  centre  or  focus,  the  sun,  by 
the  power  of  attraction  ? 

Char.  Unquestionably. 

Theag.  They  constitute  then  a  firm,  an  inde- 
structible whole,  in  which,  if  anything  should 
be  changed  or  disturbed,  the  whole,  with  its 
great  harmonies,  must  suffer  and  go  to  ruin. 

Char.  Precisely  so.  The  planets  all  relate  to 
the  sun,  and  the  sun,  with  its  forces,  its  bulk,  its 
light,  its  warmth  and  distance,  relates  to  the 
planets. 

Theag.  And  yet  the  planets  are  only  the 
staging  of  the  theatre,  the  dwelling-places  of 
the  creatures,  who,  on  them,  revolve  around  the 
infinitely  more  beautiful  Sun  of  eternal  goodness 
and  truth,  in  various  degrees  of  removal,  with 
various  eclipses,  perihelia  and  aphelia.  Is  it 
possible  that  the  scenes  themselves  should  be 
so  closely  connected  and  not  the  contents  of  the 
scenes, — the  play  itself?  Is  it  to  be  supposed, 
that  the  planets  are  so  exactly  arranged  in  rela- 
tion to  each  other  and  to  the  Sun,  and  that  the 
destiny  of  those  who  live  in  them,  and  for 
whose  sake  they  have  been  prepared,  is  not  as 
closely  connected,  and  more  closely,  inasmuch 
as  being  is  more  than  costume,  matter  more  than 
place,  life  and  subject  more  than  theatre  and 
stage?  In  nature  everything  is  related, — morals 
and  physics — like  body  and  spirit.  Morality  is 
only  a  more  beautiful  physique  of  the  spirit. 
Our  future  destination  is  a  new  link  in  the  chain 
of  our  being,  which  connects  itself  with  the  pre- 
sent link  most  minutely  and  by  the  most  subtile 
progression,  as  our  earth  is  connected  with  the 
sun,  and  the  moon  with  our  earth. 

Char.  I  surmise  what  you  would  say,  my 
friend,  but — 


256 


HERDER. 


Theag.  In  these  matters  we  can  do  nothing 
else  but  surmise  and  forebode.  And  beneath 
the  silent  gaze  of  the  stars,  in  the  face  of  the 
friendly  moon,  the  surmises  which  we  send  into 
that  immeasurable  distance  are  so  great,  so 
elevating!  Imagine,  for  a  moment,  that  our 
star-fabric  is  as  closely  connected  in  regard  to 
the  moral  condition  of  its  inhabitants  as  it  is  in 
its  physical  circumstances, — that  it  is  a  choir  of 
sisters  praising  the  Creator  in  various  tones  and 
proportions,  but  with  the  harmony  of  a  single 
power.  Imagine  that,  from  the  farthest  planet 
to  the  sun,  there  are  gradations  of  being  as  of 
light,  of  distance,  of  masses,  of  forces,  (and  no- 
thing is  more  probable)  ;  imagine  the  sun  to  be 
the  rendezvous  of  all  the  beings  of  the  system 
which  he  rules  as  he  is  the  king  of  all  light,  of 
all  warmth,  of  all  beauty  and  truth  which  he 
communicates,  in  various  gradations,  to  the 
creatures.  Behold  here  the  great  ladder  by 
which  all  ascend,  and  the  long  way  which  we 
have  yet  to  tread,  before  we  arrive  at  the  centre 
and  father-land  of  that  which,  in  our  star-sys- 
tem, we  call  Truth,  Light,  Love ! 

Char.  So,  then,  the  farther  removed  from  our 
sun,  the  darker,  the  coarser?  On  the  other  hand, 
the  nearer  to  that  body,  the  brighter,  the  lighter, 
the  warmer,  the  swifter1?  The  beings  in  Mer- 
cury, which  is  always  hidden  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  must  indeed  differ  in  their  nature  from  the 
sluggish  inhabitants  of  Saturn — those  dark  Pata- 
gonian  giants  who  scarcely,  in  thirty  years,  get 
round  the  sun,  and  whose  night,  even  with  its 
five  moons,  is  poorly  lighted.  Our  earth  then 
would  occupy  a  middle  station? 

Theag.  And  perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason 
why  we  are  such  middling  creatures,  standing 
half-way  between  the  dark  Satumians  and  the 
bright  sun -light,  the  fountain  of  all  truth  and 
beauty.  Our  reason  is,  in  fact,  but  in  its  first 
dawn  here;  our  freedom  of  will,  too,  and  our 
moral  energy  is  but  so  so.  It  is  well,  therefore, 
that  we  are  not  to  tarry  for  ever  on  this  earth- 
planet,  where,  it  is  most  likely,  we  should  never 
come  to  much. 

Char.  You  think,  then,  that  we  are  destined 
to  travel  through  all  the  planets? 

Theag.  That  I  know  not.  Each  planet  may 
send  its  inhabitants,  who  are  all,  in  various  de- 
grees, aspiring  to  one  Sun,  by  the  shortest  route 
to  that  goal,  and  by  such  stages  and  gradations 
as  the  Creator  shall  judge  to  be  necessary  for 
them.  How  if  our  moon,  for  example,  —  and, 
if  I  remember  right,  Milton  so  describes  her,* 
and  several  Oriental  sects  have  so  philosophized 
concerning  her, — how  if  our  moon  should  be  the 
paradise  of  recreation,  where  weary  pilgrims, 
escaped  from  the  mists  of  this  earth-valley,  live 
in  a  purer  atmosphere,  in  gardens  of  peace  and 
social  enjoyment,  and  prepare  themselves  for 
the  contemplation  of  the  higher  light  toward 
which  the  inhabitants  of  other  planets  are  also 

*"  Those  argent  fields,  more  likely,  habitants, 
Translated  saints  or  middle  spirits  hold 
Betwixt  the  angelical  and  human  kind." 


travelling?  It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  moon  pro- 
mised us  this  with  her  calm  consoling  light, — 
as  if  she  shone  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  show 
us  the  glory  of  another  world,  and  to  inspire 
soft,  dewy  dreams  of  amaranthine  bowers  of 
peace,  and  an  indissoluble,  blessed  friendship. 

Char.  You  dream  pleasantly,  my  friend,  in 
the  face  of  the  moon,  and  I  love  to  dream  with 
you.  It  has  often  seemed  to  me  too,  when 
filled  with  sadness  and  gentle  melancholy  at 
the  remembrance  of  departed,  dearly  loved 
friends,  as  if  the  moon-beams  were  their  lan- 
guage, and  I  could  almost  hope- to  see  their 
shining  forms  before  me,  or  to  feel,  gliding 
down  upon  a  ray,  the  kiss  of  their  pure  lips  on  'I 
my  soul.  But  enough  of  this!  We  are  both 
getting  to  be  fantastic  dreamers.  Tell  me  fur- 
ther. 

Theag.  I  have  no  inclination.  I  lack  the  blue, 
emerald  gold-wings  to  carry  you  from  star  to 
star,  to  show  you  how  our  sun,  too,  speeds 
round  a  greater  sun,  how  everything  in  creation 
rejoices  in  a  harmony  in  which  suns  and  earths 
are  measured,  numbered,  weighed  as  notes,  and 
doubtless,  also,  and  how  much  more,  the  des- 
tiny, the  life  of  their  inhabitants.  O!  how  great 
is  the  dwelling  in  which  the  Creator  has  placed 
me,  and  0.  how  fair  !  fair  by  night  and  by  day, 
here  and  yonder,  the  view  of  sun,  moon  and 
star  !  My  course  is  the  path  of  the  All  of  worlds ; 
that  uttermost  star  lights  me  on  my  way,  and 
the  harmony  of  all  stars — the  music  of  spiritual 
ideas  and  relations — accompanies  me  in  it.  But 
ah  !  my  friend,  all  this  is  only  twilight,  conceit, 
surmise,  compared  with  the  infinitely  purer  and 
higher  light  of  the  religion  of  the  spirit  and  the 
heart.  On  this  earth  everything  is  rounded  with 
necessity,  and  we  yearn,  with  '  the  earnest  ex- 
pectation of  the  creature,'  to  be  free.  We  have 
within  us  ideas  of  love,  of  friendship,  of  beauty, 
of  truth  which,  here  on  earth,  we  know  only  in 
shadows  and  dream-images,  so  imperfect,  so 
often  disturbed,  deceived,  and  always  incom- 
plete !  We  thirst  for  a  river  of  purer  joys  ;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  hope,  the  desire  itself, 
is  a  sure  prophecy  of  fruition.  Take  the  purest 
relations  of  this  world,  the  joys  of  a  father,  a 
mother,  with  what  cares  are  they  blended  !  with 
what  pains  and  inconveniences  are  they  inter- 
rupted ;  and  how  do  they  only  minister,  after 
all,  to  necessity,  to  a  foreign,  higher  relation! 
"  In  that  world,"  says  the  scripture,  "  they  nei- 
ther marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  but  are 
as  the  angels  of  God."  There  love  is  freed  from 
the  coarser  propensities,  there  friendship  is  pure 
and  without  the  separations  and  burdens  of  this 
earth  ;  there  is  more  effective  action  with  happy 
and  beautiful  concord,  and  a  true,  eternal  aim ; 
in  fine,  throughout,  more  of  truth,  of  goodness, 
of  beauty  than  this  earth,  even  though  we  should 
return  to  it  a  hundred  times,  could  afford. 

"  Him,  0  Parmeno !— him  do  I  pronounce 
The  happiest,  who  when,  from  sorrow  free, 
His  eyes  have  seen  the  things  which  we  now  see— 
This  sun,  these  stars,  clouds,  moon  and  fire— 


HERDER. 


257 


Again  returneth  thither  whence  he  came. 

For  whether  thou  shalt  live  an  hundred  years 

Or  live  hut  f<;w,  thou  seest  these,  and  aught 

More  beautiful  than  these  hatli  no  man  seen. 

Hold  then  this  term  of  life,  of  which  I  speak, 

But  as  a  market  or  a  caravan, 

Where  there  is  crowding,  stealing,  sport,  and  pains 

Enow.   The  earlier  thou  depart  est  hence, 

The  sooner  shalt  thou  find  the  better  hostelry, 

If  thou  the  pilgrim's  penny — Truth 

Provided  hast,  and  hast  no  enemy. 

Who  long  delays  grows  weary  of  the  way 

Him  overtakes  old  age,  and  many  wants 

And  plagues  are  his,  and  many  foes. 

He  dies  not  happily  who  lives  too  long."* 

How  then  would  it  be  with  him  who  should 
tarry  here  for  ever,  and  again  and  again  return 
to  this  '  market-place  V 

Whether  the  silence  of  the  night  and  the 
sublime  harmony  of  the  stars  had  reconciled 
the  systems  of  the  two  friends,  or  whether 
Charicles  had  much  to  answer,  they  embraced 
and  parted  in  silence.  Theages  seemed  lost  in 
the  infinite  blue  of  heaven  and  the  shining  star- 
ladder  which  so  many  nations,  savages  and 
sages,  have  denominated  the  way  of  souls.  And 
truly  a  more  sublime  race  that,  and  a  richer, 
fairer  Palingcnesia  than,  even  in  its  happiest 
forms,  the  needy  narrow  earth  could  afford. 

"  0  Pater  anne  aliquas  ad  crelum  hinc  ire  putandum  est 
Sublimes  animas?  iterumque  ad  tarda  reverti 
Corpora?   Quae  lucis  miseris  tam  dira  cupido]" 

DIALOGUE  III. 

The  next  morning,  as  if  by  appointment, 
Theages  and  Charicles  met  in  a  walk  of  which 
both  were  fond,  and  where  they  were  accus- 
tomed often  to  bathe  their  souls  in  the  beams 
of  the  rising  sun.  Both  were  wrapped  in  the 
silence  which  twilight  and  waking  bring  with 
them,  a  holy  silence  from  which  the  dawning 
day  gently  and  gradually  rouses  us.  They  left 
each  other  undisturbed.  With  the  blush  of  the 
morning  before  them  and  the  joyous  choir  of  all 
the  newly  awakened  beings  around  them,  they 
sat  dumb  for  awhile,  until,  at  last,  when  the 
sun  had  risen,  and  the  scene  became  more 
animated,  Charicles  proposed  that  they  should 
strike  into  the  neighbouring  wood  through 
which,  by  a  small  circuit,  they  might  take  their 
way  home.  During  the  walk  he  imperceptibly 
directed  the  conversation  to  yesterday's  topic. 

Charicles.  What  did  you  dream  of  last  night, 
Theages?  Your  visions  must  have  been  agree- 
able,  for  you  seemed  to  be  entirely  lost  last 
night  among  the  stars  and  worlds. 

Theages.  When  the  sun  is  in  the  sky,  one 
must  not  relate  dreams,  Charicles ;  then  they 
lose  the  accompaniment  of  scene  and  decora- 
tion. There  is  a  time  for  everything.  See  you 
not  how  the  sun,  with  its  glory,  has  veiled  the 
entire  host  of  those  worlds  of  yesterday,  and 
how  sadly  the  moon  looks  in  the  heavens  yon- 
der— a  pale  cloudlet!  Probably  our  conversa- 
tion would  be  like  it,  if  it  should  attempt  to 
resume  the  prophecies  of  yesterday.  There- 

*  From  a  fragment  of  Menander. 
2h 


fore,  Charicles,  put  out  the  night-lamp  and  bring 
forward  something  of  a  more  cheerful  character, 
wherewith  we  may  strengthen  ourselves  for  the 
day. 

Char.  I  think  we  may  resume  our  yesterday's 
conversation  and  still  attain  that  end.  For,  my 
friend,  I  feel  now,  very  plainly,  that  the  morn- 
ing and  not  the  evening  is  the  time  for  discus- 
sions which  take  us  back  into  the  childhood  of 
our  race  —  the  early  morning  of  human  ideas 
and  images.  Our  studied  night-wisdom  has 
dazzled  us.  Where  we  should  have  conjectured, 
we  asserted ;  where  we  should  have  thought 
humanly,  we  thought  divinely. 

Theag.  Do  you  mean  me  ? 

Char.  Perhaps  a  little.  For  you  too,  I  am 
afraid,  have  been  too  much  exalted  by  theology 
and  philosophy,  Newton  and  Christianity.  You 
would  soar  to  the  stars;  but  our  way  at  present 
is  still  on  the  earth;  you  are  ashamed  of  your 
step-brothers,  the  brute  animals,  and  would 
mount  up  into  the  society  of  beings  whom  you 
have  never  seen,  and  perhaps  never  will  see — 
the  inhabitants  of  Mercury,  of  the  sun  and  of 
the  moon. 

Theag.  No,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  half- 
brothers,  the  brutes ;  on  the  contrary,  as  far  as 
they  are  concerned,  I  am  a  great  advocate  of 
metempsychosis.  I  believe,  for  a  certainty,  that 
they  will  ascend  to  a  higher  grade  of  being, 
and  am  unable  to  comprehend  how  any  one  can 
object  to  this  hypothesis  which  seems  to  have 
the  analogy  of  the  whole  creation  in  its  favor. 

Char.  Now  you  are  in  the  right  way. 

Theag.  It  is  the  way  I  have  always  been  in, 
as  far  as  this  point  is  concerned.  Do  not  you 
remember  that  you  yourself  strayed  from  it  yes- 
terday?   Do  you  like  JEsop's  fables,  Charicles? 

Char.  Very  much,  but  what  have  they  to  do 
with  the  matter? 

Theag.  I  regard  them  as  the  compass  which 
shows  us  our  relation  to  the  brutes.  Severally 
and  collectively  the  animals  still  play  their 
fables.  ^Esop,  the  great  philosopher  and  mo- 
ralist, has  only  made  their  play  intelligible  to 
us  ;  he  has  made  their  characters  speak  to  our 
comprehension ;  for,  to  their  own  comprehen- 
sion, they  speak  and  act  continually.  And  know 
you  what  is  man's  part  in  this  progressive  fable 
of  the  animals?  He  is  the  general  proposition, 
the  moral  of  the  fable,  the  tongue  in  the  balance. 
He  uses  the  whole  creation,  and  consequently 
the  characters  of  animals.  They  act  before 
him,  they  act  for  him,  and  he  —  thinks.  His 
lthis  fable  teaches,'  he  has  to  repeat  every  mo- 
ment. 

Char.  And  has  this  anything  to  do  with  the 
metempsychosis  of  animals? 

Theag.  Much,  as  it  seems  co  me.  To  make 
the  brute-fable  a  man-fable,  there  wants  nothing 
but  the  conclusion,  the  general  proposition,  he 
doctrine.  That  brute-character,  so  determined, 
so  sure,  so  rich  in  art  and  so  instructive, — give 
it  but  a  little  spark  of  that  light  we  call  reason 
and  you  have  the  man.  There  he  is,  and  he 
22* 


258 


HERDER 


gathers  now  instruction,  doctrine,  art  from  his 
former  character  as  brute.  He  brings  his  former 
mode  of  life  more  or  less  into  consciousness, 
and  if  he  chooses,  learns  wisdom  therefrom. 
He  must  learn,  as  man,  to  order  wisely  and  well 
what,  as  brute,  he  can,  and  likes  and  wills. 
This,  me  thinks,  is  the  anthropogenesia  and  the 
palingenesia  of  brutes  into  men. 

Char.  The  picture  is  fine:  but  the  thing?  Is 
it  so  certain,  Theages,  that  every  man  has  an 
animal  character  ? 

Theag.  If  you  doubt  it,  look  at  the  countenances 
of  men  under  the  influence  of  passion,  of  strong 
passion ;  observe  in  secret  their  mode  of  life 
and  the  sharply  marked  traits  of  their  character  ; 
it  shall  go  hard  but  you  will  discover  in  the  for- 
mation, the  air,  the  gesture,  and  still  more  in  the 
progressive  action  of  their  life,  the  fox,  the  wolf, 
the  cat,  the  tiger,  the  dog,  the  weasel,  the  vul- 
ture, the  parrot,  with  the  rest  of  the  honorable 
company  that  came  out  of  Noah's  ark. 

Char.  You  jest.  I  have  hitherto  considered 
the  whole  hypothesis  as  a  joke,  over  the  dessert, 
when  we  cover  our  mouths  to  the  nose  exclusive, 
with  the  napkin  and  ask  :  1  Who  was  I  ?  What 
beast  have  I  been  ?' 

Theag.  As  things  go,  it  is  a  joke  and  must  re- 
main so.  Who  knows  himself  to  the  bottom  of 
his  character?  And  how  should  another  know 
us  at  a  glance,  as  soon  as  we  cover  up  the 
mouth  with  our  napkin?  What  would  come  of 
it,  if  man  should  set  the  images  of  the  animals 
with  which  he  is  daily  conversant  in  his  life's- 
almanac,  and  should  converse  with  them  in  his 
own  animal  character  in  return?  It  was  de- 
signed that  we  should  be  men,  not  animals.  The 
tongue  in  the  balance  is  to  guide  us,  and  not  the 
dead  weight  of  character  and  animal  instincts 
laid  in  the  scales.  The  animal-human  counte- 
nance is  human,  enlightened.  The  features  are 
separated,  especially  the  most  characteristic  fea- 
tures. Forehead,  nose,  eyes  and  cheeks  are  in- 
finitely dignified,  ennobled,  beautiful  in  man,  as 
compared  with  the  brute. 

Char.  Then  the  animal  formation  is  only  the 
basis  of  the  human  character,  which  is  to  be  en- 
lightened bythelightof  reason,  and  systematized, 
beautified,  and  elevated  by  the  moral  sentiments 
of  the  human  heart?  The  ground  of  our  capa- 
cities and  traits,  as  beings  of  sense,  —  the  re- 
mains of  purely  sensual  faculties,  propensities, 
and  impulses — these  are  animal,  and  are  after- 
ward only  polished  and  regulated  by  our  reason? 

Theag.  Study  men,  and  you  will  find  abundant 
proofs  of  it.  For  when  we  separate  the  haughty 
moral  element,  we  are  all  pretty  much  agreed 
in  our  judgment  of  traits  and  characters.  In  na- 
ture and  in  an  JEsop's  fable,  we  call  a  fox  a 
fox,  and  not  a  lion.  In  human  life  our  judgments 
are  apt  to  be  confused,  as  from  hundred  other 
causes,  so  also  from  this,  that  it  is  actually  the 
aim  of  human  culture  and  the  destination  of 
man  to  extinguish  the  animal  character  and  the 
animal  habits,  to  a  certain  extent,  and  to  make 
men  of  us,  or,  if  you  will,  angels  in  humanity. 


Every  one  would  fain  be  thought  to  have  reached 
this  point  himself;  but  envy  and  malice  love  to 
find  in  others  the  old.  rude  beast  entire,  with  no 
trace  of  man  or  angel.  Hence  it  is,  that  this 
hypothesis  is  so  abused,  and,  at  last,  falls  into 
contempt,  either  because  it  is  misunderstood,  or 
because  it  is  feared.  But,  without  it,  I  know 
not  what  is  to  become  of  the  numerous  host  of 
creatures  beneath  us  —  our  characteristic  and 
sensitive  half-brothers  in  field  and  forest. 

Char.  What  is  to  become  of  them?  Nothing 
different  from  what  they  are.  They  transmi- 
grate into  new  forms  of  their  own  species  ;  they 
become  finer  deer,  finer  birds. 

Theag.  Finer  tigers,  finer  apes  and  wolves, 
and  at  the  last  day,  I  suppose,  these  will  be 
raised  too  and  accompany  us?  It  is  surely  not 
your  serious  conviction,  my  friend,  that  the  in- 
nermost creation  —  the  ever-proceeding,  new 
creation — must  needs  conform  to  the  classifica- 
tions of  the  late  Baron  Linne? 

Char.  Not  mine  exactly ;  but  our  friend  Har- 
modius  would  suffer  martyrdom  for  this  opinion. 

Theag.  Well,  he  would  die  a  very  innocent 
death  then.  Our  classifications  are  not  so  exhaus- 
tive as  is  usually  supposed.  They  exist  only 
for  our  senses,  for  our  faculties ;  they  are  not  the 
muster-rolls  by  which  Nature  arranges  her  crea- 
tures,—categories  which  she  has  prescribed  to 
herself  in  order  to  keep  each  creature  in  its 
proper  place.  See  how  the  different  classes  of 
creation  run  into  each  other !  How  the  organi- 
zations ascend  and  struggle  upward  from  all 
points,  on  all  sides  !  And  then  again,  what  a 
close  resemblance  between  them  !  Precisely  as 
if,  on  all  our  earth,  the  form-abounding  Mother 
had  proposed  to  herself  but  one  type,  one  proto- 
plasma  according  to  which  and  for  which  she 
formed  them  all.  Know  you  what  that  form  is? 
It  is  the  identical  one  which  man  also  wears. 

Char.  It  is  true ;  even  in  the  most  imperfect 
animal,  some  resemblance  to  this  capital  form 
of  organization  is  not  to  be  mistaken. 

Theag.  It  is  even  more  evident  internally  than 
it  is  externally.  Even  in  insects,  an  analogon 
of  the  human  anatomy  has  been  discovered, 
though,  compared  with  ours,  enveloped  and 
seemingly  disproportionate.  The  different  mem- 
bers, and  consequently,  also,  the  powers  which 
work  in  them,  are  yet  undeveloped,  not  orga- 
nized to  our  fulness  of  life.  It  seems  to  me  that 
throughout  creation,  this  finger-mark  of  Nature 
is  the  Ariadne-thread  that  conducts  us  through 
the  labyrinth  of  animal  forms,  ascending  and 
descending. 

But,  my  friend,  we  have  walked  and  talked 
ourselves  tired.  Suppose  we  sit  down  beneath 
these  pleasant  trees  and  look  at  the  swan  that 
rows  and  glasses  himself  on  yonder  shining 
surface. 

They  seated  themselves  and  rested  awhile. 
The  wash  of  the  waves  and  the  whispering 
trees  agreeably  damped  their  thoughts  until,  at 
last,  Charicles  resumed  the  thread  of  the  con- 
versation. 


HERDER. 


259 


Char.  *****  Tell  me, 
beloved,  something  of  your  day-dreams  on  the 
subjects  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  as 
you  told  me  yesterday  of  your  night-dreams. 
The  sight  of  this  fair  river,  the  sublime  silence 
of  this  forest,  methinks,  are  as  favorable  to  such 
imaginings  as  the  starred  roof  of  heaven.  Here, 
at  least,  we  form,  ourselves,  a  part  of  the  chorus. 

Theag.  And  did  we  not  there,  too  ?  Or  are 
we  not  here,  also,  in  the  midst  of  a  river  of 
heaven,  a  chorus  of  earthly  stars !  All  the  life 
of  Nature,  all  the  tribes  and  species  of  animated 
creation — what  are  they  but  sparks  of  the  God- 
head, a  harvest  of  incarnate  stars,  among  which, 
the  two  human  sexes  stand  forth  like  sun  and 
moon.  We  overshine,  we  dim  the  other  figures, 
hut,  doubtless,  we  lead  them  onward  in  a  chorus 
invisible  to  ourselves.  0,  friend,  that  an  eye 
were  given  us  to  trace  the  shining  course  of  this 
divine  spark — to  see  how  life  flows  to  life,  and 
ever  refining,  impelled  through  all  the  veins  of 
creation,  wells  up  into  a  purer,  higher  life  !  What 
a  new  city  of  God,  what  a  creation  within  crea- 
tion should  we  then  behold  !  From  the  first 
atom,  the  most  unfruitful  dust  scarce  escaped 
from  nonentity,  through  all  the  varieties  of  orga- 
nization up  to  that  little  universe  of  multiform 
life  —  man,  what  a  shining  labyrinth!  But  the 
human  understanding  cannot  detect  it;  it  sees 
things  only  the  outside,  it  sees  only  forms,  not  the 
transmigrating,  up-striving  souls.  The  interior 
mechanism  of  Nature,  her  living  wheels  and 
breathing  forces,  these,  in  their  too  exceeding 
glory,  are  to  us  a  aSn<r,  the  Kingdom  of  Night,  the 
hull  and  vein  of  unborn  lives  self-engendered 
in  eternal  progression. 

*      *      *      *      "  Alas  our  sight 's  so  ill 

That  things  which  swiftest  move,  seem  to  stand  still." 

I  need  not  veil  myself  before  thee,  great  Pan ! 
eternal  fountain  of  life !  Thou  hast  veiled  me 
within  myself.  Do  I  know  the  world  of  lives 
which  I  call  my  body  ?  Doubtless,  my  too  feeble 
soul,  could  she  see  the  countless  host  which 
ministers  to  her  in  all  degrees  and  varieties  of 
animation,  would  drop  her  imperial  sceptre  and 
sink  from  her  throne.  In  my  veins,  in  the  mi- 
nutest vascules  allotted  to  me,  these  souls  are 
pilgriming  toward  a  higher  life,  as,  already, 
through  so  manifold  paths  and  preparations, 
they  have  travelled  from  all  creation  into  me.  I 
prepare  them  for  their  farther  progress,  as  every- 
thing before  has  prepared  them  for  me.  No 
destruction,  no  death  is  there  in  creation,  but 
dissolution,  parturition,  lustration.  So  the  tree 
with  its  boughs  and  limbs  elaborates  the  humors 
of  the  earth  and  the  air,  the  fire  of  the  soil  and 
the  heavens  into  its  own  nature — itself  and  its 
children  into  nobler  sap.  Its  leaves  imbibe  and 
make  fruitful.  Every  leaf  is  a  tree,  formed 
upon  a  green  plain,  in  a  slender  fabric,  because 
creation  had  not  room  to  produce  them  all  as 
perfect  trees.  From  every  bud,  therefore,  and 
every  twig  she  thrusts  forth  tree-spirits.  The 
all-bearing  Mother  clothes  herself  with  green 
life ;  every  flower  which  unfolds  itself  is  a  bride, 


every  blossoming  tree  is  a  great  family  of  lives. 
The  kingdom  of  animals — our  mute  fellow-citi- 
zens— destroys  thousand  forms  of  inferior  kind 
in  order  to  animate  its  own  higher  forms;  and 
finally,  man,  the  chief  artificer  and  destroyer  in 
creation, — he  gives  life  and  takes  it,  he  is,  with- 
out knowing  it,  the  goal  of  his  inferior  brethren, 
to  which,  perhaps,  they  are  all  imperceptibly 
conducted. 

Beautiful,  floating  swan !  In  what  a  shining 
element  thy  creator  has  placed  thee  to  love  and 
admire  thyself!  With  thy  fair,  bowed  neck,  in 
the  pure,  fresh  whiteness  of  innocence,  thou 
swimmest  a  queen,  a  soft  splendor-form,  on  the 
clear  surface  of  the  waves.  Thy  world  is  a 
mirror,  thy  life  a  decoration  and  an  art.  What 
will  be  thine  employment,  when,  hereafter,  in 
a  human  form,  thou  projectest  lines  of  beauty 
and  studiest  graces  in  thyself  or  in  nature  ? 

Char.  Apropos !  my  friend,  have  you  ever 
read  Bishop  Berkeley's*  novel,  "  Gaudentio  of 
Lucca?" 

Theag.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  it. 
Char.  He  has  a  very  pretty  idea  of  metempsy- 
chosis, which  he  ascribes  to  his  Mezzoranians. 
He  represents  them  as  believing  that  the  souls 
of  animals  covet  the  habitation  of  a  human  body, 
and  seek,  by  every  means,  to  steal  into  it.  In  this 
they  succeed  so  soon  as  man  lets  fall  the  torch 
of  his  reason,  and  with  it,  the  power  of  self- 
government.  Then  he  becomes  revengeful, 
cruel,  lecherous,  avaricious,  according  as  this  or 
that  animal  has  pursued  him,  and  usurped  the 
place  of  his  rational  soul.  Methinks,  the  alle- 
gory is  fine. 

Theag.  As  indeed,  Berkeley  was  altogether  a 
fine  and  rare  man.  That  way  of  presenting  it, 
clothes  a  truth  so  beautifully ! 

Char.  And  what  think  you  of  the  metempsy- 
chosis of  the  Jews,  which  the  Rabbins  call  Ib- 
bur?  They  say  that  several  souls,  human  souls, 
may  adjoin  themselves  to  an  individual,  and,  at 
certain  times, — when  a  friendly  Spirit  sees  that 
he  requires  it  and  God  permits, — help,  strength- 
en, inspire  him,  dwelling  with  and  in  him.  But 
they  quit  him  again,  when  the  business  in  which 
they  were  to  aid  him  is  accomplished,  except 
in  cases  where  God  favors  an  individual  with 
this  sort  of  aid  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

Theag.  A  very  pretty  fiction !  It  is  founded 
in  the  perception  that  man  acts  very  unequally 
at  different  times,  and  in  old  age,  especially, 
often  sinks  far  beneath  himself.  The  foreign, 
auxiliary  spirit  has  forsaken  him,  and  he  sits 
there  naked  with  his  own.  Moreover,  the  fable 
is  a  beautiful  commendation  of  extraordinary 
men  ;  for  what  a  compliment,  to  suppose  that 
the  soul  of  a  sage  is  animated  by  the  soul  of  an 
eider  sage,  or  even  by  several  at  once !  But 
surely  you  do  not  regard  this  beautiful,  poetical 
invention,  as  physical  historical  truth  ! 

Char.  Who  knows  ?  The  revolution  of  hu- 
man souls  has  been  universally  believed  by 


*  So,  in  the  original.  Tr. 


200 


HERDER. 


many  nations.  You  remember  the  question  put 
to  John  :  Art  thou  Elias  ?  art  thou  that  prophet  ? 
You  know  too,  who  even  confirmed  tliis  idea, 
and  said  expressly,  it  is  Elias. 

Theag.  And  you  have  probably  read  the 
younger  Helmont  de  revolutione  animarum?  He 
has  adduced,  in  two  hundred  problems,  all  the 
sayings  and  all  the  arguments  which  can  pos- 
sibly be  urged  in  favor  of  the  return  of  souls 
into  human  bodies,  according  to  Jewish  ideas. 

Char.  I  must  say,  I  have  always  liked  the 
Jewish  doctrine  of  the  revolution  of  souls.  Are 
you  well  acquainted  with  it? 

Theag.  Pretty  well.  It  asserts  that  the  soul 
returns  into  life  twice  or  thrice — in  extraordi- 
nary cases  oftener — and  accomplishes  what  it 
had  left  unfinished.  It  supposes  that  God  has 
divided  the  periods  of  the  world's  history  ac- 
cording to  these  revolutions  of  souls;  that  he 
has  determined  the  degrees  of  light  and  of  twi- 
light, of  suffering  and  of  joy  ;  in  fine,  the  destiny 
and  the  duration  of  the  world  in  conformity 
with  them.  The  first  resurrection  is  a  revolu- 
tion of  these  perfected  souls,  returned  into  life. 

Char.  What  have  you  to  object  to  that? 

Theag.  Nothing,  except  that  I  can  say  nothing 
for  it;  because  the  whole  is  either  a  poetic  fic- 
tion or  rests  in  the  counsels  of  God.  At  any 
rate,  the  passages  which  are  quoted  in  favor  of 
it  prove  nothing. 

Char.  And  is  there  no  weight  in  the  argu- 
ments from  reason  which  are  adduced  in  its 
support?  For  example,  that  God,  who  is  no 
respecter  of  persons,  has  shown  so  much  re- 
spect for  persons  during  one  existence  of  souls 
in  this  world;  that  the  Long-suffering  and  the 
Just  gives  every  one  space  and  time  for  repent- 
ance ;  that  the  fruition  of  life  has  been,  to  many, 
so  embittered  and  so  abridged,  without  any 
fault  of  their  own  ?  You  slighted  these  reasons, 
my  friend,  because,  if  I  may  say  so,  you  were 
prejudiced  against  the  doctrine.  But  look  at  the 
thing  humanly;  consider  the  fate  of  the  misborn, 
the  deformed,  the  poor,  the  stupid,  the  crippled, 
the  fearfully  degraded  and  ill-treated;  of  young 
children  who  had  scarce  seen  the  light  and 
were  forced  to  depart.  Take  all  this  to  heart, 
and  you  must  either  have  weak  conceptions  of 
the  progress  of  such  people  in  the  world  to 
come,  or  they  must  first  have  wings  made  for 
them  here,  that  they  may  learn  to  soar  even  at 
a  distance  after  others,  that  they  may  be,  in 
some  measure,  indemnified  for  their  unhappy 
or  unhappily  abbreviated  existence  in  this  world. 
Promotion  to  a  higher,  human  existence,  is 
scarcely  to  be  thought  of  in  their  case. 

Theag.  Why  not?  None  can  give  as  God 
gives,  and  no  one  can  indemnify  and  compen- 
sate like  God.  To  all  beings  he  gave  their  ex- 
istence, of  his  own  free  love.  If  some  appear 
to  have  been  more  neglected  than  others,  has 
he  not  places,  contrivances,  worlds  enough, 
where,  by  a  single  transplantation,  he  can  in- 
demnify and  compensate  a  thousand-fold?  A 
child  prematurely  removed  —  a  youth  whose 


nature  was  too  delicate,  as  it  were,  for  the  rude 
climate  of  this  world — all  nations  have  felt  that 
such  are  loved  by  the  gods,*  and  that  they  have 
transferred  the  treasured  plant  into  a  fairer  gar- 
den. Or  do  you  suppose  that  God  has  no  other 
spot  but  this  earth  ?  Must  he  root  up  others  in 
order  to  make  room  for  these,  and  let  the  uptom 
plant  wait  and  wither  in  the  store-chamber  of 
unborn  souls  until  he  can  find  a  place  for  it? 
How  many  are  made  happy  in  another  world 
by  having  been  unhappy  here  !  My  friend,  do 
you  know  Kleist's  fable  of  the  maimed  crane? 

Char.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  it. 

Theag.  It  is  one  of  the  finest  that  was  ever 
made. 

"  When  Autumn-winds  had  laid  the  forest  bare 
And  scattered  chrystal  rime  upon  the  plain, 
There  lighted  on  the  strand  a  troop  of  cranes 
Seeking  a  kinder  earth  beyond  the  sea. 
Lamed  by  the  fowler's  shaft  one  luckless  bird 
Sat  lone  and  sad  and  dumb,  nor  lent  her  voice 
To  swell  the  jubilee  of  the  exulting  host ; 
Mocked  and  contemned— the  outcast  of  her  tribe. 
Not  by  mine  own  fault  am  I  maimed,  thought  she, 
Musing  within  herself.    I  served  no  less  than  ye 
Our  Commonwealth.    Unjustly  am  1  spumed. 
But  what  shall  be  my  fate  whom  pain 
Hath  reft  of  strength  to  endure  the  distant  flight  T 
Ah,  wretched  me  !  the  water  soon  must  prove 
My  certain  grave.    Why  left  he  life — 
The  cruel  foe  that  robbed  me  of  my  powers  T 
Meanwhile  the  favoring  wind  blows  fresh  from  shore; 
The  troop  begin,  in  order  due,  their  march, 
And  speed  with  sounding  wings,  and  scream  with  joy. 
Left  far  behind,  that  lone  one  lighted  oft 
Upon  the  lotus-leaves  which  strewed  the  sea, 
And  hopeless  sighed  with  grief  and  bitter  pain. 
After  long  rest  she  saw  the  better  land, 
The  kinder  heaven  which  sudden  healed  her  wound. 
An  unknown  Providence  had  been  her  guide, 
While  many  mockers  found  a  watery  grave. 
*  #  *  * 

Ye  whom  the  heavy  hand  of  dire  mischance 
Bows  to  the  earth,  ye  innocent  who  mourn, 
Weary  of  life,  despair  not  of  the  end, 
But  dare  the  necessary  journey  through. 
There  is  a  better  land  beyond  the  sea 
And  ye  shall  find  your  healing  and  reward." 

Char.  A  beautiful  fable  for  my  side,  too.  Let 
us  move,  my  friend,  and  on  the  way,  you  must 
allow  me  a  few  more  questions.  How  comes 
it  that  the  wisest  nations  of  antiquity  and  those 
far  removed  from  each  other  have  believed  so 
long  in  the  doctrine  of  transmigration, —  and 
that,  too,  of  the  worst  kind,  —  in  the  return  of 
human  beings,  in  the  doctrine  which  teaches 
that  man  becomes  an  animal  once  more  ? 

Theag.  You  have  already  answered  the  ques- 
tion, Charicles;  it  was  the  childhood  of  the 
world  and  the  world's  wisdom  respecting  human 
destiny.  With  some  nations,  for  example  the 
Egyptians  and  Hindoos,  and  perhaps  too  with 
Pythagoras,  it  was  designed  as  a  moral  fable,  ■% 
representing  the  doctrine  of  ecclesiastical  pe- 
nance in  a  sensuous  and  comprehensible  form. 

Char.  A  strange  ecclesiastical  penance,  con- 
veyed in  a  fiction ! 

Theag.  To  a  certain  extent,  the  two  (the  doc- 
trine and  the  fiction)  necessitated  each  other. 

*  Sv  01  Scot  <pi\Saiv  airo$vrjo~K€L  vsos. 


HERDER. 


261 


You  know  that  the  wisdom  of  the  most  ancient 
nations  was  lodged  with  the  priests.  When 
they  could  give  the  rude  people  no  right  notions 
respecting  the  world  to  come  or  had  none  to 
give,  was  it  not  well  that  they  should  seek  to 
deter  them  by  a  future  of  sensuous  retribution  ] 
"You  who  are  cruel,  shall  be  changed  into 
tigers,  as  even  now  you  manifest  a  tiger-soul. 
You  who  are  impure,  shall  be  swine  ;  you  who 
are  proud,  shall  be  peacocks ;  and  so  you  shall 
do  penance  for  a  long  while,  until  you  are  found 
worthy  to  resume  your  desecrated  humanity." 
These  representations,  addressed  to  the  senses, 
and  clothed  with  the  authority  of  religion, 
would,  undoubtedly,  have  a  greater  effect  than 
metaphysical  subtilties.  Each  one  saw  the 
nature  of  the  threatened  beast  and  its  destiny 
before  him.  The  vicious  felt  the  beastly  cha- 
racter in  himself,  and  nothing  was  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  fear  a  corresponding  fate, 
that  is,  a  real  transition  into  that  animal.  This 
doctrine,  once  established,  might  deter  from 
many  vices  and  lead  to  many  virtues.  Who 
would  not  rather  be  a  white  elephant  than  a 
swine?  especially  one  who  viewed  the  nature 
and  the  fate  of  animals  with  the  eyes  of  the 
Hindoos  and  the  Egyptians, — with  that  quiet 
familiarity  in  which  the  childhood  of  the  world 
lived  with  the  brute  creation.  But  you  do  not 
suppose,  Charicles,  that  this  doctrine  is  neces- 
sary or  fitting  for  us? 

Char.  In  many  cases,  a  belief  in  it  would  be 
no  evil.  If  the  cruel  man,  who  persecutes  a 
poor  stag  to  death,  were  seized,  at  that  moment, 
with  a  lymphatic  presentiment :  "  So  will  it  fare 
with  thee  ;  thy  soul  shall  pass  into  a  stag  and 
be  tortured  to  death ;"  perhaps  he  might  ex- 
tinguish the  joyless  brutality  in  himself. 

Theag.  I  doubt  it,  my  friend,  if  the  immediate 
contemplation  of  the  pain  is  unable  to  extinguish 
it.  For  us,  it  seems  to  me,  this  whole  doctrine 
of  transmigration  has  lost  its  sting.  If  I  am  not 
good  as  man,  am  I  likely  to  become  so  as 
tiger?  since  then,  it  is  my  nature  to  be  that 
whereinto  I  am  changed.  If  I  am  condemned 
to  eat  grass,  like  an  irrational  ox,  how  shall  I 
begin,  in  that  state,  to  use  my  reason  better  than 
I  used  it  while  a  man.  God  himself  has  bound 
my  eyes  and  taken  from  me  the  light  of  the 
understanding,  and  how  then  shall  I  learn  to 
see  more  clearly?  If  my  degradation  is  to  be 
mere  penance  in  the  eyes  of  an  arbitrary  judge, 
why,  be  it  so!  but  reformation  —  a  rational, 
moral  reformation  in  myself,  it  can  never  be; 
because,  in  my  degradation,  that  which  alone 
could  reform  me  has  been  taken  away.  Is  one 
not  rather  likely  to  be  embittered  against  God, 
who  deprives  us  of  our  eyes  because  we  have 
not  used  them  aright,  and,  because  we  have 
not  disciplined  our  heart  to  right  sentiments, 
hardens  it  in  the  shape  of  something  vicious 
and  wretched? 

Char.  There  is  much  to  be  said  in  relation  to 
that  point ;  at  any  rate,  the  fiction  had  its  use 
as  parable  for  the  people. 


Theag.  Even  as  parable  for  the  people,  the 
tale  is  not  suited  to  our  times.  It  seems  to  me 
that  man  should  learn  to  look  upon  himself  as 
occupying  the  highest  grade,  and  use  his  present 
existence  peremptorily.  He  must  know  of  no 
retreat  or  by-way  where  he  can  bring  up  what 
he  has  neglected  here.  At  least,  the  Deity  has 
referred  him  to  none.  Aut  Ccesar  aut  nihil :  aut 
nunc  aut  nunquam.  Even  among  the  ancients, 
all  active,  noble  nations  that  were  not  beguiled 
by  fable-wisdom  and  the  foolish  penances  of 
their  priests,  have  proposed  to  themselves  a  no- 
bler condition  after  death,  as  the  goal  of  their 
endeavor.  The  being  'gathered  to  one's  fa- 
thers' of  the  oriental  nations,  the  Elysium  of 
the  Greeks,  the  Walhalla  of  the  Norlanders, are 
certainly  more  beautiful  views  of  death  than 
that  of  the  ox  or  the  cow  waiting  for  the  dying 
man  who  holds  the  cow's  tail  in  his  hand  ;  or 
the  body  of  a  strange  mother  into  which  he 
must  slip,  in  order  to  whimper  again  as  child. 

Char.  True,  they  are  low  ideas  that  gather 
about  this  hypothesis.  But  how  then  could  the 
wise  Pythagoras  deem  it  worthy  of  being  trans- 
planted to  Europe  ? 

Theag.  One  brings  all  sorts  of  things  from 
abroad,  not  only  gold  and  jewels,  but  also  mon- 
keys and  curiosities.  Besides,  it  is  not  probable 
that  Pythagoras  made  the  same  use  of  this  doc- 
trine that  the  later  false  Pythagoreans  did.  He 
too  spoke  of  a  Tartarus  and  an  Elysium,  like 
the  other  philosophers  and  poets  of  Greece. 
And,  altogether,  we  know  too  little  of  that  truly 
great  man,  to  be  able  to  judge  of  his  parables 
and  symbols ;  we  know  him  only  through  the 
medium  of  fable. 

And  0 !  my  friend,  Pythagoras  or  no  Pytha- 
goras, what  need  of  all  this  controversy  and 
argument,  with  which  we,  too,  have  wasted  our 
time  ?  Ask  your  heart  and  the  truth  which 
dwells  there.  When  you  stand  before  the  statue 
of  a  high-hearted  Apollo,  do  you  not  feel  what 
you  lack  of  being  that  form  ?  Can  you  ever 
attain  to  it  here  below,  and  can  your  heart  ever 
rejoice  in  it,  though  you  should  return  ten  times? 
And  yet,  that  was  only  the  idea  of  an  artist,  the 
happy  dream  of  a  mortal, — a  dream  which  our 
narrow  breast  also  inclosed.  How !  has  the 
almighty  Father  no  nobler  forms  for  us  than 
those  in  which  our  heart  now  heaves  and  groans? 
Our  language, — all  communication  of  thought, — 
what  bungling  work  it  is !  Hovering  on  the  tip 
of  our  tongues,  between  lip  and  palate,  in  a  few 
syllabled  tones,  our  heart,  our  innermost  soul 
would  communicate  itself  to  another,  so  that  he 
shall  comprehend  us,  shall  feel  the  ground  of 
our  innermost  being.  Vain  endeavor  !  Wretched 
pantomime  with  a  few  gestures  and  vibrations 
of  air!  The  soul  lies  captive  in  its  dungeon, 
bound  as  with  a  sevenfold  chain,  and  only 
through  a  strong  grating,  and  only  through  a 
pair  of  light  and  air-holes  can  it  breathe  and 
see.  And  always  it  sees  the  world  on  one  side 
only,  while  there  are  a  million  other  sides  before 
us  and  in  us,  had  we  but  more  and  other  senses, 


262 


HERDER. 


and  could  we  but  exchange  this  narrow  hut  of 
our  body  for  a  freer  prospect.  And  shall  we 
be  forever  contented  with  this  nook,  this  dun- 
geon ?  What  wretch,  doomed  to  life-long  misery 
in  this  life,  confines  his  wishes  to  the  throwing 
off  of  this  world  s  burden,  without  the  sense  or 
the  hope  of  requital  for  his  present  disappoint- 
ment and  degradation?  When,  even  at  the 
sweetest  fountains  of  friendship  and  love,  we 
so  often  pine,  thirsty  and  sick,  seeking  union 
and  finding  it  not,  begging  alms  from  every 
earthly  object  and  always  poor,  always  unsatis- 
fied; and  when  we  find,  at  last,  that  all  the 
aims  and  plans  of  earth  are  vanity  and  vanity, 
and  feel  that  daily, — what  free  and  noble  soul 
does  not  lift  itself  up  and  despise  everlasting 
tabernacles  and  wanderings  in  the  circle  of 
earthly  deserts. 

"  The  soul  longs  from  her  prison-house  to  come, 

And  we  would  seal  and  sew  up,  if  we  could,  the  womb  ! 

We  seek  to  close  and  plaister  up,  by  art, 

The  cracks  and  breaches  of  the  extended  shell, 

And  in  that  narrow  cell 

Would  rudely  force  to  dwell 

The  noble,  vigorous  bird  already  wing'd  to  part." 

During  these  conversations,  they  had  imper- 
ceptibly reached  the  end  of  the  forest.  At  the 
last  tree  Charicles  stood  still.  Before  we  leave 
this  wood,  Theages,  said  he,  I  must  tell  you  the 


result  of  our  conversations.  In  all  the  forms 
and  conditions  of  humanity,  the  cultivation  of 
our  wit,  uur  sagacity,  or  other  branches  of  the 
human  intellect,  is  of  less  consequence  than  the 
education  of  the  heart;  and  that  heart  is  in  all 
men  a  human  heart.  And  it  may  be  educated, 
to  a  certain  degree,  in  all  the  forms  and  situa- 
tions of  humanity.  As  to  the  extent  to  which 
it  has  been  developed  in  this  situation,  and  the 
way  in  which  Providence  may  succor  the  un- 
fortunate and  the  suffering,  that  I  leave  to 
Heaven,  and  venture  not  to  make  its  secret 
ways  the  race-course  or  the  beaten  highway  of 
an  hypothesis  by  which  man  is  to  be  scared,  or 
in  which  the  sluggish  and  the  fro  ward  shall  find 
their  account.  Sacred  to  me  is  the  saying  of  the 
gospel :  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Blessed  are  they 
that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God.': 
Purification  of  the  heart,  the  ennobling  of  the 
soul,  with  all  its  propensities  and  cravings, — 
this,  it  seems,  to  me,  is  the  true  palingenesia  of 
this  life,  after  which,  I  doubt  not,  a  happy,  more 
exalted,  but  yet  unknown  metempsychosis  awaits 
us.  Herewith  I  am  content,  and  ^  thank  you 
that  you  have  unfolded  for  me  my  thoughts. 
They  embraced  each  other,  and  parted. 


JOHANN  WOLFGA 

Born  1749. 

The  biography  of  this  extraordinary  person- 
age is  yet  to  be  written.  His  own  memoirs, 
'Am*  meinem  Leben\  &c., — comprise  but  the 
first  half  of  that  full,  rich  life,  of  which  the  last 
half  was  the  fullest,  the  richest.  The  materi- 
als for  a  farther  and  complete  delineation  are 
not  wanting,*  but  the  historian  who  shall  col- 
lect, and  arrange,  and  reproduce  these  in  a 
'Life  of  Goethe'  worthy  that  name,  has  not 
yet  been  found.  Shall  we  look  to  the  author 
of  the  '  Life  of  Schiller'  for  this  service  1  Or 
will  Germany  herself,  out  of  the  countless  host 
of  her  literary  artificers,  furnish  the  historian 
of  her  own  Genius  ] 

Meanwhile,  it  is  gratifying  to  learn  that  the 
autobiography  is  about  to  be  given  to  the  Ame- 
rican Public,  in  a  translation  by  one  of  our  own 
countrymen,!  which,  if  it  fairly  represents  the 
original,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  a  popular  work. 
From  this  they  will  learn,  if  they  have  not 
already  learned,  that  Johann  Wolfgang  v. 
Goethe  was  born  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  on 
the  28th  of  August,  1749,  at  midday,  "  as  the 
clock  struck  twelve;"  that  his  father  was  a 
wealthy  and  cultivated  Reichsbiirger,  who 
lived  much  in  his  Italian  reminiscences ;  that 
his  maternal  grandfather,  Johann  Wolfgang  v. 
Textor,  was  a  man  of  mark,  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  Imperial  city ;  that  the  experiences 
and  observations  of  his  boyhood, — house-build- 
ing, coronation,  the  seven  years'  war,  the  as- 
pects of  his  native  city,  arts  and  trades,  boyish 
love  and  shame  and  disappointment — wrote 
imperishable  records,  materials  for  future  cre- 
ations, on  the  poet's  heart ;  that,  after  a  various 
and  careful  education  at  home,  he  was  in  due 
season  matriculated  at  Leipzig,  fell  sick  and 
returned  to  Frankfort,  a  confirmed  invalid, 
much  to  his  father's  chagrin ;  that  he  recovered 
his  health  and  studied  law  at  Strassburg  where 
he  received  the  Doctor's  degree,  and  where  he 

*  See  the  volumes  of  Goethe's  correspondence  with  dis- 
tinguished cotemporaries,  published  since  his  death,  the 
'  Tag  und  Jahres  Hefte,"  and  the  works  of  Eckermann, 
Falk,  v.  Miiller,  Doring  and  others. 

t  Parke  Godwin,  Esq.  Since  the  above  was  written  the 
work  referred  to  has  appeared.  See  No.  LXXV.  of  Wi- 
ley and  Putnam's  Library  of  Choice  Reading. 


NG  VON  GOETHE. 

Died  1832. 

diverged  into  an  episode  of  love  and  romance 
of  which  the  charming  Friederike  of  Sesenheim 
was  the  heroine ;  that  he  began  to  practise  his 
profession  at  Frankfort,  but  soon  slid  into  lite- 
rature, made  an  era  therein,  publishing  Wer- 
ther's  Leiden  and  Goetz  von  Berlichingen, 
and  so  completed  the  first  phase  of  his  poetic 
life.  Furthermore,  if  all  the  parts  of  these 
memoirs  are  given,  we  shall  see  the  poet  again 
in  the  character  of  declared  and  accepted  lover, 
— the  betrothed  of  the  beautiful  Lili ; — since 
"it  was  the  strange  ordination  of  the  High, 
above  us  ruling,  that,  in  the  progress  of  my 
wondrous  life-course,  I  should  also  experience 
the  feelings  of  a  betrothed."  We  shall  see 
him,  next,  this  cold,  impassive,  self-sufficing 
Goethe, — as  he  has  been  depicted, — the  man 
who  lived  only  for  self  and  Art, — we  shall  see 
him,  on  the  summit  of  the  Alps,  turning  his 
back  upon  Italy,  the  land  of  his  youthful  dreams, 
the  pilgrim -goal  of  the  artist,  and  hastening 
home,  unable  to  resist  any  longer  the  passion 
which  drew  him  back  to  his  beloved  :*  and  that, 

*  Hear  his  own  account  of  the  matter.  "  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  man,  in  such  cases,  had  no  power  of  decision  in 
himself,  but  were  rather  governed  and  determined  by 
earlier  impressions.  Lorn  hardy  and  Italy  lay  as  some- 
thing wholly  foreign  before  me,  Germany  as  something 
known  and  love-worthy,  full  of  friendly,  domestic  pros- 
pects. And — let  me  confess  it— that  which  had  so  long 
compassed  me  about,  which  had  borne  up  my  existence, 
continued,  at  this  moment  also,  to  be  the  most  indispen- 
sable element,  out  of  whose  limits  I  did  not  trust  myself 
to  pass.  A  small  golden  heart  which  I  had  received  from 
her  in  the  fairest  hours,  hung  still,  by  the  same  riband 
by  which  she  had  fastened  it,  love-warmed  upon  my  neck. 
I  seized  and  kissed  it.  And  here  let  me  insert  the  poem 
occasioned  by  this  circumstance. 

" 4  Memorial  thou  of  a  joy  whose  sound  has  died  away ! 

Which  I  yet  wear  about  my  neck, 

Holdest  thou,  longer  than  the  soul-band,  us  two  ? 

Prolongest  thou  the  brief  days  of  love  ? 

Do  1  flee,  Lili,  before  thee?  Must  I,  still  led  by  thy  band, 

Through  distant  vales  and  forests  wander  ! 

Ah  Lili's  heart  could  not  so  quickly 

From  my  heart  fall. 

Like  a  bird  who  breaks  his  string 

And  returns  to  the  forest ; 

He  drags — captivity's  dishonor, — 

A  bit  of  the  string  still  after  him. 

It  is  the  old,  free-born  bird  no  longer, 

He  has  already  been  some  one's  property.' 

"  I  rose  quickly  that  I  might  get  away  from  the  steep 
spot,  and  that  the  friend  storming  toward  me,  with  the 
knapsack-bearing  guide,  might  not  whirl  me  away  with 

(263) 


2G4 


GOETHE. 


after  the  resolution  to  separate  himself  from 
her,  wrung  from  him  hy  his  sister,  was  already 
formed  or  forming  within  him.  We  shall  see 
this  connection  sundered,  for  reasons  which  are 
not  very  obvious ;  but  not  till  after  long  and 
dire  struggles  through  "  a  cursed  state  which, 
in  some  respects,  might  be  likened  to  Hades," 
and  a  "  torture  which,  even  in  the  remembrance, 
is  well  nigh  insupportable." 

Finally,  we  shall  see  him  called  to  the  court 
of  Weimar  by  the  hereditary  prince,  Karl  Au- 
gust, afterward  Grand  Duke,  there  to  become 
the  client  of  a  life-long  patronage,  as  honorable 
to  one  party  as  it  was  beneficial  to  both. 

Then,  we  have  what  may  be  regarded  as  the 
continuation  of  these  memoirs,  in  the  "  ltalien- 
ische  Reise"  the  "  Zweiler  romischer  Aufent- 
halt"  and  the  "  Campagne  in  Frankreich." 
And,  be  it  remarked  by  the  way,  these  are  not 
the  least  impressive  of  Goethe's  works.  He 
maintains,  as  a  writer  of  travels,  the  same  rank 
which  distinguishes  him  in  every  species  of 
composition. 

In  1779,  Goethe  was  made  Privy  Counsellor ; 
he  received  the  title  of  nobility  in  1782,  tra- 
velled in  Italy  and  Sicily,  and  sojourned  in 
Rome  during  the  two  years  from  1786  to  1788 ; 
made  another  visit  in  1790 ;  and,  in  1792  ac- 
companied the  Grand  Duke  in  the  French  cam- 
paign. In  1806,  he  married  a  Miss  Vulpius,  the 
mother  of  his  only  surviving  child.  In  1815, 
he  was  made  Prime  Minister;  and  although, 
during  the  last  four  years  of  his  life,  he  with- 
drew himself  from  State  affairs,  he  continued 
to  labor  in  his  vocation  as  a  poet  with  unabated 
diligence,  and  apparently  with  unabated  faculty, 
until  the  hour  of  his  death,  which  overtook  him, 
as  it  were  with  the  pen  in  his  hand,  on  the  22d 
March,  1832,  in  the  eighty-third  year  of  his 
age. 

There  is  great  satisfaction  in  contemplating 
so  complete  a  life,  a  life  in  which  the  idea  and 
the  task  have  been  so  visibly  and  utterly  ful- 
filled and  accomplished. 

At  the  age  of  eighty,  Goethe  often  spoke  of 
his  death,  and  of  how  it  might  still  be  deferred. 

him  into  the  steep  abyss.  I  likewise  greeted  the  pious 
Pater,  and  turned  myself,  without  losing  a  word,  toward 
the  path  by  which  we  had  come.  A  little  lingering  the 
friend  followed,  and,  notwithstanding  his  love  and  attach- 
ment to  me,  he  remained  for  awhile  some  distance  he- 
hind,  until,  at  last,  the  glorious  waterfall  brought  us  to- 
gether again,  kept  us  together,  and  thai,  which  had  once 
for  all  been  determined,  was  also  finally  accepted  as 
wholesome  and  good."— Aus  meincm  Leben. 


"  Yes !"  said  he,  "  we  can  make  head  against 
him  for  some  time  yet.  As  long  as  one  creates 
there  can  be  no  room  for  dying.  But  yet  the 
night,  the  great  night  will  come  in  which  no 
man  can  work."  It  was  about  this  time  that 
he  lost  his  only  son.  "  Here  then,"  he  writes 
to  Zelter,  "can  the  mighty  conception  of  duty 
alone  hold  us  erect.  I  have  no  other  care  but 
to  keep  myself  in  equipoise ;  the  body  must,  the 
spirit  will ;  and  he  who  sees  a  necessary  path 
prescribed  to  his  will,  has  no  need  to  ponder 
much."  Was  Goethe  wanting  in  sensibility, 
because  he  did  not  give  himself  up  to  the 
lamentation  of  that  loss?  "Thus  did  he  shut 
up  the  deepest  grief  within  his  breast,  and 
hastily  seized  upon  a  long  postponed  labor,  in 
order  entirely  to  lose  himself  in  it.  In  a  fortnight 
he  had  nearly  completed  the  fourth  volume  of 
his  Life,  when  Nature  avenged  herself  for  the 
violence  he  had  done  her.  The  bursting  of  a 
blood-vessel  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  the 
grave."* 

He  entirely  recovered  himself  from  this  at- 
tack, and  resumed  his  task.  In  the  year  pre- 
ceding that  of  his  death,  he  had  still  to  finish 
the  second  part  of  Faust.  God  willing,  he  would 
not  die  till  that  was  accomplished.  "  He  laid  it 
down  as  a  law  to  himself,  to  complete  it  wor- 
thily ;  and  on  the  day  before  his  last  birth-day 
he  was  enabled  to  announce  that  the  highest 
task  of  his  life  was  completed.  He  sealed  it 
under  a  ten-fold  seal,  escaped  from  the  congra- 
tulations of  his  friends,  and  hastened  to  revisit, 
after  many  years,  the  scenes  of  his  earliest 
cares  and  endeavors,  as  well  as  of  the  richest 
and  happiest  hours  of  his  life.  He  went  to 
Ilmenau.  The  deep  calm  of  the  woods,  the 
fresh  breath  of  the  hills,  breathed  new  life  into 
him.  With  refreshed  and  invigorated  mind  he 
returned  home  and  felt  himself  inspired  to  un- 
dertake new  observations  of  Nature.  The 
Theory  of  Colors  was  revised,  completed  and 
confirmed,  the  nature  of  the  rainbow  more  ac- 
curately examined,  and  unwearied  thought  be- 
stowed on  the  spiral  tendency  of  vegetation."* 
And  when,  at  last,  the  brief  and  painless 
sickness  which  terminated  his  earthly  career 
I  had  laid  him  prostrate.  "  faithful  to  his  princi- 
ples he  continued  to  occupy  himself  that  he 
might  not  give  the  thinking  faculty  time  to 
grow  dull  and  inactive.    Even  when  he  had 

*  Chancellor  von  Miiller,  in  Mrs.  Austin's  Characteris- 
tics. 


GOETHE.  205 


lost  the  power  of  speaking,  his  hand  preserved 
the  character  of  his  life.  His  voice  was  mute, 
but  he  traced  characters  in  the  air.  And  when 
his  hand  sank  slowly  on  his  knee,  the  radiant 
star  had  sunk  beneath  our  horizon."* 

The  statesman-poet  was  inhumed  with  the 
pomp  befitting  his  illustrious  name.  Agreeably 
to  the  wishes  of  the  Grand  Duke,  who  had  pre- 
ceded him  by  a  few  years,  his  remains  were 
deposited  by  the  side  of  that  Prince  and  "  the 
glorious  Schiller."  The  royal  vault  of  Weimar 
holds  henceforth  the  honored  frame  in  which 
that  life  was  performed;  to  the  living  Weimar 
and  to  us  and  to  all  generations  belongs  "  the 
absolute  total  of  that  life's  vast  sum." 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in  the  life  of 
Goethe  is  the  wonderful  fortune  of  the  man. 
No  Genius  was  ever  more  favored  from  with- 
out. Sophocles  alone,  among  the  poets  of  all 
generations,  may  vie  with  him  in  this.  We 
look  in  vain  for  another  instance  of  so  rich  a 
nature  coupled  with  so  kind  a  destiny.  It 
would  seem  as  if  all  things  had  conspired  for 
once  to  make  a  perfect  lot ;  genius,  organiza- 
tion, beauty  of  person,  high  culture,  riches, 
rank,  renown,  length  of  days.  Does  the  work 
performed  correspond  to  the  advantages  enjoy- 
ed I  Does  the  result  justify  the  partiality  of 
Fortune  1 — is  a  question  which  other  ages  must 
answer. 

Goethe's  genius  is  distinguished  by  its  versa- 
tility. No  other  writer  has  shone  with  such 
various  excellence.  The  two  poles  of  the  hu- 
man intellect,  poetry  and  science,  define  the 
range  of  his  mind.  His  writings  embrace  both 
these  extremes,  and  touch  almost  every  topic 
of  interest  between  the  two.  To  speak  only 
of  more  prominent  and  unquestioned  excel- 
lences ; — as  a  lyric  poet,  he  has  no  equal.  And 
this  will  be  found,  perhaps,  in  the  final  judg- 
ment, to  constitute  his  chief  merit.  The  union 
of  perfect  finish  with  perfect  freedom ;  the 
uttermost  abandonment  of  fancy,  joined  to  the 
uttermost  self-possession  of  artistic  judgment; 
the  wild  freshness  of  poetic  feeling  —  the  very 
breath  and  aroma  of  Nature  —  accompanied  by 
that  profound  philosophy  which,  rather  felt  than 
seen,  pervades  all  his  writings ; — all  this  gives 
to  Goethe  s  lyrics  the  highest  relish  or  which 
that  form  of  poetry  is  susceptible.  The  singular 
facility  with  which  these  pieces  were  produced, 
resembling  improvisation  or  inspiration  rather 

than  composition,  has  contributed,  in  some  cases, 
no  doubt,  to  enhance  their  peculiar  charm.  "  I 
had  come,"  says  he,  "  to  regard  the  poetic  talent 
dwelling  in  me,  entirely  as  nature;  the  rather 
that  I  was  directed  to  look  upon  external  Na- 
ture as  its  proper  subject.  The  exercise  of  this 
poetic  gift  might  be  stimulated  and  determined 
by  occasion ;  but  it  flowed  forth  most  joyfully, 
most  richly,  when  it  came  involuntarily  or  even 
against  my  will.  *  *  *  *  * 
I  was  so  accustomed  to  say  over  a  song  to  my- 
self without  being  able  to  collect  it  again,  that 
I  sometimes  rushed  to  the  desk,  and,  without 
taking  time  to  adjust  a  sheet  that  was  lying 
crosswise,  wrote  the  poem  diagonally  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  without  stirring  from  the  spot. 
For  the  same  reason,  I  preferred  to  use  a  pencil, 
which  gives  the  characters  more  willingly.  For 
it  had  sometimes  happened  that  the  scratching 
and  sputtering  of  the  pen  would  wake  me  from 
my  somnambulistic  poetizing,  distract  my  at- 
tention, and  stifle  some  small  product  in  the 
birth.  For  such  poetry  I  had  a  special  rever- 
ence. My  relation  to  it  was  something  like 
that  of  a  hen  to  the  chickens,  which,  being  fully 
hatched,  she  sees  cheeping  about  her.  My  for- 
mer desire  to  communicate  these  things  only 
by  reading  them  aloud,  renewed  itself  again. 
To  barter  them  for  money  seemed  to  me  detest- 
able."* 

Goethe  claims  our  admiration  next,  as  a 
painter  of  character.  Here  too,  the  very  highest 
rank,  second  to  Shakspeare  only,  has  been  as- 
signed to  him.  His  characters  have  the  Shak- 
spearean  merit  of  being,  at  the  same  time, 
universal  and  individual,  impersonations  of  a 
general  type,  and  veritable  men  and  women, 
such  as  one  might  look  to  meet  with,  any  day 
of  the  year,  in  their  respective  circles.  And 
where  he  transcends  the  sphere  of  ordinary 
humanity,  as  in  the  case  of  Mignon,  he  gives 
us  nothing  inconceivable  or  inconsequent,  hut 
a  nature  that  carries  its  constitutive  law  within 
itself,  which  all  its  movements  obey,  by  which 
they  are  to  be  interpreted,  and  by  which  they 
must  be  judged.  His  success  is  greatest  in 
female  character,  of  which  almost  every  variety 
is  represented  in  his  works.  Running  through 
the  series  of  those  works,  we  perceive  a  moral 
gradation  oi  iemdic  ciicirdciyr,  iroin  vjretcnen 
the  uncultivated,  the  unconscious,  the  betrayed 
but  still  pure,  to  Makaria,  in  whom  female 

*  Notes  to  Mrs.  Austin's  Characteristics. 

*  Aus  meinem  l>ben.  IVth  part. 

2  I  23 


266 


GOETHE. 


virtue  reaches  its  apotheosis,  and  whose  only 
connection  with  this  earth  is  to  counsel  and  to 
bless.  As  we  follow  this  ascending  scale,  we 
divine  a  moral  purpose  in  the  author,  who,  with 
each  new  character,  has  spread  before  us  a  dis- 
tinct level  of  human  culture,  and  by  successive 
attractions  has  indicated  the  upward  path  of 
aspiration  and  self-conquest,  by  which  Humanity 
must  reach  its  destination. 

Another  characteristic  excellence  of  Goethe 
is  herewith  suggested,  viz :  his  veneration  for 
women.  This  sentiment,  with  him,  was  not 
chivalry  which,  in  assuming  a  protective  atti- 
tude, assumes  and  emphasizes  a  weakness  in 
the  female  nature,  and  thus  degrades  where  it 
professes  to  honor;  and  whose  very  homage, 
fantastical  and  patronizing  as  it  is,  contains  a 
latent  irony  the  more  bitter,  perhaps,  because 
unintentional.  Goethe's  respect  for  women  was 
a  philosophical  appreciation  of  the  real  dignity 
and  unacknowledged  riches  of  the  female  cha- 
racter, coupled  with  the  reverent  homage  of 
the  heart  for  what  the  understanding  so  clearly 
discerned ;  a  homage  which  two  such  living 
examples  as  the  Grand  Duchess  and  the  Duchess 
Mother  of  Weimar  could  not  fail  to  keep  in 
active  exercise.  In  the  extent  to  which  he 
carried  this  appreciation  of  female  excellence 
lie  stands  alone ;  far  in  the  van  of  opinion  as 
yet  pronounced.  No  writer  has  estimated  so 
highly,  none  so  truly,  the  influence  of  woman 
on  the  social  and  moral  destiny  of  man.  The 
saving  and  benign  power  of  the  feminine  ele- 
ment in  human  things  is  made  prominent  in  all 
his  creations.  In  some  of  them  it  is  a  cardinal 
point.  It  is  the  pivot  in  '  Wilhelm  Meister' 
and  the  climax  of  'Faust,'  at  the  close  of  which 
it  is  announced  with  prophetic  emphasis,  as  a 
fit  conclusion  "to  the  swelling  theme :" — "  Das 
ewig  weibliche  zieht  uns  hindu." 

A  contemporary  remarks  in  accordance  with 
this  view,  that  Goethe  "always  represents  the 
highest  principle  in  a  feminine  form."  "  As  in 
Faust  the  purity  of  Gretchen  resisting  the  de- 
mon always,  even  after  all  her  faults,  is  an- 
nounced to  have  saved  her  soul  to  heaven ;  and, 
in  the  second  part,  appears  not  only  redeemed 
herself,  but,  by  her  innocence  and  forgiving 
tenderness,  hallowed  to  redeem  the  being  who 
had  injured  her ;  so,  in  the  Meister,  these  wo- 
men hover  round  the  narrative,  each  embodying 
the  spirit  of  the  scene.  The  frail  Philina,  grace- 
ful though  contemptible,  represents  the  degra- 


dation incident  to  leading  an  exclusively  poetic 
life.  Mignon,  gift  divine  as  ever  the  Muse  be- 
stowed on  the  passionate  heart  of  man,  with  her 
soft,  mysterious  inspiration,  represents  the  high 
desire  that  leads  to  this  mistake,  as  Aurelia  the 
desire  for  excitement,  Teresa  practical  wisdom, 
gentle  tranquillity,  which  seem  most  desirable 
after  the  Aurelia  glare.  Of  the  "Beautiful 
Soul"  and  Natalia  we  have  already  spoken. 
The  former  embodies  what  was  suggested  to 
Goethe  by  the  most  spiritual  person  he  knew 
in  youth,  Fraulein  von  Klettenberg,  over  whom, 
as  he  said,  in  her  invalid  loneliness,  the  Holy 
Ghost  brooded  like  a  dove.  Entering  on  the 
Wanderjahre,  Wilhelm  becomes  acquainted 
with  another  woman  who  seems  the  comple- 
ment of  all  the  former,  and  represents  the  idea 
which  is  to  mould  and  to  guide  him  in  the  reali- 
zation of  all  the  past  experience.  This  person, 
long  before  we  see  her,  is  announced  in  various 
ways  as  a  ruling  power.  She  is  the  last  hope 
in  cases  of  difficulty,  and,  though  an  invalid, 
and  living  in  absolute  retirement,  is  consulted 
by  her  connections  and  acquaintance  as  an  un- 
erring judge  in  all  their  affairs.  All  things 
tend  toward  her  as  a  centre;  she  knows  all, 
governs  all,  but  never  goes  forth  from  herself. 
Wilhelm  at  last  visits  her.  He  finds  her  infirm 
in  body,  but  equal  to  all  she  has  to  do.  Charity 
and  counsel  to  men  who  need  her,  are  her 
business ;  astronomy  her  pleasure."  *  * 
*  *  *  *  "  The  apparition  of  the 
celestial  Makaria  seems  to  announce  the  ulti- 
mate destiny  of  the  soul  of  man."* 

As  a  writer  of  German  prose,  or,  to  use  a 
coinage  derived  from  that  language, — as  a 
stylist,  Goethe's  pre-eminence  is  undisputed 
and,  even  by  his  most  determined  opponents 
and  detractors,  emphatically  affirmed.  Menzel, 
whose  work  on  German  literature  suggests  the 
idea  of  having  been  written  for  the  express 
purpose  of  abusing  him  and  one  or  two  others 
of  like  political  sentiments,  says :  "  He  could 
make  everything,  even  the  smallest  and  mean- 
est, delightful  by  the  magic  of  his  representa- 
tion." "  Goethe  possesses  in  the  highest  degree 
the  talent  of  making  his  reader  an  accomplice 
— of  forcing  from  him  a  feeling  of  approbation. 
He  carried  in  his  hand  the  talisman  which  con- 
trols all  hearts.  No  poet  has  so  completely 
mastered  the  charm  which  language  possesses. 
We  cannot  guard  ourselves  against  the  secret 

*  Dial.  Vol.  II.  No.  1. 


GOETHE. 


267 


enchantment  with  which  he  captivates  our  in- 
jnost  soul  and  seduces  us  to  the  very  opposite 
of  all  that  we  had  previously  felt  and  believed."* 
And  yet  this  author  maintains  that  the  writer 
who  exercised  this  magic  power  was  destitute 
of  genius.    The  more  pity  for  genius,  if  true  ! 

Goethe's  style  is  a  puzzle.  It  excites  our 
wonder  how  language  can  be  so  colorless,  so 
free  from  mannerism,  and,  at  the  same  time,  so 
impressive,  so  suggestive,  so  individual.  "It 
seems  quite  a  simple  style,"  says  Carlyle,  "re- 
markable chiefly  for  its  calmness,  its  perspicuity, 
in  short  its  commonness ;  and  yet  it  is  the  most 
uncommon  of  all  styles.  We  feel  as  if  every 
one  might  imitate  it,  and  yet  it  is  inimitable." 

His  power,  as  a  moral  teacher,  is  not  so  ge- 
nerally understood  and  acknowledged  as  the 
other  qualities  which  have  been  mentioned. 
Yet  there  are  some  by  whom  it  is  more  strongly 
asserted  and  more  deeply  felt  than  all  the  other 
excellences  which  have  been  claimed  for  him. 
There  are  some  who  profess  to  have  derived 
from  him  their  strongest  moral  impressions,  and 
who  maintain  that,  as  a  teacher  of  moral  truth, 
he  has  been  more  to  them  than  any  other,  than 
all  other  writers.  Nor  will  this  seem  strange, 
if  we  consider  what  constitutes  an  effective 
moralist,  or  what  it  is  that  gives  force  to  the 
statement  of  moral  truth.  It  is  not  enthusiasm, 
or  fine  sentiment,  or  declamation,  but  the  clear 
intuition,  the  veritable  experience,  the  unbiassed 
sincerity  of  a  free  and  commanding  mind.  A 
character  distinguished  for  moral  worth  is  not 
necessary  for  this  purpose,  nor  great  activity 
of  religious  sentiment.  The  saint  may  instruct 
us  better  than  all  books  by  his  life,  but  not 
necessarily  —  because  he  is  a  saint  —  by  his 
writings.  There  may  be  great  moral  worth 
and  a  great  deal  of  religious  sentiment  without 
that  intellectual  sincerity  which  brings  us  into 
immediate  contact  with  the  truth,  and  the  want 
of  which  will  vitiate  the  strongest  statement. 
This  sincerity  of  the  intellect  is  something 
very  different  from  conscientiousness.  It  is  seem- 
ingly independent  of  any  moral  quality  except 
the  single  one  of  courage.  It  is  the  rarest  at- 
tribute in  literature.  It  does  not  readily  com- 
bine with  natures  in  which  sentiment  predomi- 
nates. It  indicates  rather  a  predominance  of 
the  intellectual.  Only  once  in  the  tide  of  time, 
was  the  highest  degree  of  it  found  united  with 

*  Menzel's  German  Literature  translated  by  C.  C. 
Pel  ton. 


the  highest  degree  of  moral  purity  and  reli- 
gious faith.  It  is  the  quality  most  essential  in 
the  communication  of  moral,  as  of  all  other 
truth. 

We  are  apt  to  deceive  ourselves  as  to  the 
moral  value  of  certain  impressions  derived  from 
books.  We  mistake  the  transient  excitation  of 
the  nobler  sentiments  produced  by  eloquent 
declamation  or  by  the  exhibition  of  romantic 
excellence  in  works  of  fiction,  —  by  such  cha- 
racters, for  instance,  as  the  Marquis  of  Posa  in 
Don  Carlos,  —  for  a  genuine  renewal  of  the 
moral  man.  We  think  we  are  burnt  clean  by 
the  temporary  glow  into  which  we  are  thrown. 
The  nature  of  such  excitement  differs  but  little 
from  that  produced  by  alcoholic  stimulants, 
amid  animated  discussion  and  congenial  friends. 
It  is  stimulus  without  nourishment,  ebullition 
without  growth.  It  has  something  maudlin.  It 
acts  chiefly  on  the  nerves.  Its  final  effect  is 
rather  to  enervate  than  to  educate  the  soul. 
He  only  instructs  who  gives  me  light,  who 
effects  a  permanent  lodgment,  in  the  mind,  of 
some  essential  truth.  The  effective  moralist  is 
not  the  enthusiast,  but  the  impartial  and  clear- 
seeing  witness ;  not  he  who  declaims  most  elo- 
quently about  the  truth,  but  he  who  makes  me 
see  it ;  who  gives  me  a  clear  intuition  of  a 
moral  fact. 

Goethe  was  peculiarly  fitted,  by  habit  and 
endowment,  to  be  a  witness  of  the  truth,  so  far 
as  truth  is  a  matter  of  intellectual  discernment. 
Not  over-scrupulous  in  his  way  of  life,  he  prac- 
tised the  most  scrupulous  fidelity  to  himself,  as 
a  seeker  of  the  truth.  He  gave  no  license  to 
his  mind.  Where  he  could  not  or  would  not 
perform,  he  would  know.  He  wanted  not 
courage  nor  candor  to  see  truly  in  morals  and 
religion  as  in  everything  else.  He  loved  sen- 
sual indulgence  right  well,  but  he  loved  truth 
more.  A  man  of  sincerest  intellect,  who  suf- 
fered neither  fear  nor  hope,  nor  prepossession 
of  any  kind,  to  come  between  him  and  the 
light ;  with  whom  to  see  was  the  first  necessity 
of  his  nature ;  to  state  distinctly  to  himself  and 
others  what  he  saw,  the  next. 

Unquestionably,  he  was  no  saint.  His  wildest 
admirers  have  sought  no  place  for  him  in  the 
Christian  Calendar,  though  greater  sinners  than 
he  may  be  found  in  it  and  among  its  most 
honored  names.  But  neither  was  he  a  bad 
man  in  any  allowable  sense  of  the  word,  as 
every  one  must  know  who  considers  the  moral 
conditions  on  which  alone  true  poetry  is  possi- 


GOETHE. 


2G8 


ble.  Whe-ein  he  transgressed  the  social  law 
and  the  Christian  standard,  let  judgment  be 
pronounced  without  fear  or  favor.  But  for 
every  count  on  which  verdict  is  given,  let  irre- 
fragable testimony  be  required.  Let  not  the 
hero  of  his  time,  a  hero  of  the  true  sort, — one 
who  labored  through  life,  with  whatever  judg- 
ment or  success,  to  build  up  and  not  to  destroy, 
to  lead  Humanity  onward  to  the  prize  of  beauty 
through  the  knowledge  of  the  truth,  —  let  not 
such  a  one  be  surrendered  to  the  scourge  of  the 
tongue  on  grounds  of  hearsay  and  fallible  in- 
ference. Let  not  a  great  and  illustrious  name 
be  ruthlessly  tossed  to  the  dogs  and  to  all  the 
birds.  If  the  good  and  evil  of  his  life,  the 
positive  and  the  negative,  were  fairly  weighed 
in  the  balance  together,  the  result  would  pro- 
bably indicate  a  higher  grade  of  moral  excel- 
lence than  most  of  his  accusers  have  attained 
to.  It  is  not,  however,  on  the  moral  character 
of  the  man  that  any  safe  judgment  as  to  the 
moral  character  of  his  writings  can  be  based. 
Grant  him  immoral;  —  still  his  testimony  to 
moral  truth,  if  sincere,  (and  no  one  versed  in 
his  writings  can  doubt  his  sincerity),  may  be  all 
the  more  impressive  on  that  account.  It  is  the 
testimony  of  one  who  was  biassed  by  no  pre- 
possessions in  favor  of  that  to  which  he  testifies, 
who  took  nothing  for  granted,  believed  nothing 
because  it  was  the  general  conviction,  said  no- 
thing because  it  was  expected,  who  would 
neither  deceive  himself  nor  be  deceived  by 
others.  It  is  the  testimony  of  one  who  had 
seen  with  his  own  eyes,  and  those  eyes  the 
keenest,  the  most  unprejudiced,  that  ever  sought 
to  penetrate  the  relations  of  things ; — who  had 
experienced  with  his  own  heart,  and  that  heart 
one  to  which  all  experiences  were  familiar, 
which  gave  itself  up  without  reserve  to  all  the 
discipline  of  life,  which  had  proved  all  things 
and  knew  and  confessed  what  was  good. 

In  reading  Goethe  we  do  not  feel,  as  when 
reading  Dante  or  Milton,  that  we  are  conversing 
with  a  pure  and  lofty  spirit;  but  we  do  feel 
that  we  are  conversing  with  a  competent  wit- 
ness, or  better  still,  with  an  incorruptible  judge. 
The  verdict  which  he  will  give  is  a  part  of  his 
life.  It  is  a  fact  in  Nature.  The  fault  which 
most  readers  find  with  his  writings  is  want  of 
heat.  He  betrays  no  passionate  interest  in  any 
subject,  in  any  character,  and  seeks  to  excite 
none  in  his  readers.  To  stir  the  blood  is  not 
his  aim.    Intense  emotion  he  purposely  avoids 


as  incompatible  with  the  higher  purposes  of 
art.  There  is  no  gush,  no  rush,  no  pouring 
forth  of  a  full  soul,  excepting  in  his  lyric 
poems.  But  what  he  wants  in  enthusiasm 
he  makes  up  in  sincerity  and  precision.  If 
there  is  no  declamation,  there  is  also  no 
cant,  no  straining,  nothing  said  for  effect. 
Therefore  his  words  have  weight.  They 
drop  like  the  oracles  of  destiny  from  his 
pen.  When  he  states  with  characteristic 
calmness  that  "  only  with  renunciation,  can 
life,  properly  speaking,  be  said  to  begin;" 
that  saying,  though  it  does  but  repeat  in 
substance  what  we  had  always  been  told, 
has  all  the  freshness  of  an  original  discovery. 
This  sincere  word,  wrung  from  the  experience 
of  such  a  mind,  carries  with  it  a  deeper  convic- 
tion than  all  the  arguments  and  all  the  decla- 
mation that  have  ever  been  employed  to  enforce 
the  duty  of  self-denial. 

With  strong  propriety  may  Goethe  be  termed 
a  moral  teacher,  and  the  highest  rank  assigned 
to  him  as  such.  He  will  be  found,  on  a  careful 
study,  to  have  the  moral  law  in  view,  and  to  aim 
at  enforcing  it ;  even  there,  where  he  has  been 
charged  with  an  immoral  tendency; — and  no- 
where more  emphatically,  than  in  the  "  Elective 
Affinities."  The  imputation  cast  upon  this  work 
is  a  specimen  of  the  hasty  and  superficial  manner 
in  which  his  writings  have  been  judged.  The 
aim  of  the  "  Elective  Affinities"  is  to  illustrate 
the  ethics  of  married  life,  to  expose  the  mischief 
of  ill-considered  and  unequal  matches,  and  the 
terrible  consequences  of  even  mental  infidelity 
to  the  marriage  vow.  He  who  can  read  the 
book  attentively  and  understandingly,  and  find 
in  it  any  other  meaning  than  this,  might  dis- 
cover a  plea  for  jealousy  in  Othello,  or  an  apo- 
logy for  murderous  ambition  in  Macbeth.  A 
writer,  already  quoted,  has  better  understood 
the  worth  and  purport  of  this  finished  work. 
"  The  mental  aberrations  of  the  consorts  from 
their  plighted  faith,  though,  in  the  one  case 
never  indulged,  and  though,  in  the  other,  no 
veil  of  sophistry  is  cast  over  the  weakness  of 
passion,  but  all  that  is  felt,  expressed  with  the 
openness  of  one  who  desires  to  legitimate  what 
he  feels, — are  punished  with  terrible  griefs  and 
a  fatal  catastrophe.  Ottilia,  that  being  of  ex- 
quisite purity,  with  intellect  and  character  so 
harmonized  in  feminine  beauty,  as  they  never 
before  were  found  in  any  portrait  of  woman 
painted  by  the  hand  of  man,  perishes  on  finding 


GOE 


that  she  lias  been  breathed  upon  by  unhal- 
lowed passion,  and  led  to  err,  even  by  her  ig- 
norant wishes,  against  what  is  held  sacred. 
There  is  indeed  a  sadness,  as  of  an  irresistible 
fatality,  brooding  over  the  whole.  It  seems  as 
if  only  a  ray  of  angelic  truth  could  have  enabled 
these  beings  to  walk  in  this  twilight,  at  first  so 
soft  and  alluring,  then  deepening  into  blind 
horror.  But  if  no  such  ray  came  to  prevent 
their  earthly  errors,  it  seems  to  point  heaven- 
ward, in  the  saintly  sweetness  of  Ottilia.  Her 
nature,  too  fair  for  vice,  too  finely  wrought 
even  for  error,  comes  lonely,  intense  and  pale, 
like  the  evening  star  on  the  cold  wintry  night. 
Tt  tells  of  other  worlds,  where  the  meaning  of 
such  passages  as  this  must  be  read  to  those 
faithful  and  pure  like  her,  victims  perishing  in 
the  green  garlands  of  youth,  to  atone  for  the 
un worthiness  of  others.  An  unspeakable  pathos 
is  felt  from  the  minutest  trait  in  this  character, 
and  deepens  with  every  new  study  of  it.  Not 
even  in  Shakspeare,  have  I  so  felt  the  organ- 
izing power  of  Genius.  I  feel  myself  familiar- 
ized with  all  beings  of  her  order.  I  see  not 
only  what  she  was,  but  what  she  might  have 
been,  and  live  with  her  in  yet  untrodden 
realms."* 

Of  Goethe's  character,  as  a  statesman  and  a 
citizen,  no  labored  justification  will  be  expected 
in  a  work  like  this.  That  he  did  not  use  his 
powers  and  influence  for  revolutionary  purposes, 
seems  to  have  been  the  chief  cause  of  the  dis- 
esteem  into  which  he  has  fallen  with  certain 
revolutionary  spirits  of  Germany,  and  of  those 
aspersions  which  have  acted  on  public  opinion 
with  us.  True,  he  was  decidedly  conservative, 
so  far  as  State  institutions  were  concerned ;  for 
he  saw  little  promise  for  man  from  measures, 
of  which  all  that  could  with  certainty  be  fore- 
seen, was,  that  they  were  subversive  of  present 
order  and  peace.  He  believed  that  all  which 
was  wanted,  or  all  which  was  really  desirable, 
might  be  accomplished,  with  greater  certainty, 
by  the  agency  of  existing  institutions. 
"iVarre  wenn  es  brennt  so  losche. 
Hat's  gebrannt  bau  wieder  auf.' 

Heine  refers  this  conduct  of  Goethe  to  his  pe- 
culiar position.  "  The  giant  was  minister  in  a 
German  dwarf- state.  He  could  never  move 
naturally.  They  said  of  the  sitting  Jupiter  of 
Phidias  at  Olympia,  that,  if  he  should  suddenly 
stand  up,  he  would  burst  the  vaulted  roof  of  the 

*  S.  M.  Fuller.   Dial,  ubi  supra. 


THE.  269 


temple.  This  was  precisely  the  position  of 
Goethe  at  Weimar.  If  he  had  suddenly  started 
up  from  his  sitting  rest,  he  would  have  broken 
through  the  ceiling  of  the  State,  or,  what  is 
more  likely,  he  would  have  broken  his  own 
head  against  it.  The  German  Jupiter  quietly 
kept  his  seat."  But  in  fact  he  needs  no  such 
apology.  The  question  by  which  he  must  be 
tried,  is  not,  whether  he  has  adopted  this  or 
that  particular  method  of  advancing  the  inte- 
rests of  Humanity;  but  whether  he  has  ad- 
vanced the  interests  of  Humanity  at  all,  by  any 
method  whatsoever]  Whether  he  labored,  on 
the  whole,  to  make  men  wiser,  better,  happier  3 
The  answer  to  this  question  must  be  sought  in 
his  works.  We  may  demand  of  a  man,  that  he 
should  not  be  indifferent  to  certain  ends ;  but 
the  method  we  must  leave  to  himself.  "It 
cannot  be  too  often  repeated,"  say3  Mrs.  Aus- 
tin, "  that  Goethe  was  not  a  partisan.  That 
he  was  indifferent  to  the  progress  of  human 
improvement  and  the  sum  of  human  happiness, 
as  some  have  maintained,  seems  to  me  incre- 
dible. Are  we  justified  in  accusing  him  of 
apathy  and  selfishness,  because  he  had  a  dread 
of  violent  political  convulsions?  a  distrust  of 
the  efficacy  of  abrupt  changes  in  the  mechanism 
of  government  ]  It  was  not  surely  indifference 
to  the  welfare  of  mankind,  but  that  he  thought 
it  a  pernicious  illusion  to  look  for  healing  there, 
from  whence  he  was  convinced  no  healing 
could  ever  come.  His  labors  for  the  improve- 
ment of  the  human  race  were  unwearied,  calm 
and  systematic." 

With  regard  to  his  private  character,  it 
would  be  easy  to  accumulate  testimony  of  the 
highest  authority  in  favor  of  those  qualities  in 
which  he  has  been  supposed  to  be  most  de- 
ficient. But  for  those  who  have  learned  to  be- 
lieve in  him  for  his  works'  sake,  such  testimony 
would  be  superfluous ;  and  for  those  who  are, 
once  for  all,  determined  against  him,  it  would 
be  unavailing.  "Pity,  that  so  few  are  ac- 
quainted with  this  excellent,  man  in  respect  of 
his  heart !"  said  the  meek  and  pious  Stilling, 
who  could  speak  from  personal  experience  of 
Goethe's  worth.  That  he  had  faults  it  needs 
no  testimony  to  prove.  It  may  safely  be  taken 
for  granted.  That  he  had  uncommon  faults,  or 
any  which — as  things  go — might  not  naturally 
be  expected  from  a  man  of  the  world :  to  prove 
this,  requires  more  testimony  than  has  yet  been 
adduced.  And  so  we  will  dismiss  the  subject 
with  his  own  words :  "  Life  to  all  of  us  is  suf- 
23* 


270 


GOETHE. 


fering  ;  who  save  God  alone  shall  call  us  to  our 
reckoning  1  By  the  failings  we  recognise  the 
species,  by  the  excellences  the  individual. 
Defects  we  all  have  in  common,  virtues  belong 
to  each  severally :"  and  with  these  of  Wieland, 
which,  though  they  refer  rather  to  his  official 
than  his  private  action,  are  not  out  of  place  in 
this  connection :  "  If  I  had  cause  to  be  ever  so 
angry  with  Goethe,  or  to  feel  ever  so  much 
offended  and  aggrieved  by  his  conduct;  yet, 
when  I  recollect  (what  no  one  can  know  better 
than  I)  what  incredible  services  he  rendered  to 
our  Sovereign,  during  the  early  years  of  his 
reign,  with  what  entire  self-forgetfulness  he 
devoted  himself  to  his  service ;  how  much  that 
was  noble  and  great  that  yet  slumbered  in  the 
princely  youth  he  first  called  forth,  I  could  fall 
on  my  knees  before  him,  and  praise  and  wor- 
ship our  Master  Goethe  more  than  for  all  the 
productions  of  his  genius  or  his  intellect." 

It  is  time  to  conclude  this  essay,  already 
drawn  out  beyond  its  legitimate  bounds.  The 
general  misunderstanding  which  prevails  among 


us  respecting  this  hero  of  modern  literature  has 
caused  it  to  assume  a  more  apologetic  character 
than  its  author  could  wish,  than  he  feels  to  be 
consistent  with  his  own  respect  for  the  man. 
In  a  few  years,  all  external  testimony  as  to  his 
merits  or  demerits,  will  have  perished  from  the 
earth ;  but  his  works  will  bear  witness  of  him 
when  there  is  no  other.  These  have  become 
a  part  of  the  world.  Iphigenia  and  Tasso  are 
indestructible  possessions  of  the  human  mind, 
and  Faust  will  endure  while  the  Brocken 
stands  or  the  Rhine  flows.  "In  him,"  says 
Fichte,  "the  noblest  blossom  of  Humanity, 
which  Nature  had  put  forth  but  once  beneath 
the  Grecian  sky,  by  one  of  her  miracles  was 
repeated  here  in  the  North.  To  him  it  was 
given  to  measure  two  different  epochs  of  hu- 
man culture  with  all  their  gradations.  And  if 
our  race  are  destined  to  ascend  to  higher  de- 
grees of  excellence,  it  will  not  be  without  his 
co-operation."* 

*  Fichte,  ueber  Oeist  und  Buchstabe  in  der  Philosophic 
Philosophisches  Journal,  vol.  IX. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

EXTRACT  FROM  GOETHE'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.* 

Now  Herder  came,  and  together  with  his 
great  learning,  he  brought  with  him  many  other 
assistances,  and  the  later  publications  besides. 
Among  these  he  announced  to  us  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  as  an  excellent  work,  with  the  German 
translation  of  which  he  wished  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted by  reading  it  aloud  to  us  himself. 

His  method  of  reading  was  quite  peculiar ; 
one  who  has  heard  him  preach  will  easily  form 
an  idea  of  it  for  himself.  He  delivered  every- 
thing, and  this  romance  as  well  as  the  rest,  in  a 
serious  and  simple  style,  perfectly  removed  from 
all  imitative-dramatic  representation,  and  avoid- 
ing even  that  variety  which  is  not  only  permit- 
ted, but  even  required,  in  an  epical  delivery;  I 
mean  that  slight  change  of  voice  which  sets  in 
relief  what  is  spoken  by  the  different  charac- 
ters, and  by  means  of  which  the  interlocutors 
are  distinguished  from  the  narrator.  Without 
being  monotonous,  Herder  let  everything  follow 
along  in  the  same  tone,  just  as  if  nothing  of  it 
was  present  before  him,  but  all  was  only  his- 
torical ;  as  if  the  shadows  of  this  poetic  crea- 
tion did  not  affect  him  in  a  life-like  manner,  but 
only  glided  gently  by.  Yet  this  manner  of  de- 
livery had  an  infinite  charm  in  his  mouth:  for, 
as  he  felt  it  all  most  deeply,  and  knew  how  to 
estimate  the  variety  of  such  a  work,  so  its  whole 

*  See  No.  LXXVI.  of  Wiley  and  Putnam's  Library  of 
Choice  Reading. 


merit  appeared  in  perfect  purity,  and  the  more 
clearly,  as  you  were  not  disturbed  by  passages 
sharply  spoken  out,  nor  interrupted  in  the  feel- 
ing which  the  whole  was  meant  to  produce. 

A  Protestant  country-clergyman  is,  perhaps, 
the  most  beautiful  subject  for  a  modern  idyl ;  he 
appears,  like  Melchizedek,  as  Priest  and  King 
in  one  person.  In  the  most  innocent  situation 
which  can  be  imagined  in  the  world,  that  of  a 
husbandman,  he  is,  for  the  most  part,  united  to 
his  people  by  similar  occupations,  as  well  as  by 
similar  family  relationships ;  he  is  a  father,  a 
master  of  a  family,  an  agriculturist,  and  thus  a 
perfect  member  of  the  community.  On  this 
pure,  beautiful,  earthly  foundation,  reposes  his 
higher  calling;  to  him  is  it  given  to  guide  men 
through  life,  to  take  care  for  their  spiritual  edu- 
cation, to  bless  them  at  all  the  leading  epochs 
of  their  existence,  to  instruct,  to  strengthen,  to 
console  them,  and,  if  present  consolation  is  not 
sufficient,  he  calls  up  before  them  the  hope  and 
firm  assurance  of  a  happier  future.  Imagine  to 
yourself  such  a  man,  with  feelings  of  pure  hu- 
manity, strong  enough  not  to  deviate  from  them 
under  any  circumstances,  and  by  this  already 
elevated  above  the  many,  of  whom  one  can  ex- 
pect neither  purity  nor  firmness ;  give  him  the 
learning  necessary  for  his  office,  as  well  as  a 
cheerful,  equable  activity  which  is  even  pas- 
sionate, for  he  neglects  no  moment  for  doing 
good, — and  you  will  have  him  well  endowed. 
But  at  the  same  time  add  the  necessary  limited- 
ness,  so  that  he  must  not  only  labor  on  in  a  small 
circle,  but  may  also,  perchance,  pass  over  to  a 


GOETHE. 


271 


smaller ;  grant  him  good-nature,  placability, 
resolution,  and  everything  else  praiseworthy 
that  springs  from  so  decided  a  character,  and 
over  all  this  a  serene  condescension  and  a 
smiling  forbearance  towards  his  own  failings 
and  those  of  others:  so  will  you  have  put 
together  pretty  well  the  image  of  our  excellent 
Wakefield. 

The  delineation  of  this  character  on  his  course 
of  life  through  joys  and  sorrows,  and  the  ever 
increasing  interest  of  the  plot,  by  the  combi- 
nation of  what  is  quite  natural  with  the  strange 
and  the  wonderful,  make  this  romance  one  of 
the  best  which  has  ever  been  written  ;  besides 
this,  it  has  the  great  superiority  of  being  quite 
moral,  nay,  in  a  pure  sense,  Christian,  for  it  re- 
presents the  reward  of  good  intentions  and  per- 
severance in  the  right,  it  strengthens  an  uncon- 
ditional confidence  in  God,  and  asserts  the  final 
triumph  of  good  over  evil,  and  all  this  without 
a  trace  of  cant  or  pedantry.  The  author  was 
preserved  from  both  of  these  by  an  elevation  of 
mind  that  shows  itself  throughout  in  the  form 
of  irony,  by  reason  of  which  this  little  work 
must  appear  to  us  as  wise  as  it  is  amiable.  The 
author,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  has  without  question  great 
insight  into  the  moral  world,  into  its  strength 
and  its  infirmities  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  may 
thankfully  acknowledge  that  he  is  an  English- 
man,* and  reckon  highly  the  advantages  which 
his  country  and  his  nation  afforded  him.  The 
family,  with  whose  delineation  he  has  here 
busied  himself,  stands  upon  one  of  the  lowest 
steps  of  citizen-comfort,  and  yet  comes  in  con- 
tact with  the  highest;  its  narrow  circle,  which 
becomes  still  more  contracted,  extends  its  in- 
fluence into  the  great  world  through  the  natural 
and  common  course  of  things ;  this  little  skiff 
floats  full  on  the  agitated  waves  of  English  life, 
and  in  weal  or  wo  it  has  to  expect  injury  or 
help  from  the  vast  fleet  which  sails  around  it. 

I  may  suppose  that  my  readers  know  this 
work  and  remember  it ;  whoever  hears  it  named 
for  the  first  time  here,  as  well  as  he  who  is  in- 
duced to  read  it  again,  will  thank  me.  For  the 
former  I  would  merely  remark,  en  passant,  that 
the  Vicar's  wife  is  of  that  busy,  good  sort,  who 
allows  herself  and  family  to  want  for  nothing, 
but  who  is  also  somewhat  vain  of  herself  and 
family.  There  are  two  daughters  ;  Olivia,  hand- 
some and  more  devoted  to  the  exterior,  and 
Sophia,  charming  and  more  given  to  her  inner 
self;  nor  will  I  omit  mentioning  an  industrious 
son,  Moses,  who  is  somewhat  astringent  and 
emulous  of  his  Father. 

If  Herder  could  be  accused  of  any  fault  in 
his  reading  aloud,  it  was  impatience ;  he  did 
not  wait  until  the  hearer  had  heard  and  com- 
prehended a  certain  part  of  the  details,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  feel  and  think  correctly  about  them  ; 
he  would  hurry  on  immediately  to  see  their 

*  Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  and  received  his 
education  at  Dublin,  Edinburgh  and  Leyden,  and  spent 
six  months  at  Padua,  where  he  is  supposed  to  have  taken 
his  degree.—  Trans. 


effect,  and  yet  he  was  displeased  with  this  too 
when  it  manifested  itself  in  us.  He  blamed  the 
excess  of  feeling  which  overflowed  from  me  at 
every  step  in  the  story.  I  felt,  like  a  man,  like 
a  young  man  ;  everything  was  living,  true,  and 
present  before  me.  He,  considering  only  the 
artistic  keeping  and  form,  saw  clearly,  indeed, 
that  I  was  overpowered  by  the  subject-matter, 
and  this  he  was  unwilling  to  allow.  Peglow's 
reflections,  besides,  which  were  not  of  the  most 
refined  character,  were  still  worse  received;  but 
he  was  especially  angry  at  our  want  of  keenness 
in  not  seeing  beforehand  the  contrasts  which 
the  author  often  makes  use  of,  and  in  suffering 
ourselves  to  be  moved  and  carried  away  by 
them  without  remarking  the  oft-returning  art. 
Nor  would  he  pardon  us  for  not  having  seen  at 
once,  or  at  least  suspected  from  the  first,  where 
Burchell  is  on  the  point  of  discovering  himself 
by  passing  over  in  his  narration  from  the  third 
to  the  first  person,  that  he  himself  was  the  lord 
whom  he  was  talking  about ;  and  when,  finally, 
we  rejoiced  like  children  at  the  denouement,  and 
the  transformation  of  the  poor,  needy  wanderer, 
into  a  rich,  powerful  lord,  he  immediately  re- 
called the  passage,  which,  according  to  the  au- 
thor's plan,  we  had  overlooked,  and  then  he 
read  us  a  powerful  lecture  on  our  stupidity.  It 
will  be  seen  from  this  that  he  regarded  the 
work  merely  as  a  production  of  Art,  and  re- 
quired the  same  of  us  who  were  yet  wandering 
in  that  state  where  it  is  very  allowable  to  let 
works  of  art  affect  us  just  as  if  they  were  pro- 
ductions of  Nature. 

I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  be  at  all  confused 
by  Herder's  invectives;  for  young  people  have 
the  happiness  or  unhappiness,  that,  when  any- 
thing has  produced  an  effect  on  them,  this  effect 
must  be  wrought  out  within  themselves;  from 
which  much  good,  as  well  as  much  mischief 
arises.  The  above  work  had  produced  a  great 
impression  upon  me,  for  which  I  could  not  ac- 
count. Properly  speaking,  I  felt  myself  in  uni- 
son with  that  ironical  tone  of  mind  which  ele- 
vates itself  above  every  object,  above  fortune 
and  misfortune,  good  and  evil,  death  and  life, 
and  thus  attains  to  the  possession  of  a  truly 
poetical  world.  In  fact,  though  I  could  not  be- 
come conscious  of  this  until  later,  it  was  enough 
that  it  gave  me  much  to  do  at  the  moment;  but 
I  could  by  no  means  have  expected  to  see  my- 
self so  soon  transposed  from  this  fictitious  world 
into  an  actual  one  so  similar. 

My  fellow-boarder,  Weyland,  who  enlivened 
his  quiet,  laborious  life,  by  visiting  his  friends 
and  relations  in  the  country,  (for  he  was  a  na- 
tive of  Alsace,)  did  me  many  services  on  my 
little  excursions,  by  introducing  me  to  different 
localities  and  individuals,  sometimes  in  person, 
sometimes  by  his  recommendations.  He  had 
often  spoken  to  me  about  a  country  clergyman 
who  lived  near  Drusenheim,  six  leagues  from 
Strasburg,  in  possession  of  a  good  benefice,  with 
an  intelligent  wife  and  a  pair  of  lovely  daugh- 
ters.   The  hospitality  and  agreeableness  of  this 


272 


GOETHE. 


family  were  always  highly  extolled.  It  scarcely 
needed  all  this  to  draw  thither  a  young  rider 
who  had  already  accustomed  himself  to  spend 
all  his  leisure  days  and  hours  on  horseback  and 
in  the  open  air.  We  decided  upon  this  trip,  too, 
on  which  my  friend  had  to  promise  that,  on  in- 
troducing me,  he  would  say  neither  good  nor  ill 
of  me,  but  would  treat  me  with  general  indif- 
ference, and  would  also  allow  me  to  make  my 
appearance  clad,  if  not  meanly,  yet  somewhat 
poorly  and  slovenly.  He  consented  to  this,  and 
promised  himself  some  sport  from  it. 

It  is  a  pardonable  whim  in  men  of  conse- 
quence to  place  their  exterior  advantages  in 
concealment  now  and  then,  so  as  to  give  the 
fairer  play  to  the  intrinsic  worth  of  their  inner 
man.  For  this  reason  the  incognito  of  princes, 
and  the  adventures  resulting  therefrom,  are  al- 
ways highly  pleasing;  they  appear  like  masked 
divinities,  who  can  nobly  reckon  at  double  their 
value  all  the  good  offices  shown  to  them  as  in- 
dividuals, and  are  able  either  to  make  light  of 
the  disagreeable  or  to  avoid  it.  That  Jupiter 
should  be  well  pleased  in  his  incognito  with 
Philemon  and  Baucis,  and  Henry  the  Fourth 
with  his  peasants  after  a  hunting  party,  is  quite 
conformable  to  Nature,  and  we  like  it  well;  but 
that  a  young  man,  of  no  importance  or  name, 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  derive  any  plea- 
sure from  an  incognito,  might  be  construed  by 
many  as  an  unpardonable  arrogance.  Yet  since 
the  question  here  is  not  whether  such  opinions 
and  deeds  are  praiseworthy  or  blameable,  but 
how  they  may  have  shown  themselves  and  been 
put  into  execution,  we  will  pardon  the  young- 
ster his  self-conceit  for  this  time,  for  the  sake  of 
our  own  amusement;  and  the  more  so  as  I  must 
here  affirm,  in  my  excuse,  that  from  youth  up,  a 
love  for  masquerade  had  been  excited  in  me 
even  by  my  stern  father  himself. 

This  time  too,  partly  with  my  own  cast-off 
clothes,  partly  with  some  borrowed  garments 
and  by  the  manner  of  combing  my  hair,  I  had, 
if  not  disfigured  myself,  yet  at  least  botched  up 
my  accoutrements  so  outlandishly  that  my  friend 
could  not  help  laughing  along  the  way,  espe- 
cially since  I  knew  how  to  take  off  to  the  life 
the  bearing  and  gesture  of  the  Latin  Eiders  (as 
such-looking  figures  are  called)  when  they  sit 
on  horseback.  The  fine  road,  the  most  splendid 
weather,  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rhine, 
put  us  in  the  best  humor.  We  stopped  a  mo- 
ment in  Drusenheim,  he  to  make  himself  spruce, 
and  I  to  rehearse  the  part  I  was  to  play,  for  I 
was  afraid  of  speaking  now  and  then  out  of 
character.  The  country  here  has  the  character- 
istics of  all  the  open,  level  parts  of  Alsace.  We 
rode  by  a  pleaeant  foot-path  over  the  meadows, 
soon  reached  Sesenheim,  left  our  horses  at  the 
tavern,  and  walked  leisurely  towards  the  par- 
sonage. uDo  not  be  put  out,"  said  Weyland, 
showing  me  the  house  from  a  distance,  "that  it 
looks  like  an  old  and  miserable  farm-house;  it 
is  so  much  the  younger  inside."  We  stepped 
into  the  court-yard  ;  the  whole  pleased  me  well : 


for  it  was  just  what  is  called  picturesque,  and 
what  had  so  magically  interested  me  in  the 
Dutch  school  of  art.  The  effect  which  time 
produces  on  all  the  works  of  man  was  strongly 
perceptible.  House,  barn  and  stable  were  just 
at  that  point  of  dilapidation  where,  in  doubtful 
hesitation  betwixt  repairing  and  rebuilding,  men 
often  neglect  the  one  without  being  able  to  ac- 
complish the  other. 

As  in  the  village,  so  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
Parsonage,  everything  was  quiet  and  deserted. 
We  found  the  father  quite  alone,  a  little  man, 
wrapped  up  within  himself,  but  friendly  not- 
withstanding; the  family  were  then  in  the  field. 
He  bade  us  welcome,  and  offered  us  some  re- 
freshment, which  we  declined.  My  friend  hur- 
ried away  to  look  after  the  ladies,  and  I  remained 
alone  with  our  host.  "  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  you 
are  surprised  to  find  me  so  miserably  quartered 
in  a  wealthy  village,  and  with  a  lucrative  bene- 
fice ;  but,"  continued  he,  "  it  proceeds  from  irre- 
solution. Long  since  it  has  been  promised  me 
by  the  parish,  and  even  by  those  in  higher 
places,  that  the  house  should  be  rebuilt;  many 
plans  have  been  already  drawn,  examined  and 
altered,  none  of  them  altogether  rejected,  and 
none  carried  into  execution.  This  has  lasted  so 
many  years,  that  I  scarcely  know  how  to  com- 
mand my  impatience."  I  answered  him  what- 
ever I  thought  likely  to  cherish  his  hopes,  and 
encourage  him  to  take  up  the  affair  more  vigor- 
ously. Thereupon  he  proceeded  to  describe 
familiarly  the  personages  on  whom  such  matters 
depend,  and  although  he  was  no  great  hand  at 
the  delineation  of  character,  yet  I  could  easily 
comprehend  how  the  whole  business  must  have 
been  delayed.  The  confidentialness  of  the  man 
was  something  peculiar  ;  he  talked  to  me  as  if  he 
had  known  me  for  ten  years,  though  there  was 
nothing  in  his  look  from  which  I  could  have 
suspected  that  he  was  directing  any  particular 
scrutiny  to  my  character.  At  last  my  friend 
came  in  with  the  mother.  She  seemed  to  look 
at  me  with  altogether  different  eyes.  Her  coun- 
tenance was  regular,  and  its  expression  intelli- 
gent; she  must  have  been  handsome  in  her 
youth.  Her  figure  was  tall  and  spare,  but  not 
more  so  than  became  her  years,  and  when  seen 
from  behind  she  had  yet  quite  a  youthful  and 
pleasing  appearance.  The  elder  daughter  then 
came  bouncing  in  briskly ;  she  inquired  after 
Frederica,  just  as  both  the  others  had  also  done. 
The  father  assured  them  that  he  had  not  seen 
her  since  all  three  had  gone  out  together.  The 
daughter  again  went  out  to  the  door  to  look  for 
her  sister ;  the  mother  brought  us  some  refresh- 
ment, and  Weyland  continued  the  conversation 
with  the  old  couple,  which  referred  to  nothing 
but  known  persons  and  circumstances ;  for  it  is 
usually  the  case,  when  acquaintances  meet  after 
some  length  of  time,  that  they  make  inquiries 
about  the  members  of  a  large  circle,  and  mutu- 
ally give  each  other  information.  I  listened, 
and  now  learned  how  much  I  had  to  promise 
myself  from  this  circle. 


GOETHE. 


273 


The  elder  daughter  again  came  hastily  back 
into  the  room,  anxious  at  not  having  found  her 
sister.  They  felt  uneasy  about  her,  and  scolded 
at  this  or  that  bad  habit ;  only  the  father  said, 
very  composedly :  "Always  let  her  alone  ;  she 
is  back  again  already !"  At  this  instant,  in  fact, 
she  entered  the  door ;  and  then  truly  a  most 
charming  star  arose  in  this  terrestrial  heaven. 
Both  daughters  still  wore  nothing  but  German,  as 
they  used  to  call  it.  and  this  almost  obsolete  nation- 
al costume  became  Frederica  particularly  well. 
A  short,  white,  full  skirt,  with  a  furbelow,  not  so 
long  but  it  left  the  neatest  little  foot  visible  up 
to  the  ankle;  a  tight  white  bodice  and  a  black 
taffeta  apron, — there  she  stood,  on  the  boundary 
between  country  beauty  and  city  belle.  Slender 
and  airy,  she  tripped  along  as  if  she  had  nothing 
to  carry,  and  her  neck  seemed  almost  too  deli- 
cate for  the  luxuriant  braids  of  flaxen  hair  on 
her  elegant  little  head.  A  free,  open  glance 
beamed  from  her  calm  blue  eyes,  and  her  pretty 
little  turned-up  nose  peered  inquiringly  into  the 
air  with  as  much  unconcern  as  if  there  could  be 
nothing  like  care  in  the  world ;  her  straw  hat 
dangled  on  her  arm,  and  thus,  at  the  first  glance, 
I  had  the  delight  of  seeing  her  perfect  grace, 
and  acknowledging  her  perfect  loveliness. 

I  now  began  to  act  my  character  subdued  ly, 
half  ashamed  to  have  played  a  joke  on  such 
good  people,  whom  I  had  leisure  enough  to  ob- 
serve: for  the  girls  continued  the  previous  con- 
versation, and  that  with  feeling  and  humor. 
All  the  neighbors  and  connections  were  again 
brought  upon  the  tapis,  and  to  my  imagination 
there  seemed  such  a  swarm  of  uncles  and  aunts, 
relations,  cousins,  comers  and  goers,  gossips  and 
guests,  that  I  thought  myself  lodged  in  the  live- 
liest world  possible.  All  the  members  of  the 
family  had  spoken  some  words  with  me,  the 
mother  looked  at  me  every  time  she  came  in  or 
went  out,  but  Frederica  first  entered  into  con- 
versation with  me,  and  as  I  took  up  and  glanced 
through  the  music  that  was  lying  around,  she 
asked  me  if  I  played  also?  When  I  told  her 
"Yes,"  she  requested  me  to  perform  something  ; 
but  the  father  would  not  allow  this,  for  he  main- 
tained that  it  was  becoming  in  her  to  serve  her 
guest  first,  with  some  piece  of  music  or  other, 
or  a  song. 

She  played  several  things  with  some  execu- 
tion, in  the  style  which  one  usually  hears  in  the 
country,  and  on  a  harpsichord,  too,  that  the 
schoolmaster  should  have  tuned  long  since,  if 
he  had  only  had  time.  She  was  now  to  sing  a 
song  also,  something  of  the  tender-melancholy  ; 
but  she  could  not  succeed  with  it.  She  rose  up 
and  said,  smiling,  or  rather  with  that  touch  of 
serene  joy  which  ever  reposed  on  her  counte- 
nance :  "  If  I  sing  poorly,  I  cannot  lay  the  blame 
on  the  harpsichord  or  the  schoolmaster ;  but  let 
us  go  out  of  doors,  then  you  shall  hear  my  Alsa- 
tain  and  Swiss  songs,  they  sound  much  better." 

During  tea,  an  idea  which  had  already  struck 
me  before,  occupied  me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I 
became  meditative  and  silent,  although  the  live- 
2  K 


liness  of  the  elder  sister,  and  the  gracefulness 
of  the  younger,  shook  me  often  enough  out  of 
my  contemplations.  My  astonishment  at  find- 
ing myself  so  actually  in  the  Wakefield  family 
was  beyond  all  expression.  The  father,  indeed, 
could  not  be  compared  with  that  excellent  man  ; 
but  where  will  you  find  his  like?  On  the  other 
hand,  all  the  worth  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
husband  there,  here  appeared  in  the  wife.  You 
could  not  see  her  without  at  once  reverencing 
and  fearing  her.  In  her  we  saw  the  fruits  of  a 
good  education  ;  her  demeanor  was  quiet,  easy, 
cheerful,  and  inviting. 

If  the  elder  daughter  had  not  the  celebrated 
beauty  of  Olivia,  yet  she  possessed  a  fine  figure, 
was  lively,  and  rather  impetuous ;  she  every- 
where showed  herself  active,  and  lent  a  helping 
hand  to  her  mother  in  all  things.  It  was  not 
hard  to  put  Frederica  in  the  place  of  Primrose's 
Sophia :  for  of  her  there  is  little  said,  we  take 
it  for  granted  that  she  is  lovely  ;  and  this  girl 
was  lovely  indeed.  Now  as  the  same  occupa- 
tion and  the  same  general  situation,  wherever 
they  can  occur,  produce  similar,  if  not  the  same 
effects,  so  here  too  many  things  were  talked 
about  and  happened  which  had  already  taken 
place  in  the  Wakefield  family.  But  when  a 
younger  son,  long  spoken  of  and  impatiently 
expected  by  the  father,  at  last  sprang  into  the 
room,  and  boldly  sat  himself  down  by  us,  taking 
but  little  notice  of  the  guests,  I  could  scarcely 
help  exclaiming:  "Moses,  are  you  here  too!" 

The  conversation  at  table  extended  my  insight 
into  this  country  and  family  circle,  as  they  chat- 
ted about  various  pleasant  incidents  which  had 
happened  here  and  there.  Frederica,  who  sat 
next  to  me,  took  occasion  from  that  circumstance 
to  describe  to  me  different  localities  which  it 
might  be  worth  my  while  to  visit.  As  one  little 
story  always  calls  out  another,  I  was  able  to 
mingle  in  the  conversation  the  better,  and  relate 
similar  incidents,  and  as,  besides  this,  a  good 
country  wine  was  by  no  means  spared,  I  stood 
in  danger  of  slipping  out  of  my  character,  for 
which  reason  my  provident  friend  took  advan- 
tage of  the  beautiful  moonlight,  and  proposed  a 
walk,  which  was  immediately  resolved  on.  He 
gave  his  arm  to  the  elder,  I  to  the  younger,  and 
thus  we  went  through  the  wide  plains,  paying 
more  attention  to  the  heavens  above  than  to  the 
earth  beneath,  which  lost  itself  in  extension 
around  us.  There  was  nothing  of  moonshine 
about  Frederica's  conversation,  however ;  by 
the  clearness  with  which  she  spoke  she  turned 
night  into  day,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it  which 
hinted  at  or  would  have  excited  feeling,  only 
her  expressions  addressed  themselves  more  than 
ever  to  me,  while,  as  I  walked  by  her  side,  she 
represented  to  me  her  own  situation,  as  well  as 
the  neighborhood  and  her  acquaintances,  just  as 
I  wished  to  be  made  acquainted  with  them ; 
then  she  added  that  she  hoped  I  would  make 
no  exception,  and  would  visit  them  again,  as  all 
strangers  had  willingly  done  who  had  once 
lodged  at  the  Parsonage. 


274 


GOETHE. 


It  was  very  pleasant  to  me  to  listen  silently 
to  the  descriptions  which  she  gave  of  the  little 
world  in  which  she  moved,  and  of  the  persons 
whom  she  particularly  valued.  She  thereby 
imparted  to  me  a  clear,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
such  an  amiable  idea  of  her  situation,  that  it  had 
a  very  strange  effect  on  me  :  for  I  felt  at  once  a 
deep  regret  that  I  had  not  lived  with  her  sooner, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  right  painful  jealous 
feeling  towards  all  who  had  hitherto  had  the 
good  fortune  to  surround  her.  I  also  watched 
closely,  as  if  I  had  had  a  right  to  do  so,  all  her 
descriptions  of  men,  whether  they  appeared 
under  the  names  of  neighbors,  cousins,  or  fami- 
liar friends,  and  my  conjectures  inclined  now 
to  one,  now  to  another ;  but  how  should  I  have 
discovered  anything  in  my  complete  ignorance 
of  all  the  circumstances?  She  at  last  became 
more  and  more  talkative,  and  I  constantly  more 
and  more  silent.  It  was  so  good  to  listen  to  her, 
and  as  I  heard  only  her  voice,  while  the  out- 
lines of  her  countenance,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world  around,  floated  dimly  in  the  twilight,  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  see  into  her  heart, 
and  that  I  could  not  but  find  it  very  pure,  since 
it  unbosomed  itself  to  me  in  such  unembarrassed 
prattle. 

When  my  companion  and  I  retired  to  the 
guest-chamber  which  was  prepared  for  us,  he, 
with  self-complacency,  immediately  broke  out 
into  pleasant  jesting,  and  took  great  credit  to 
himself  for  having  surprised  me  so  much  with 
the  likeness  of  the  Primrose  family.  I  chimed 
in  with  him,  by  showing  myself  thankful. 
"  Truly,"  cried  he,  "  the  story  is  all  here  together. 
This  family  may  well  be  compared  to  that,  and 
the  gentleman  in  disguise  here,  may  assume  the 
honor  of  passing  for  Mr.  Burchell;  moreover, 
since  scoundrels  are  not  so  necessary  in  every- 
day life  as  in  romances,  I  will  for  this  time  un- 
dertake the  role  of  the  Nephew,  and  will  behave 
myself  better  than  he  did."  However,  I  imme- 
diately changed  this  conversation,  pleasant  as  it 
was  to  me,  and  first  of  all  asked  him,  on  his 
conscience,  if  he  had  not  betrayed  me  ?  He 
answered  me  "No!"  and  I  ventured  to  believe 
him.  They  had  rather  inquired,  said  he,  after 
the  jovial  table-companion  who  boarded  at  the 
same  house  with  him  in  Strassburg,  and  of 
whom  they  had  heard  all  sorts  of  preposterous 
stuff.  I  now  went  to  other  questions  :  Had  she 
ever  been  in  love?  Was  she  now  in  love? 
Was  she  engaged?  He  said  "No"  to  them  all. 
"In  truth,"  replied  I,  "that  such  a  serenity 
should  come  by  nature  is  inconceivable  to  me. 
If  she  had  loved  and  lost,  and  again  recovered 
herself,  or  if  she  was  betrothed,  in  both  these 
cases  I  could  account  for  it." 

Thus  we  chatted  together  till  deep  in  the 
night,  and  I  was  awake  again  at  the  dawn. 
My  longing  to  see  her  once  more  seemed  un- 
conquerable ;  but  while  I  was  dressing  I  was 
horrified  at  the  confounded  wardrobe  I  had  so 
capriciously  selected.  The  further  I  advanced 
in  putting  on  my  clothes,  the  meaner  I  seemed 


in  my  own  eyes :  for  everything  was  calculated 
for  just  that  effect.  I  might  perchance  have  set 
my  hair  to  rights ;  but  when  at  last  I  forced  my 
arms  into  the  borrowed,  worn-out  grey  coat,  the 
short  sleeves  of  which  gave  me  the  most  absurd 
appearance,  I  fell  decidedly  into  despair,  and 
the  more  so  since  I  could  see  myself  only  piece- 
meal, in  a  little  looking-glass,  and  then  each 
part  always  looked  more  ridiculous  than  the  rest. 

During  this  toilette  my  friend  awoke,  and 
with  the  satisfaction  of  a  good  conscience,  and 
in  the  feeling  of  pleasurable  hopes  for  the  day, 
he  looked  out  at  me  from  under  the  quilted  silk 
coverlet.  I  had  envied  his  fine  clothes  for  a 
long  time  already,  as  they  hung  over  the  chair, 
and  had  he  been  of  my  size,  I  would  have  car- 
ried them  oft"  before  his  very  eyes,  dressed  my- 
self in  them,  and  hurrying  into  the  garden,  left 
my  cursed  husks  for  him  ;  he  would  have  had 
good  humor  enough  to  deck  himself  out  in  my 
clothes,  and  our  tale  would  have  found  a  merry 
ending  early  in  the  morning.  But  that  was  not 
now  to  be  thought  of,  as  little  as  any  other  fea- 
sible accommodation.  To  appear  again  before 
Frederica  in  such  a  figure  that  my  friend  could 
give  me  out  as  a  laborious  and  accomplished 
but  poor  student  of  Theology, — before  Frederica, 
who  yesterday  evening  had  spoken  so  friendly 
to  my  disguised  self, — that  was  altogether  im- 
possible. There  I  stood,  vexed  and  thoughtful, 
and  summoned  up  all  my  power  of  invention; 
alas  !  it  deserted  me  !  But  now  when  he,  com- 
fortably stretched  out  in  bed,  after  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  me  for  a  while,  all  at  once  burst  out 
into  a  loud  laugh,  and  exclaimed :  "  Yes  !  it  is 
true,  you  do  look  most  confoundedly !"  I  replied 
impetuously:  "And  I  know  what  I  will  do. 
Good  bye,  and  make  my  excuses!"  "Are  you 
crazy !"  cried  he,  springing  out  of  bed  and  try- 
ing to  detain  me.  But  I  was  already  out  of  the 
door,  down  the  stairs,  out  of  the  house  and  yard, 
to  the  tavern ;  in  an  instant  my  horse  was  sad- 
dled, and  I  hurried  away  in  mad  vexation,  gal- 
loping towards  Drusenheim,  dashed  through  the 
place,  and  still  onwards ! 

As  I  thought  myself  by  this  time  in  safety,  I 
began  to  ride  more  leisurely,  and  now  first  felt 
how  infinitely  against  my  will  I  was  going  away. 
But  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate,  recalled  to 
mind  the  promenade  of  yesterday  evening  with 
the  greatest  calmness,  and  cherished  the  secret 
hope  of  seeing  her  soon  again.  Yet  this  quiet 
feeling  again  changed  itself  into  impatience,  and 
I  now  determined  to  ride  rapidly  into  the  city, 
change  my  dress,  take  a  good  fresh  horse,  and 
then,  as  my  passion  made  me  believe,  I  could  at 
all  events  return  before  dinner,  or,  as  was  more 
probable,  to  the  dessert  or  towards  evening,  and 
beg  my  forgiveness. 

I  was  just  about  to  put  spurs  to  my  horse  to 
execute  this  resolve,  when  another,  and,  as 
seemed  to  me,  a  happier  thought  came  into  my 
head.  In  the  tavern  at  Drusenheim,  the  day 
before,  I  had  noticed  a  son  of  the  landlord  very 
nicely  dressed,  who,  up  early  to-day  and  busied 


GOETHE. 


275 


about  his  rural  arrangements,  had  saluted  me 
from  his  court-yard  as  I  rode  by.  He  was  of 
my  size,  and  had  slightly  reminded  me  of  my- 
self. Thought,  done!  My  horse  was  hardly 
turned  around,  when  I  found  myself  in  Drusen- 
,  heim ;  I  brought  him  into  the  stable,  and  made 
the  fellow  my  proposal  in  brief:  that  he  should 
lend  me  his  clothes,  as  I  had  something  merry 
on  foot  at  Sesenheim.  I  had  no  need  to  talk 
long;  he  agreed  to  the  proposition  with  joy, 
and  praised  me  for  wishing  to  make  some  sport 
for  the  Mamsells  ;  they  were  so  gallant  and  good, 
especially  Mamselle  Rica,  and  the  parents,  too, 
liked  to  see  everything  go  on  merry  and  pleasant. 
He  considered  me  attentively,  and  as  from  my 
appearance  he  might  have  taken  me  for  a  poor 
starveling,  he  said:  "If  you  wish  to  insinuate 
yourself  into  their  good  graces,  this  is  the  right 
way."  Meanwhile  we  had  already  made 
rapid  advances  in  our  toilette ;  he  could  not 
indeed  trust  me  with  his  holiday  clothes  on  the 
strength  of  mine ;  but  he  was  honest-hearted, 
and  had  my  horse  in  his  stable.  I  soon  stood 
there  right  trig,  threw  back  my  shoulders,  and 
my  friend  seemed  to  contemplate  his  likeness 
with  complacency.  "  Well,  Mr.  Brother !"  said 
he,  giving  me  his  hand,  which  I  grasped  hearti- 
ly, "  don't  come  too  near  my  gal,  she  might  mis- 
take you !" 

My  hair,  which  now  had  its  full  growth  again, 
I  could  part  at  top  pretty  much  like  his,  and  as 
I  looked  at  him  repeatedly,  1  found  it  comical 
to  imitate  closely  his  thicker  eyebrows,  with  a 
burnt  cork,  and  bring  mine  nearer  together  in 
the  middle,  so  as  with  my  enigmatical  inten- 
tions, to  make  myself  an  external  riddle  like- 
wise. "Now  have  you  not,"  said  I,  as  he 
handed  me  his  be-ribboned  hat,  "  something  or 
other  to  be  done  at  the  Parsonage,  so  that  I 
may  announce  myself  there  in  a  natural  man- 
ner1?" "Good!"  replied  he,  "but  then  you 
must  wait  two  hours  yet.  There  is  a  confine- 
ment at  our  house ;  I  will  offer  to  take  the  cake 

i  to  the  Parson's  wife,*  and  you  might  carry  it 
over  there.  Pride  must  be  paid  for,  and  so 
must  a  joke."  —  I  concluded  to  wait,  but  these 
two  hours  were  infinitely  long,  and  I  was  dying 
of  impatience  when  the  third  hour  passed  by 
before  the  cake  came  out  of  the  oven.  I  got  it 
at  last,  quite  hot,  and  hastened  away  with  my 
credentials  in  the  most  beautiful  sunshine,  ac- 

i  companied  for  a  space  by  my  Ditto,  who  pro- 
mised to  come  after  me  in  the  evening  and 
bring  me  my  clothes,  which  however,  I  briskly 
declined,  and  reserved  to  myself  the  privilege 
of  returning  him  his  own  when  I  was  done 
with  them. 

I  had  not  skipped  far  with  my  present,  which 
I  carried  neatly  tied  up  in  a  napkin,  when,  in 
the  distance,  I  saw  my  friend  approaching  with 
the  two  ladies.  My  heart  was  uneasy,  although 
in  fact  it  was  unnecessary  under  this  jacket.  I 
stood  still,  took  breath,  and  tried  to  think  how  I 

*  The  general  custom  of  the  country  villages  in  Pro- 
testant Germany  on  such  interesting  occasions.— Trans. 


should  begin  ;  and  now  I  first  remarked  that  the 
nature  of  the  ground  was  very  much  in  my 
favor  ;  for  they  were  walking  on  the  other  side 
of  the  brook,  which,  together  with  the  strips  of 
meadow  through  which  it  ran,  kept  the  two 
foot-paths  pretty  far  apart.  When  they  were 
just  opposite  to  me,  Frederica,  who  had  already 
perceived  me  long  before,  cried  :  "  George,  what 
have  you  got  there  ?"  I  was  clever  enough  to 
cover  my  face  with  my  hat,  which  I  took  off,  at 
the  same  time  holding  up  the  loaded  napkin 
high  in  the  air.  "  A  christening-cake  !"  cried  she 
at  that ;  "  how  does  your  sister  do  !"  "  Gooed," 
said  I,  for  I  tried  to  talk  strange,  if  not  exactly 
in  the  Alsatian  dialect.  "  Carry  it  to  the  house  !" 
said  the  elder,  "and  if  you  do  not  find  mother, 
give  it  to  the  maid  ;  but  wait  for  us,  we  will  be 
back  soon,  do  you  hear?"  I  hastened  along  my 
path  in  the  joyous  feeling  of  the  best  hope  that, 
as  the  beginning  was  so  lucky,  all  would  go  off 
well,  and  I  soon  reached  the  Parsonage.  I 
found  nobody  either  in  the  house  or  the  kitchen; 
I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  the  old  gentleman, 
whom  I  might  have  supposed  busy  in  the  study  ; 
I  therefore  sat  me  down  on  the  bench  before  the 
door,  placed  the  cake  beside  me,  and  pressed 
my  hat  upon  my  face. 

I  cannot  easily  recall  more  delightful  sensa- 
tions. To  sit  here  again  on  this  threshold,  over 
which,  a  short  time  before,  I  had  blundered  out 
in  despair ;  to  have  seen  her  already,  to  have 
heard  her  dear  voice  again  so  soon  after  my 
chagrin  had  pictured  to  me  a  long  separation,  to 
be  expecting  every  moment  herself,  and  a  dis- 
covery at  which  my  heart  throbbed  fast,  and  yet, 
in  this  ambiguous  case,  it  would  be  an  exposure 
without  shame ;  for  from  its  very  beginning  it 
was  a  merrier  prank  than  any  of  those  they  had 
laughed  at  so  much  yesterday.  Love  and  Ne- 
cessity are  yet  the  best  masters ;  they  both 
worked  together  here,  and  their  pupil  was  not 
unworthy  of  them. 

But  the  maid  came  stepping  out  of  the  barn. 
"Now!  did  the  cake  turn  out  well !"  cried  she 
to  me;  "how  does  your  sister  do?"  "All 
gooed,"  said  I,  and  pointed  to  the  cake  without 
looking  up.  She  took  up  the  napkin  and  mut- 
tered :  "  Now  what's  the  matter  with  you  to-day 
again  ?  Has  little  Barbara  been  looking  at  some- 
body else  once  more  ?  Don't  let  us  suffer  for 
that !  A  happy  couple  you  will  make,  if  you 
carry  on  so !"  As  she  spoke  pretty  loud,  the 
Parson  came  to  the  window  and  asked  :  "  What's 
the  matter?"  She  showed  him;  I  stood  up 
and  turned  myself  towards  him,  but  yet  kept 
the  hat  over  my  face.  As  he  spoke  rather 
kindly  to  me  and  had  asked  me  to  remain,  I 
went  towards  the  garden,  and  was  just  going  in, 
when  the  Parson's  wife,  who  was  enteripg  the- 
court-yard  gate,  called  to  me.  As  the  sun  shone 
right  in  my  face,  I  once  more  took  advantage  of 
my  hat,  and  saluted  her  with  a  ploughman's 
scrape ;  but  she  went  into  the  house  after  she 
had  bidden  me  not  go  away  without  eating 
|  something.    I  now  walked  up  and  down  in  the 


276 


GOETHE. 


garden  ;  everything  had  hitherto  had  the  best 
success,  yet  I  drew  a  deep  breath  when  I  re- 
flected that  the  young  people  would  soon  return. 
But  the  mother  unexpectedly  stepped  up  to  me, 
and  was  just  going  to  ask  me  a  question,  when 
she  looked  me  in  the  face  so  that  I  could  not 
conceal  myself  any  longer,  and  the  question 
stuck  in  her  mouth.  "  I  was  looking  for  George," 
said  she,  after  a  pause,  "and  whom  do  I  find? 
Is  it  you,  young  sir  ?  How  many  forms  have 
you,  then?"  "In  earnest  only  one,"  replied  I; 
"  in  sport  as  many  as  you  like."  "  Which  sport 
I  will  not  spoil,"  smiled  she;  "go  out  behind 
the  garden  and  into  the  meadow  until  it  strikes 
twelve,  then  come  back,  and  I  will  already  have 
contrived  the  joke."  I  did  so ;  but  when  I  was 
outside  of  the  hedge  that  bounds  the  village 
gardens,  and  was  going  into  the  meadow,  I  saw 
some  country  people  coming  along  the  foot-path 
towards  me,  who  embarrassed  me.  I  therefore 
turned  aside  into  a  little  grove  which  crowned 
an  elevation  near  by,  in  order  to  conceal  myself 
there  till  the  appointed  time.  Yet  how  strangely 
was  I  surprised  when  I  entered  it !  for  it  ap- 
peared to  be  a  neatly  trimmed  place,  with 
benches,  from  every  one  of  which  could  be  en- 
joyed a  fine  view  of  the  country.  Here  was 
the  village  and  the  church  tower,  here  Dru- 
senheim,  and  behind  it  the  woody  islands  of  the 
Rhine,  in  the  opposite  direction  was  the  Vosgian 
mountain-range,  and  at  last  the  Minster  of  Strass- 
burg.  These  different  heaven-bright  pictures 
were  surrounded  by  frames  of  foliage,  so  that 
one  could  imagine  nothing  more  joyous  and 
more  pleasing.  I  sat  me  down  upon  one  of  the 
benches,  and  noticed  on  the  largest  tree  an  ob- 
long little  board  with  the  inscription  :  "  Frede- 
rica's  Repose."  It  never  entered  into  my  head 
that  I  could  have  come  to  disturb  this  repose : 
for  a  budding  passion  has  this  beauty  about  it, 
that,  as  it  is  unconscious  of  its  origin,  neither 
does  it  spend  any  thought  upon  its  end,  and  as 
it  feels  itself  glad  and  cheerful,  it  can  have  no 
presentiment  that  it  may  make  mischief  too. 

Scarcely  had  I  had  time  to  look  about  me  and 
lose  myself  in  sweet  reveries,  when  I  heard 
somebody  coming;  it  was  Frederica  herself. 
"  George,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  cried 
from  a  distance.  "Not  George!"  cried  I,  run- 
ning towards  her,  "  but  one  who  craves  forgive- 
ness of  you  a  thousand  times."  She  looked  at 
me  with  astonishment,  but  soon  collected  her- 
self and  said,  after  drawing  a  deeper  breath  : 
"  You  abominable  fellow,  how  you  frighten 
me !"  "  The  first  disguise  has  led  me  into  the 
second,"  exclaimed  I;  "the  former  would  have 
been  unpardonable  if  I  had  only  known  in  any 
manner  whom  I  was  going  to  see,  but  this  one 
you  will  certainly  forgive,  for  it  is  the  form  of 
a  man  whom  you  meet  in  so  friendly  a  man- 
ner." Her  pale  cheeks  had  colored  up  with 
the  loveliest  rosy-red.  "  You  shall  not  be  treat- 
ed worse  than  George,  at  all  events  !  But  let 
us  sit  down!  I  confess  that  the  fright  has 
thrilled  through  all  my  limbs."    I  sat  down  be- 


side her,  exceedingly  agitated.  "  We  know 
everything  already  from  your  friend,  up  to  this 
morning,"  said  she,  "now  do  you  tell  me  the 
rest."  I  did  not  suffer  her  to  ask  twice,  but  de- 
scribed to  her  my  horror  at  my  yesterday's 
figure,  and  my  rushing  out  of  the  house,  so 
comically  that  she  laughed  heartily  and  de- 
lightedly; then  I  went  on  with  what  follow- 
ed, with  all  modesty,  indeed,  yet  passionately 
enough  to  have  well  passed  for  a  declaration 
of  love  in  historical  form.  At  last  I  solemnized 
my  pleasure  at  finding  her  again,  by  a  kiss  upon 
her  hand,  which  she  suffered  to  remain  in  mine. 
If  she  had  taken  upon  herself  the  expense  of 
the  conversation  during  yesterday  evening's 
moonlight  walk,  I  now,  on  my  part,  richly  re- 
paid the  debt.  The  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
again,  and  being  able  to  say  to  her  everything 
that  I  had  kept  back  yesterday,  was  so  great, 
that,  in  my  eloquence,  I  did  not  remark  how 
meditative  and  silent  she  was  becoming.  Once 
more  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  over  and 
over  again  I  begged  her  forgiveness  for  the 
fright  which  I  had  caused  her.  How  long  we 
may  have  sat  there  I  know  not ;  but  all  at  once 
we  heard  some  one  call  "Rica!  Rica!"  It  was 
the  voice  of  her  sister.  "That  will  be  a  pretty 
story  to  tell,"  said  the  dear  girl,  restored  to  her 
perfect  serenity  again ;  "she  is  coming  hither 
from  the  side  next  to  me,"  added  she,  bending 
over  so  as  half  to  conceal  me :  "  turn  yourself 
away,  so  that  she  will  not  recognize  you  at 
once."  The  sister  came  up  to  the  spot,  but  not 
alone;  Weyland  was  with  her,  and  both,  as 
soon  as  they  saw  us,  stood  still  as  if  petrified. 

If  we  should  all  at  once  see  a  powerful  flame 
burst  out  from  a  quiet  roof,  or  should  meet  a 
monster  whose  deformity  was  at  the  same  time 
revolting  and  fearful,  we  should  not  be  struck 
with  such  massive  astonishment  as  seizes  us, 
when,  unexpectedly,  we  see  with  our  own  eyes 
something  we  had  believed  morally  impossible. 
"  What  is  this  ?"  cried  the  elder,  with  the 
rapidity  of  one  who  is  frightened  to  death : 
"What  is  this?  you  with  George!  Hand-in- 
hand  !  How  am  I  to  understand  this  ?" — "  Dear 
sister,"  replied  Frederica,  very  doubtfully,  "  the 
poor  fellow  is  begging  something  of  me  ;  he  has 
something  to  beg  of  you,  too,  you  must  forgive 
him  beforehand."  "I  don't  understand,  —  I 
don't  comprehend — "  said  her  sister,  shaking 
her  head  and  looking  at  Weyland,  who,  in  his 
quiet  way,  stood  by  in  perfect  tranquillity,  and 
contemplated  the  scene  without  any  kind  of  ex- 
pression. Frederica  arose  and  drew  me  after 
her.  "No  hesitating!"  cried  she!  "Pardon 
begged  and  granted  !"  "Now  do!"  said  I,  step- 
ping pretty  near  the  elder,  "  I  have  need  of  par- 
don!" She  drew  back,  gave  a  loud  shriek,  and 
blushed  over  and  over;  then  threw  herself 
down  on  the  grass,  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  could  not  get  enough  of  it.  Weyland 
smiled  as  if  pleased,  and  cried  :  "  You  are  a 
rare  youth  !"  Then  he  shook  my  hand  in  his. 
He  was  not  usually  liberal  with  his  caresses, 


GOETHE. 


277 


but  his  shake  of  the  hand  had  something  hearty 
and  enlivening  about  it;  yet  he  was  sparing  of 
this  also. 

After  taking  some  time  to  recover  and  collect 
ourselves,  we  set  out  on  our  return  to  the  village. 
On  the  way  I  learned  how  this  singular  ren- 
counter had  been  occasioned.  Frederica  had  at 
last  parted  from  the  promenaders  to  rest  herself 
in  her  little  nook  for  a  moment  before  dinner, 
and  when  the  other  two  came  back  to  the  house, 
the  mother  had  sent  them  to  call  Frederica  in 
the  greatest  haste,  as  dinner  was  ready. 

The  elder  sister  manifested  the  most  extrava- 
gant delight,  and  when  she  learned  that  the 
mother  had  already  discovered  the  secret,  she 
exclaimed  :  "  All  that  is  left  now  is  that  father, 
brother,  servant-man  and  maid,  should  be  cheat- 
ed likewise."  When  we  were  at  the  garden- 
hedge,  Frederica  insisted  upon  going  beforehand 
into  the  house  with  my  friend.  The  maid  was 
busy  in  the  kitchen-garden,  and  Olivia  (for  so  I 
may  be  allowed  to  name  the  elder  sister  here), 
called  out  to  her :  "  Here,  I  have  something  to 
tell  you!"  She  left  me  standing  by  the  hedge, 
and  went  towards  the  maid.  I  saw  that  she 
was  speaking  to  her  very  earnestly.  Olivia  re- 
presented to  her  that  George  had  quarrelled  with 
Barbara,  and  seemed  desirous  of  marrying  her. 
The  lass  was  not  displeased  at  this ;  I  was  now 
called,  and  was  to  confirm  what  had  been  said. 
The  handsome,  stout  girl  cast  down  her  eyes, 
and  remained  so  till  I  stood  quite  near  before 
her.  But  when,  all  at  once,  she  looked  into  the 
strange  face,  she  too  gave  a  loud  scream  and 
ran  away.  Olivia  bade  me  run  after  her  and 
hold  her  fast,  so  that  she  should  not  get  into  the 
house  and  give  the  alarm ;  while  she  herself 
wished  to  go  and  see  how  it  was  with  her 
father.  On  the  way  Olivia  met  the  servant-boy, 
who  was  in  love  with  the  maid ;  I  had  in  the 
mean  time  hurried  after  the  maid,  and  held  her 
fast.  "  Only  think !  what  good  luck !"  cried 
Olivia :  "  it 's  all  over  with  Barbara,  and  George 
marries  Liese."  "  I  have  thought  he  would  for 
a  long  while,"  said  the  good  fellow,  and  stood 
there  disconsolate. 

I  had  given  the  maid  to  understand,  that  all 
we  had  yet  to  do  was  to  cheat  the  father.  We 
went  up  to  the  lad,  who  turned  away  and  would 
have  walked  off;  but  Liese  took  him  aside,  and 
he,  too,  when  he  was  undeceived,  made  the 
most  extraordinary  gestures.  We  went  together 
to  the  house.  The  table  was  covered,  and  the 
father  already  in  the  room.  Olivia,  who  kept 
me  behind  her,  stepped  to  the  threshold  and 
said  :  "  Father,  you  have  no  objections  to  George's 
dining  with  us  to-day?  but  you  must  let.  him 
keep  his  hat  on."  "With  all  my  heart!"  said 
the  old  man,  "but  why  such  an  unusual  thing? 
Has  he  hurt  himself?"  She  led  me  forward  as 
I  stood,  with  my  hat  on.  "  No !"  said  she,  hand- 
ing me  into  the  room,  "  but  he  has  a  bird-cage 
under  it,  and  the  birds  might  fly  out  and  make 
a  deuce  of  a  fuss  ;  for  there  are  nothing  but  loose 
wild  birds  there."  The  father  was  pleased  with 


the  joke,  without  precisely  knowing  what  it 
meant.  At  this  instant  she  took  off  my  hat, 
made  a  ploughman's  scrape,  and  required  me 
to  do  the  same.  The  old  man  looked  at  me, 
recognized  me,  but  was  not  put  out  of  his 
priestly  self-possession.  "  Ay,  ay,  Mr.  Candi- 
date !"  exclaimed  he,  raising  a  threatening  finger 
at  me  :  "  You  have  changed  saddles  very  quickly, 
and  over-night  I  have  lost  an  assistant,  who 
yesterday  promised  me  so  faithfully  that  he 
would  often  mount  my  pulpit  on  week-days." 
Thereupon  he  laughed  heartily,  bade  me  wel- 
come, and  we  sat  down  to  table.  Moses  came 
in  much  later ;  for,  as  the  youngest  and  spoiled 
child,  he  had  accustomed  himself  not  to  hear 
the  dinner-bell.  Besides,  he  took  very  little 
notice  of  the  company,  scarce  even  when  he 
contradicted  them.  In  order  to  make  surer  of 
him,  they  had  placed  me,  not  between  the 
sisters,  but  at  the  end  of  the  table,  where  George 
often  used  to  sit.  As  he  came  in  at  the  door, 
which  was  behind  me,  he  slapped  me  smartly 
on  the  shoulder, and  said:  "Good  dinner  to  you, 
George!"  "  Many  thanks,  youngster!"  replied 
I.  The  strange  voice  and  the  strange  face 
startled  him.  "What  say  you?"  cried  Olivia: 
"  does  he  not  look  very  like  his  brother  ?"  "  Yes, 
from  behind,"  replied  Moses,  who  managed  to 
recover  his  composure  immediately,  like  other 
folk.  He  did  not  look  at  me  again,  and  busied 
himself  merely  with  zealously  devouring  the 
dishes,  in  order  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Then, 
too,  he  thought  proper  occasionally  to  find  some- 
thing for  himself  to  do  in  the  yard  and  the  gar- 
den. At  the  dessert  the  genuine  George  came 
in,  and  made  the  scene  still  more  lively.  They 
rallied  him  for  his  jealousy,  and  would  not 
praise  him  for  having  gotten  himself  a  rival  in 
me ;  but  he  was  modest  and  clever  enough, 
and,  in  a  half-confused  manner,  he  mixed  up 
himself,  his  sweetheart,  his  ditto,  and  the  Mam- 
sells  with  each  other  to  such  a  degree,  that  at 
last  nobody  could  tell  whom  he  was  talking 
about,  so  that  they  were  glad  to  give  him  a 
glass  of  wine  and  a  piece  of  his  own  cake  to 
eat,  to  keep  him  quiet. 

At  table  there  was  some  talk  about  going  to 
walk  ;  which  however  did  not  suit  me  very  well 
in  my  peasant's  clothes.  But  the  ladies,  early 
on  that  day  already,  when  they  learned  who 
had  run  away  in  such  a  desperate  hurry,  had 
remembered  that  a  hunting-coat  of  a  cousin  of 
theirs,  in  which  he  used  to  go  sporting  when  he 
was  here,  was  hanging  in  a  clothes-press.  Yet 
I  declined,  apparently  with  all  sorts  of  jokes, 
but  with  a  feeling  of  secret  vanity,  not  wishing, 
as  cousin,  to  disturb  the  good  impression  I  had 
made  in  the  character  of  peasant.  The  father 
had  gone  to  take  his  afternoon  nap  ;  the  mother, 
as  always,  was  busy  about  her  housewifery. 
But  my  friend  proposed  that  I  should  tell  them 
some  story,  to  which  I  immediately  agreed.  We 
repaired  to  a  spacious  arbor,  and  I  gave  them  a 
tale  which  I  have  since  written  out  under  the  title 
of  The  New  Melusina,  (post,  324).  It  bears  about  the 
24 


278 


GOETHE. 


same  relation  to  The  New  Paris*  as  the  Youth 
bears  to  the  Boy,  and  I  would  insert  it  here, 
were  I  not  afraid  of  injuring,  by  its  outlandish 
play  of  Fancy,  the  rural  reality  and  simplicity 
which  agreeably  surround  us.  Enough :  I  suc- 
ceeded in  that  which  rewards  the  inventors  and 
narrators  of  such  productions,  I  succeeded  in 
awakening  curiosity,  in  fixing  the  attention,  in 
inciting  them  to  give  over-hasty  solutions  of  im- 
penetrable riddles,  in  deceiving  their  expecta- 
tions, in  confusing  them  by  making  that  wonder- 
ful which  was  merely  strange,  in  arousing  sym- 
pathy and  fear,  in  making  them  anxious,  in 
moving  them ;  and  at  last,  by  the  inversion  of 
what  was  apparently  sober  earnest  into  an  in- 
genious and  cheerful  jest,  this  little  tale  satisfied 
the  mind,  leaving  behind  it  materials  for  new 
images  to  the  imagination,  and  to  the  under- 
standing for  further  reflection. 

Should  any  one  hereafter  read  this  tale  in 
print,  and  doubt  whether  it  could  have  and  pro- 
duce such  an  effect,  let  him  remember  that,  pro- 
perly speaking,  man  is  only  intended  to  have 
influence  while  present.  Writing  is  an  abuse 
of  language,  reading  silently  to  one's  self  is  a 
pitiful  succedaneum  of  speech.  The  strongest 
influence  in  a  man's  power  is  made  by  his  per- 
sonal presence,  youth  is  the  most  powerful  upon 
youth,  and  hence  too  arise  the  purest  influences. 
These  are  they  which  enliven  the  world,  and 
can  perish  neither  morally  nor  physically.  I 
had  inherited  from  my  father  a  certain  loqua- 
cious fondness  for  teaching;  from  my  mother 
the  faculty  of  representing,  clearly  and  power- 
fully, everything  that  the  imagination  can  pro- 
duce or  grasp,  of  giving  a  freshness  to  known 
stories,  of  inventing  and  relating  others,  and 
even  making  them  up  as  I  went  along.  By  my 
paternal  endowment  I  was  for  the  most  part 
rather  a  bore  to  the  company :  for  who  likes  to 
listen  to  the  opinions  and  sentiments  of  another, 
especially  a  youth,  whose  judgment,  on  account 
of  his  fragmentary  experience,  seems  constantly 
insufficient?  My  mother,  on  the  contrary,  had 
thoroughly  qualified  me  for  social  conversations. 
For  to  the  imagination  even  the  emptiest  tale 
has  an  elevated  charm,  and  even  the  smallest 
quantity  of  solid  matter  is  thankfully  received 
by  the  understanding. 

By  such  recitals,  which  cost  me  nothing,  I 
made  myself  beloved  by  children,  I  excited  and 
delighted  youth,  and  drew  upon  me  the  atten- 
tion of  older  persons.  But  in  society,  such  as  it 
commonly  is,  I  was  soon  obliged  to  stop  these 
practices,  and  I  have  thereby  lost  but  too  much 
of  the  enjoyment  of  the  world  and  of  intellec- 
tual improvement ;  yet  both  these  parental  gifts 
accompanied  me  throughout  my  whole  life, 
united  with  a  third,  namely,  the  necessity  of  ex- 
pressing myself  figuratively  and  by  comparisons. 
In  consideration  of  these  peculiarities,  Doctor 
Gall,  a  man  of  as  much  profundity  as  acuteness, 
discovering  them  by  his  Theory,  assured  me 


that  I  was  properly  speaking  born  for  a  popular 
orator.  At  this  disclosure  I  was  not  a  little  con- 
founded :  for  as  I  discovered,  in  my  nation,  no 
opportunity  to  harangue  about  anything,  it  would 
follow,  if  his  assertion  were  well-grounded,  that 
everything  else  I  could  undertake,  would  have 
been,  alas,  but  a  mistaken  vocation ! 


FROM  THE  "ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES."* 

PART  SECOND.   CHAPTER  THIRTEENTH. 

Ottilia  this  afternoon  had  taken  a  walk  to 
the  lake.  She  carried  the  child  and  read  as 
she  walked,  according  to  her  custom.  In  this 
manner  she  arrived  at  the  oak  by  the  ferry. 
The  boy  had  fallen  asleep :  she  seated  herself, 
laid  him  down  beside  her,  and  continued  her 
reading.  The  book  was  one  of  those  that  draw 
to  them  a  tender  soul  and  will  not  let  it  go. 
She  forgot  time  and  the  hour,  and  did  not  con- 
sider that  by  land  it  was  a  long  way  back  to 
the  new  building ;  but  she  sat  absorbed  in  her 
book,  in  herself,  so  lovely  to  look  upon  that  the 
trees  and  bushes  around  should  have  been  ani- 
mated and  gifted  with  eyes  to  admire  and  de- 
light in  her.  Just  then  a  ruddy  gleam  of  the 
sinking  sun  fell  behind  her,  and  gilded  her 
cheeks  and  shoulders. 

Edward,  who  had  succeeded  in  making  his 
way  thus  far  unobserved,  finding  his  park  empty 
and  the  region  solitary,  ventured  on  still  farther. 
At  last  he  breaks  through  the  thicket  near  the 
oak,  sees  Ottilia  and  she  sees  him;  he  flies  to 
her  and  throws  himself  at  her  feet.  After  a 
long  silent  pause,  in  which  both  seek  to  collect 
themselves,  he  explains  to  her  in  a  few  words 
why  and  how  he  had  come  here;  that  he  had 
sent  the  Major  to  Charlotte,  that  their  common 
fate  was  at  this  moment  deciding.  That  he  had 
never  doubted  her  love,  she  also  certainly  never 
his — that  he  now  asks  her  consent. 

Ottilia  spoke  thus  in  haste.  She  recalled  at 
once  to  mind  all  that  might  occur.  She  was 
happy  in  Edward's  presence,  but  felt  that  she 
must  send  him  away.  "  I  beg,  I  entreat  you, 
dearest,"  she  cried,  "  return  and  wait  for  the 
Major."  "  I  obey  your  command,"  cried  Ed- 
ward, while  he  first  gazed  passionately  on  her 
and  then  seized  her  in  his  arms.  She  embraced 
him  with  hers,  and  pressed  him  most  tenderly 
to  her  breast.  Hope  shot,  like  a  star  that  falls 
from  heaven,  away  over  their  heads.  They 
imagined,  they  believed  that  they  now  belonged 
to  each  other  ;  they  exchanged,  for  the  first  time, 
decided,  free  kisses,  and  then,  with  a  violent 
and  painful  effort,  tore  themselves  apart. — The 
sun  had  set,  it  was  growing  dusk — and  a  damp 
vapor  was  rising  from  the  lake.  Ottilia  stood 
perplexed  and  excited.  She  looked  over  toward 
the  house  on  the  hill,  and  thought  she  saw  Char- 


*  See  Part  First,  Book  II.—  Trans. 


♦  Translated  by  Mr.  G.  P.  Bradford. 


GOETHE. 


279 


lotto's  white  dress  on  the  balcony.  It  was  a 
long  way  round  the  lake,  and  she  knew  how 
impatiently  Charlotte  was  waiting  for  the  child. 
She  sees  the  plane  trees  opposite  her ;  only  a 
piece  of  water  separates  her  from  the  path  that 
leads  directly  up  to  the  building.  In  her 
thoughts,  as  with  her  eyes,  she  has  already 
crossed.  The  risk  of  venturing  on  the  water 
with  the  child  vanishes  in  this  extremity.  She 
hastens  to  the  boat,  and  does  not  feel  that  her 
heart  beats  violently,  that  her  feet  totter,  and 
that  her  senses  threaten  to  fail  her.  She  springs 
into  the  boat,  seizes  the  oar,  and  pushes  oft  from 
the  land.  She  is  obliged  to  use  force,  and  re- 
peat the  effort.  The  boat  rocks  and  glides  a 
little  way  out  into  the  lake ;  with  the  child  on 
her  left  arm,  the  book  in  her  left  hand,  and  the 
oar  in  her  right,  she  staggers,  loses  her  foothold, 
and  falls  into  the  boat.  The  oar  escapes  from 
her  hand  on  one  side,  and,  in  her  efforts  to  re- 
cover herself,  child  and  book  fall  on  the  other 
into  the  water.  She  still  grasps  the  child's 
clothes;  but  the  helpless  position  in  which  she 
lies  hinders  her  from  rising  herself.  Her  right 
hand,  which  remains  free,  is  not  sufficient  to 
enable  her  to  turn  round  and  raise  herself  up. 
At  last,  however,  she  succeeds,  draws  the  child 
out  of  the  water,  but  its  eyes  are  closed,  it  has 
ceased  to  breathe  ! 

In  an  instant  she  recovers  entirely  her  self- 
possession,  but  so  much  the  greater  is  her  pain. 
The  boat  has  drifted  nearly  to  the  middle  of  the 
lake,  the  oar  is  floating  far  away,  she  sees  no 
one  on  the  shore,  and  indeed  what  would  it 
have  availed  her  to  see  anyone?  Separated 
from  all,  she  floats  on  the  faithless,  inaccessible 
element. 

In  this  emergency  she  has  to  look  for  aid 
within  herself.  Often  has  she  heard  of  the  re- 
suscitation of  the  drowned.  On  her  very  birth- 
day she  had  experienced  this  herself.  She  strips 
the  child  and  dries  it  with  her  muslin  dress. 
She  tears  open  her  bosom,  and  bares  it  for  the 
first  time  to  the  free  heaven;  for  the  first  time 
she  presses  a  living  being  to  her  pure  naked 
breast,  alas!  no  longer  a  living  being!  The 
cold  limbs  of  the  unfortunate  creature  chilled 
her  bosom  to  her  inmost  heart.  Endless  tears 
gush  from  her  eyes,  and  impart  a  semblance  of 
life  and  warmth  to  the  surface  of  the  stiffened 
corpse.  ******* 

*  *  *  She  does  not  give  over  her  efforts, 
she  wraps  it  in  her  shawl,  and  by  rubbing, 
pressing,  breathing  on  it,  by  kisses  and  tears, 
she  thinks  to  supply  the  place  of  those  remedies 
that  are  denied  to  her,  cut  off  as  she  is  from 
communication  with  others. 

All  in  vain !  Motionless  the  child  lies  in  her 
arms,  motionless  stands  the  boat  on  the  watery 
plain ;  but  even  here  her  beautiful  spirit  does 
not  leave  her  helpless.  She  turns  toward  hea- 
ven. Kneeling  she  sinks  down  in  the  boat,  and 
with  both  arms  raises  the  stiffened  child  above 
her  innocent  breast,  marble-like  in  whiteness, 
and  alas !  in  coldness  too.   With  moist  eyes  she 


looks  upward  and  invokes  help  from  thence 
where  a  tender  heart  hopes  to  find  the  greatest 
fulness  when  all  else  fails. 

And  not  in  vain  does  she  turn  to  the  stars, 
which  already  are  beginning  one  by  one  to 
twinkle  forth.  A  soft  wind  rises  and  drives 
the  boat  to  the  plane-trees. 

CHAPTER  FOURTEENTH. 

She  hastens  to  the  new  building,  calls  out  the 
surgeon  and  gives  him  the  child.  The  ever- 
ready  man  treats  the  delicate  body  with  suc- 
cessive applications  according  to  the  customary 
manner.  Ottilia  assists  him  in  all;  she  pro- 
cures, she  fetches,  she  assumes  the  care,  moving, 
indeed,  as  in  another  world,  for  the  height  of 
misery  like  the  highest  happiness  changes  the 
face  of  all  things ;  and  only  when,  after  all 
means  have  been  tried,  the  worthy  man  shakes 
his  head,  first  to  her  hopeful  questions  making 
no  answer,  then  answering  with  a  whispered 
No,  she  leaves  Charlotte's  chamber,  where  all 
this  had  taken  place,  and  hardly  has  she  enter- 
ed the  parlor,  when,  unable  to  reach  the  sofa, 
she  falls  on  her  face,  exhausted  on  the  floor. 

At  this  moment  they  hear  Charlotte's  carriage 
drive  up  to  the  house.  The  surgeon  earnestly 
beseeches  the  bystanders  to  remain  behind.  He 
will  go  to  meet  her  and  prepare  her  for  what 
has  happened ;  but  already  she  has  entered  her 
apartment.  She  finds  Ottilia  on  the  floor,  and 
one  of  the  maids  rushes  toward  her  with  cries 
and  tears.  The  surgeon  comes  in  and  she 
learns  all  at  once.  But  how  can  she,  at  once, 
give  up  all  hope1?  The  experienced,  skilful  and 
wise  man  begs  her  only  not  to  see  the  child ; 
and  goes  away  to  beguile  her  with  new  at- 
tempts. She  has  seated  herself  on  her  sofa; 
Ottilia  still  lies  on  the  floor,  but  raised  a  little 
so  that  her  head  lies  sunk  on  Charlotte's  knees. 
The  medical  friend  goes  backward  and  forward. 
He  appears  to  be  busied  about  the  child,  while 
his  care  in  reality  is  directed  to  the  women.  In 
this  way  midnight  comes  on,  the  death-stillness 
becoming  always  deeper.  Charlotte  no  longer 
conceals  from  herself  that  the  child  can  never 
be  restored  to  life.  She  desires  to  see  it.  It 
has  been  wrapt  in  clean,  warm,  woollen  cloths, 
and  laid  in  a  basket  which  they  set  by  her  on 
the  sofa,  —  only  the  little  face  is  uncovered. 
Calm  and  beautiful  it  lies  there. 

The  news  of  the  melancholy  accident  had 
excited  a  stir  in  the  village  and  reached  the 
inn.  The  Major  had  come  up  to  the  house  by 
the  well-known  way :  he  went  round  the  house, 
and  meeting  with  one  of  the  servants  who  had 
run  out  into  the  out-building  to  fetch  something, 
he  gained  more  exact  information, —  and  sent 
for  the  surgeon  to  come  out.  The  latter  came, 
astonished  at  seeing  his  old  patron,  informed 
him  of  the  present  state  of  things,  and  under- 
took to  prepare  Charlotte  to  see  him.  He  went 
in,  and  with  this  intention  began  a  conversa- 
tion by  which  he  led  her  imagination  from  one 
object  to  another,  until  he  at  last  brought  before 


280 


GOETHE. 


Charlotte's  mind  her  friend,  intimated  his  cer- 
tain sympathy,  his  nearness  to  her  spirit  in  his 
modes  of  thinking,  and  at  last  his  actual  near- 
ness in  person.  Enough,  she  learned  that  her 
friend  was  at  the  door,  was  apprized  of  all  that 
had  happened,  and  wished  to  be  admitted. 

The  Major  entered  the  room.  Charlotte 
saluted  him  with  a  painful  smile.  He  stood 
before  her.  *  *  *  *  Charlotte 
pointed  to  a  seat,  and  thus  they  sat  opposite  to 
each  other  in  silence,  the  night  through.  Ottilia 
still  lay  quietly  on  Charlotte's  knees ;  she 
breathed  softly  as  she  slept  or  seemed  to  sleep. 

The  morning  dawned,  the  light  was  extin- 
guished, and  both  friends  seemed  to  awake  as 
from  a  gloomy  dream.  Charlotte  looked  at  the 
Major,  and  said,  "Explain  to  me,  my  friend,  by 
what  providence  you  came  here  to  take  part  in 
this  scene  of  sorrow  ?" 

"  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place,"  said  the 
Major,  answering  her  as  she  had  spoken  in  a 
low,  subdued  voice,  as  if  they  did  not  wish  to 
waken  Ottilia,  "  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  place 
for  reserve,  or  delicate  management  in  approach- 
ing the  subject  I  would  speak  of.  The  situation 
in  which  I  find  you  is  so  awful  that  the  impor- 
tant matter  itself,  for  which  I  came,  loses  its 
value  by  side  of  it."  He  then  acknowledged 
to  her  very  calmly  and  simply  the  object  of  his 
mission,  so  far  as  Edward  had  part  in  sending 
him,  the  design  of  his  coming  so  far  as  his  own 
free  will,  his  own  interest  was  concerned.  He 
presented  both  with  much  tenderness  and  yet 
with  sincerity.  Charlotte  listened  calmly,  and 
appeared  to  be  neither  surprised  nor  displeased 
at  it. 

When  the  Major  had  ended,  Charlotte  re- 
plied, and  in  so  low  a  voice  that  he  was  obliged 
to  move  his  seat  nearer  :  "  I  have  never  before 
found  myself  in  circumstances  like  these;  but 
in  similar  cases,  I  have  always  said  to  myself, 
*  how  will  it  be  on  the  morrow  ?'  I  feel  truly 
and  deeply  that  the  fate  of  several  persons  lies 
in  my  hands ;  and  what  I  have  to  do  is  clear  to 
me  and  soon  explained.  I  consent  to  the  separa- 
tion. I  ought  to  have  resolved  on  it  sooner. 
By  my  delay  and  opposition  I  have  been  the 
death  of  the  child.  There  are  certain  things 
which  Destiny  obstinately  determines  shall  be. 
In  vain  that  Reason  and  Virtue,  Duty  and  all 
that  is  holy  throw  themselves  in  the  way. 
Something  shall  take  place  that  is  right  to  it, 
though  it  seems  not  right  to  us ;  and  at  last  it 
carries  its  point  let  us  demean  ourselves  as  we 
may.  Yet  what  do  I  say?  Rather  will  Des- 
tiny again  bring  about  my  own  wish,  my  own 
purpose,  against  which  I  inconsiderately  acted. 
Have  I  not  myself  already  thought  of  Ottilia 
and  Edward  together  as  a  most  suitable  pair  ? 
Have  I  not  even  myself  sought  to  bring  them 
near  to  each  other  ?  Were  not  you  yourself,  my 
friend,  knowing  to  this  plan1?  And  why  could 
I  not  distinguish  the  caprice  of  a  man  from  true 
love?  Why  did  I  accept  his  hand,  when,  as  a 
friend,  I  might  have  made  him  and  another 


wife  happy?  And  consider,  too,  this  unhappy 
slumberer  !  I  tremble  for  the  moment  when 
she  awakes  from  her  half-death-sleep  to  con- 
sciousness. How  shall  she  live,  how  shall  she 
be  consoled,  if  she  cannot  hope,  by  her  love,  to 
make  good  to  Edward,  what  she,  as  the  instru- 
ment of  the  strangest  destiny,  has  robbed  him 
of?  And  she  can  restore  all  to  him,  by  the 
fondness,  the  passion  with  which  she  loves 
him.  Love  can  bear  all,  it  can  do  much  more, 
it  can  restore  all.  As  for  myself,  I  must  not  be 
considered  in  the  present  posture  of  affairs. 

"  Retire  quietly,  my  dear  Major ;  say  to  Ed- 
ward that  I  consent  to  the  separation ;  that  I 
give  up  the  whole  matter  to  him  and  you  to 
manage  in  your  own  way.  That  I  am  uncon- 
cerned about  my  own  future  condition,  and  can 
be  so  in  every  sense.  I  will  sign  every  paper 
which  shall  be  brought  to  me.  Only  let  it  not 
be  required  of  me  to  co-operate,  to  consider  or 
advise." 

The  Major  arose.  She  reached  to  him  her 
hand  over  Ottilia.  He  pressed  his  lips  on  that 
dear  hand.  "  And  for  myself,  what  may  I  hope  ?" 
he  whispered  gently. 

"  Allow  me  to  remain  still  in  your  debt  for 

the  answer  to  that  question,"  replied  Charlotte : 

"we  have  not  deserved  to  be  unhappy;  but 

neither  have  we  deserved  to  be  happy  together." 
*         *  *  ***** 

Charlotte  sat  only  a  few  minutes,  absorbed  in 
r?er  reflections  after  the  Major  had  left  her ;  for 
hardly  had  he  gone  when  Ottilia  raised  herself 
up  with  her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  her  friend.  ! 
First  she  raised  herself  from  her  lap,  then  from 
the  floor,  and  stood  before  Charlotte. 

"  For  the  second  time,"  thus  began  the  glo- 
rious child,  with  an  invincible,  graceful  earnest- 
ness, "for  the  second  time,  I  experience  the 
same  thing.  You  once  said  to  me,  'It  often 
happens  that,  at  different  times  in  our  lives,  we 
meet  with  like  things,  occurring  in  a  similar 
way,  and  always  in  important  moments.'  I  now 
find  your  remark  to  be  true,  and  feel  impelled 
to  make  a  confession  to  you.  Shortly  after  my 
mother's  death,  I,  then  a  little  child,  had  moved 
my  stool  to  your  side,  you  were  sitting  on  a  sofa 
as  now,  my  head  lay  on  your  knees.  I  was 
neither  asleep  nor  awake,  but  in  a  kind  of 
slumber.  I  heard,  very  distinctly,  everything 
that  went  on  around  me,  especially  everything 
that  was  said ;  and  yet  I  could  not  move  myself, 
nor  speak,  nor,  even  if  I  had  wished  it,  so  much 
as  signify  that  I  was  conscious.  At  that  time 
you  spoke  with  a  friend  about  me  :  you  lamented 
my  lot  —  in  being  left  behind  in  the  world,  a 
poor  orphan  ;  you  painted  my  dependent  condi- 
tion, and  how  unhappy  it  might  be  with  me  if 
a  special  star  of  good  fortune  did  not  rule  over 
my  destiny.  I  comprehended  well  and  exactly, 
perhaps  too  strictly,  all  that  you  appeared  to  wish 
for  me,  and  to  demand  of  me.  I  made,  here- 
upon, laws  for  myself,  according  to  my  limited 
views.  By  these  I  have  lived  for  a  long  time ; 
in  conformity  with  these,  what  I  did  or  forbore 


GOETHE. 


281 


to  do  was  regulated,  at  that  time  when  you  loved 
me  and  took  care  of  me ;  when  you  received 
me  into  your  house,  and  still  for  some  time  after. 

But  I  have  wandered  away  from  my  path,  I 
have  broken  my  laws,  I  have  even  lost  the  feel- 
ing of  them  ;  and  now,  after  a  terrible  occur- 
rence, you  again  give  me  light  on  my  present 
situation  which  is  more  deplorable  than  the  first. 
Resting  on  your  lap,  half-lifeless,  as  from  a 
strange  world,  I  hear  once  more  your  gentle 
voice  over  my  ear.  I  learn  the  aspect  of  my 
condition;  I  shudder  at  myself;  but,  as  at  that 
time,  so  now  also,  in  my  half-lifeless  sleep,  I 
have  marked  out  for  myself  my  new  path.  I 
have  resolved  as  I  then  did,  and  what  that  reso- 
lution is  you  must  learn  at  once.  Edward  shall 
never  be  mine.  In  a  fearful  way  has  God 
opened  my  eyes  to  see  in  what  a  crime  I  am 
entangled.  I  will  atone  for  it :  and  let  no  one 
think  to  turn  me  away  from  my  purpose.  Take 
then,  dearest,  your  steps  accordingly.  Recall 
the  Major ;  write  to  him  that  no  steps  be  taken. 
How  distressed  was  I  that  I  could  not  move  nor 
stir  as  he  went  away.  I  wished  to  start  up,  to 
cry  out,  that  you  might  not  allow  him  to  go 
away  with  hopes  so  pernicious." 

Charlotte  saw  Ottilia's  state,  she  felt  it,  but 
hoped  by  time  and  her  representations  to  make 
some  change  in  her  resolutions.  Yet  when  she 
uttered  some  words  that  pointed  to  a  future,  to 
a  mitigation  of  pain,  to  hope;  "No!"  cried  Ot- 
tilia, with  exaltation,  "  seek  not  to  move  me,  to 
delude  me :  the  moment  I  learn  that  you  have 
consented  to  a  separation,  I  expiate  in  that  same 
lake  my  error,  my  crime." 

CHAPTER  FIFTEENTH. 

While  in  a  happy,  peaceful  daily  intercourse, 
relations,  friends,  household  companions,  are 
wont  to  discuss  what  happens,  or  is  to  happen, 
more  than  is  necessary  or  reasonable ;  while 
they  repeatedly  communicate  to  each  other  their 
purposes,  undertakings,  occupations,  and  without 
taking  mutual  counsel,  yet  always  conduct  their 
whole  course  of  life  as  if  by  mutual  advice ; 
we  find,  on  the  other  hand,  that  in  moments  of 
importance  —  the  very  occasions  in  which  it 
would  seem  that  the  assistance  and  support  of 
others  are  most  needed — the  individuals  draw 
back  into  themselves,  strive  to  transact  every- 
thing for  themselves,  to  conduct  everything  in 
their  own  way,  and  while  they  conceal  from 
each  other  their  own  individual  methods,  only 
the  result,  the  object,  and  what  is  attained,  be- 
come common  property  once  more. 

After  so  many  strange  and  unhappy  events, 
a  certain  silent  seriousness  came  over  the  two 
friends,  which  manifested  itself  in  a  lovely 
sparing  of  one  another.  Quite  silently  Charlotte 
had  sent  the  child  to  the  Chapel :  there  it  rested 
as  the  first  victim  of  a  dark  and  fearful  destiny. 

Charlotte  turned  back  as  far  as  was  possible 
toward  life,  and  here  she  found  that  Ottilia  had 
the  first  need  of  her  aid.  She  occupied  herself 
chiefly  with  her,  without,  however  suffering  it  to 
2l 


be  marked.  She  knew  how  much  the  heavenly 
child  loved  Edward  ;  she  had  gradually  inquired 
out  the  scenes  that  preceded  the  fatal  accident, 
and  learned  every  circumstance,  partly  from  Ot- 
tilia herself,  partly  through  the  letters  of  the 
Major. 

Ottilia,  on  her  part,  lightened,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, Charlotte's  momentary  life.  She  was  open, 
talkative  even,  but  never  was  the  conversation 
of  the  present  or  of  what  had  so  lately  happen- 
ed. She  had  always  noted,  observed — she  knew 
much  —  all  this  now  turned  to  account.  She 
entertained  and  diverted  Charlotte,  who  still 
cherished  in  secret  the  hope  of  seeing  so  worthy 
a  pair  united.  But  it  was  otherwise  with  Ottilia 
She  had  discovered  to  her  friend  the  secret  of 
her  life-course ;  she  was  emancipated  from  her 
early  narrowness,  from  servitude.  By  her  re- 
pentance, by  her  resolution,  she  also  felt  herself 
freed  from  the  burden  of  that  guilt,  that  calamity. 
She  had  no  longer  need  to  do  violence  to  her.-elf. 
She  had,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  pardoned 
herself,  but  only  on  condition  of  complete  re- 
nunciation, and  this  condition  was  unalterable 
for  all  the  future. 

Thus  passed  some  time,  and  Charlotte  felt 
how  very  much  the  house  and  park,  water,  rock 
and  tree  groups,  only  renewed,  daily,  painful 
feelings  in  them  both.  That  the  scene  must  be 
changed  was  but  too  clear ;  in  what  way  to  do 
this  was  not  so  easy  to  decide.  Should  the  two 
women  continue  together?  Edward's  earlier 
wish  seemed  to  enjoin  this  ;  his  explanation,  his 
threats  to  make  it  necessary.  But  how  could  it 
fail  to  be  seen  that  both  women,  with  all  good- 
will, with  all  reasonableness,  found  themselves 
in  a  painful  relation  to  each  other  ?  Their  con- 
versation was  evasive  :  often  there  were  some 
things  they  chose  but  to  half  understand;  but 
oftener  an  expression  was  misinterpreted,  if  not 
by  the  understanding,  at  least  by  the  feelings. 
They  feared  to  wound  each  other,  and  this  very 
fear  was  the  first  thing  to  be  wounded  and  the 
first  to  wound. 

Did  they  wish  to  change  the  scene,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  be  separated,  at  least  for  a  while, 
from  each  other,  then  the  old  question  came 
up,  where  should  Ottilia  go?  That  rich  and 
distinguished  family  beforementioned  had  made 
fruitless  attempts  to  procure  for  a  very  promising 
daughter,  the  heiress  of  the  house,  female  com- 
panions who  should  serve  to  amuse  her  and 
excite  her  emulation.  Already  on  the  last  visit 
of  the  Baroness,  and  lately  by  letters,  Charlotte 
bad  been  urged  to  send  Ottilia  there,  and  she 
now  proposed  it  again.  But  Ottilia  decidedly 
refused  to  go,  where  she  must  find  what  is 
called  the  great  world.  u  Suffer  me,  dear  aunt," 
said  she,  "in  order  that  I  may  not  appear  nar- 
row-minded and  wilful,  to  speak  out  that  which, 
in  any  other  case,  it  would  be  a  duty  not  to 
speak  of,  but  rather  to  conceal.  A  person  dis- 
tinguished by  misfortune,  even  if  without  any 
fault,  is  marked  in  a  fearful  way.  His  presence 
excites  in  all  who  see  and  notice  him  a  kind  of 
24* 


282 


GOETHE. 


horror.  Every  one  thinks  to  see  in  him  the 
dread  thing  which  has  been  laid  on  him.  Every 
one  is  curious  and  anxious  at  the  same  time. 
In  like  manner  a  house,  a  town  in  which  some- 
thing dreadful  has  happened,  becomes  fearful 
to  every  one  who  enters  it.  There  the  light  of 
day  shines  not  so  clear,  and  the  stars  appear  to 
lose  their  lustre.  How  great,  and  yet  excusable 
perhaps,  is  the  indiscretion  of  people  towards 
such  unhappy  persons,  their  foolish  obtrusive- 
ness  and  awkward  kindness!  Pardon  me  that 
I  say  it  -  but  I  suffered  incredibly  with  that  poor 
maiden  when  Luciana  dragged  her  out  of  the 
secret  chambers  of  the  house,  kindly  occupied 
herself  with  her,  and,  with  the  best  intentions, 
wished  to  force  her  to  play  and  dance.  As  the 
poor  child,  growing  ever  more  frightened,  fled 
and  sunk  away  in  a  swoon,  I  caught  her  in  my 
arms,  the  company  were  terrified  and  excited, 
and  every  one  then  first  became  really  curious 
about  the  unhappy  creature.  I  little  thought 
then  that  a  like  fate  was  in  reserve  for  me ;  but 
my  sympathy,  so  true  and  vivid,  still  survives. 
I  can  now  turn  the  compassion  I  felt  for  her 
upon  myself,  and  guard  myself  from  giving  oc- 
casion to  such  scenes." 

"  But  nowhere,  dear  child,"  replied  Charlotte, 
"  will  you  be  able  to  withdraw  yourself  from 
the  eyes  of  men ;  we  have  no  cloisters,  in  which 
formerly  an  asylum  for  such  feelings  was  to  be 
found." 

"It  is  not  solitude  that  constitutes  the  asylum, 
dear  aunt,'"  answered  Ottilia.  "  The  refuge  most 
to  be  prized  is  to  be  sought  there  where  we  can 
be  active.  All  expiations,  all  renunciations  are 
no  way  adapted  to  rescue  us  from  a  fatal,  threat- 
ening destiny,  if  it  is  determined  to  pursue  us. 
Only  when  I  am  forced,  in  an  idle  condition,  to 
serve  as  a  show  to  the  world,  does  it  disturb 
and  pain  me.  But  if  I  am  found,  cheerfully 
occupied  with  labor,  unwearied  in  my  duty, 
then  can  I  endure  the  eyes  of  all,  since  I  need 
not  shrink  from  those  of  Heaven."  "I  am  much 
mistaken,"  replied  Charlotte,  "if  your  inclination 
does  not  draw  you  again  to  the  boarding-school." 

"Yes,"  replied  Ottilia,  "I  do  not  deny  it.  I 
imagine  it  to  myself  a  happy  destination  to 
guide  others  in  the  common  way,  when  the 
path  in  which  we  ourselves  have  been  led  has 
been  most  uncommon.  Do  we  riot  in  history 
see,  that  those  who,  on  account  of  great  moral 
calamities,  have  withdrawn  into  the  deserts, 
have  by  no  means  remained  concealed  and 
buried  as  they  hoped.  They  have  been  called 
back  to  the  world  in  order  to  guide  the  wander- 
ing in  the  right  way.  And  who  could  do  it 
better  than  those  already  initiated  in  the  error- 
paths  of  life  ?  They  have  been  called  to  aid  the 
unhappy,  and  who  are  better  fitted  for  this  than 
those  whom  no  earthly  woes  can  any  longer 
reach?" 

"  You  choose  a  singular  destination,"  answer- 
ed Charlotte  ;  "  I  will  not  oppose  you  ;  let  it  be 
so,  though  only,  as  I  hope,  for  a  short  time." 

"  How  very  much  I  have  to  thank  you,"  said 


Ottilia,  "that  you  are  willing  to  allow  me  to 
make  this  trial,  this  experience  !    If  I  do  not  j 
flatter  myself  too  much,  it  shall  prove  good  for 
me.    In  that  place,  I  shall  be  reminded  how- 
many  trials  I  endured  there,  and  how  little, 
how  utterly  insignificant  they  were,  in  compari- 
son with  those  I  was  afterwards  doomed  to  ex- 
perience.   How  serenely  shall  I  look  upon  the 
troubles  of  the  young  folks,  smile  at  their  childish 
pains,  and  guide  them  with  gentle  hand  through  , 
all  their  wanderings !  The  happy  are  not  fitted 
to  have  charge  of  the  happy;  it  lies  in  human  I 
nature  always  to  require  more  of  one's  self  and  | 
others,  the  more  one  has  received.    Only  the 
self-recovered  unhappy  know  how  to  cherish 
for  themselves  and  others  the  feeling  that  even 
a  moderate  degree  of  happiness  is  to  be  enjoyed 
with  rapture." 

"  Suffer  me,"  said  Charlotte,  at  last,  after  more 
consideration,  "to  bring  forward  one  more  ob- 
jection which  appears  to  me  the  most  important. 
It  relates  not  to  yourself,  but  to  a  third  person. 
The  sentiments  of  the  good,  sensible,  pious  as- 
sistant are  known  to  you.  In  the  course  you 
take,  you  will  become  every  day  more  valuable 
and  indispensable  to  him.  As  he  already  feels 
that  he  would  not  willingly  live  without  you, 
so  certainly,  in  future,  when  he  has  once  be-  \ 
come  accustomed  to  your  co-operation,  he  will  I 
no  longer  be  able,  without  you,  to  carry  on  his 
affairs.  You  will  thus  aid  him  at  first,  only  to 
prove  an  injury  to  him  afterward." 

"  Destiny  has  not  dealt  gently  with  me,"  re- 
plied Ottilia,  "  and  whoso  loves  me  has,  perhaps, 
nothing  better  to  expect.  As  our  friend  is  so 
good  and  intelligent,  I  hope,  for  this  very  reason, 
that  the  feeling  of  a  pure  relation  to  me  will  be 
developed  in  him.  He  will  behold  in  me  a 
consecrated  person,  who,  in  this  way  alone, 
perhaps,  may  hope  to  counterbalance  a  fearful 
evil  to  herself  and  others,  by  devoting  herself 
to  the  Holy  which,  invisibly  surrounding  us,  can 
alone  protect  us  against  those  terrible  powers 
that  are  ever  pressing  upon  us." 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  FAIR  SAINT* 

Till  my  eighth  year,  I  was  always  a  healthy 
child  ;  but  of  that  period  I  can  recollect  no  more, 
than  of  the  day  when  I  was  born.  About  the 
beginning  of  my  eighth  year,  I  was  seized  with 
a  hemorrhage  ;  and  from  that  moment  my  soul 
became  all  feeling,  all  memory.  The  smallest 
circumstances  of  that  accident  are  yet  before 
my  eyes,  as  if  they  had  occurred  but  yesterday. 

During  the  nine  months,  which  I  then  spent 
patiently  upon  a  sick  bed,  it  appears  to  me,  the 
ground-work  of  my  whole  turn  of  thought  was 
laid;  for  the  first  means  were  then  afforded  to 
my  spirit  of  developing  itself  in  its  own  manner. 

I  suffered  and  I  loved ;  this  was  the  peculiar 
form  of  my  heart.  In  the  most  violent  fits  of 
*  Wilhelm  Meister.   T.  Carlyle's  translation. 


GOETHE. 


283 


coughing,  in  the  depressing  pains  of  fever,  I  lay 
I  quiet,  like  a  snail  drawn  back  within  its  house: 
I  the  moment  I  obtained  a  respite,  I  wanted  to 
!  enjoy  something  pleasant;  and  as  every  other 
pleasure  was  denied  me,  I  endeavored  to  amuse 
myself  with  the  innocent  delights  of  eye  and 
ear.    The  people  brought  me  dolls  and  picture 
books ;  and  whoever  chose  to  sit  beside  my  bed, 
was  forced  to  tell  me  something. 

From  my  mother  I  rejoiced  to  hear  the  Bible 
histories :  and  my  father  entertained  me  with 
natural  curiosities.  He  had  a  very  pretty  cabi- 
net, from  which  he  brought  me  first  one  drawer 
and  then  another,  as  occasion  served  ;  showing 
me  the  articles,  and  pointing  out  their  proper- 
ties. Dried  plants  and  insects,  with  many  kinds 
of  anatomical  preparations,  such  as  human  skin, 
bones,  mummies  and  the  like,  were  in  succes- 
sion laid  upon  the  sick  bed  of  the  little  one  ;  the 
birds  and  animals  he  killed  in  hunting  were 
shown  to  me  before  they  passed  into  the  kitchen  : 
and  that  the  Prince  of  the  World  might  also 
have  a  voice  in  this  assembly,  my  aunt  related 
to  me  love  adventures  out  of  fairy  tales.  All 
was  accepted,  all  took  root.  There  were  hours, 
in  which  I  vividly  conversed  with  the  invisible 
Power:  I  can  still  repeat  some  verses,  which  I 
then  dictated,  and  my  mother  wrote. 

Frequently  I  told  my  father  back  again,  what 
,  I  had  learned  from  him.  I  would  scarce  take 
any  physic,  without  asking  where  the  simples 
grew  that  it  was  made  of,  what  look  they  had, 
what  names  they  bore.  Nor  had  the  stories  of 
my  aunt  alighted  upon  stony  ground.  I  figured 
myself  out  in  pretty  clothes;  and  met  the  most 
delightful  princes,  who  could  find  no  peace  or 
rest,  till  they  discovered  who  the  unknown 
Beauty  was.  One  adventure  of  this  kind  with 
a  charming  little  angel,  dressed  in  white  with 
golden  wings,  who  warmly  courted  me,  I  dwelt 
upon  so  long,  that  my  imagination  painted  out 
his  form  till  it  was  almost  visible. 

After  a  year,  I  was  pretty  well  restored  to 
health  ;  but  nothing  of  the  giddiness  of  childhood 
'  remained  with  me.  I  could  not  play  with  dolls  ; 
I  longed  for  beings  that  were  able  to  return  my 
love.  Dogs,  cats  and  birds,  of  which  my  father 
kept  a  great  variety,  afforded  me  delight :  but 
;  what  would  I  have  given  for  such  a  creature  as 
my  aunt  once  told  me  of!  It  was  a  lamb,  which 
a  peasant  girl  took  up  and  nourished  in  a  wood; 
but  in  the  guise  of  this  pretty  beast,  an  en- 
chanted prince  was  hid  ;  who  at  length  appeared 
in  his  native  shape,  a  lovely  youth,  and  recom- 
pensed his  benefactress  by  his  hand.  Such  a 
lamb  as  this  I  would  have  given  the  world  for. 

But  none  was  to  be  had ;  and  as  everything 
about  me  went  along  quite  naturally  and  com- 
monly, I  by  degrees  abandoned  nearly  all  my 
hopes  of  such  a  precious  treasure.  Meanwhile 
I  comforted  myself  by  reading  books,  in  which 
the  strangest  incidents  were  represented.  Among 
them  all,  my  favorite  was  the  Christian  German 
Hercules;  that  devout  love  history  was  altogether 
ai  my  way.   Whenever  anything  befel  his  dear 


Valiska,  and  cruel  things  befel  her,  he  prayed 
before  he  hastened  to  her  aid,  and  the  prayers 
were  standing  there  verbatim.  My  longing  after 
the  Invisible,  which  I  had  always  dimly  felt, 
was  strengthened  by  such  means  :  for,  in  short, 
it  was  ordained  that  God  should  also  be  my 
confidant. 

As  I  grew  older  I  continued  reading,  Heaven 
knows  what,  in  a  chaotic  order.  The  Roman 
Octavia  was  the  book  I  liked  beyond  all  others. 
The  persecutions  of  the  first  Christians,  deco- 
rated with  the  charms  of  a  romance,  awoke 
the  deepest  interest  in  me. 

But  my  mother  now  began  to  murmur  at  my 
constant  reading;  and  to  humor  her,  my  father 
took  away  my  books  to-day,  but  gave  them  back 
to-morrow.  She  was  wise  enough  to  see  that 
nothing  could  be  done  in  this  way;  she  next 
insisted  merely  that  my  Bible  should  be  read 
with  equal  diligence.  To  this  I  was  not  disin- 
clined :  and  I  accordingly  perused  the  sacred 
volume  with  a  lively  interest.  Withal  my  mo- 
ther was  extremely  careful  that  no  books  of  a 
corruptive  tendency  should  come  into  my  hands : 
immodest  writings  I  would,  of  my  own  accord, 
have  cast  away ;  for  my  princes  and  my  prin- 
cesses were  all  extremely  virtuous. 

To  my  mother,  and  my  zeal  for  knowledge, 
it  was  owing  that  with  all  my  love  of  books  I 
also  learned  to  cook ;  for  much  was  to  be  seen 
in  cookery.  To  cut  up  a  hen,  a  pig,  was  quite 
a  feast  for  me.  I  used  to  bring  the  entrails  to 
my  father,  and  he  talked  with  me  about  them, 
as  if  I  had  been  a  student  of  anatomy.  With 
suppressed  joy,  he  would  often  call  me  his  mis- 
fashioned  son. 

My  twelfth  year  was  now  behind  me.  I 
learned  French,  dancing  and  drawing:  I  re- 
ceived the  usual  instructions  in  religion.  In  the 
latter  many  thoughts  and  feelings  were  awak- 
ened ;  but  nothing  properly  relating  to  my  own 
condition.  I  liked  to  hear  the  people  speak  of 
God  ;  I  was  proud  that  I  could  speak  on  these 
points  better  than  my  equals.  I  zealously  read 
many  books,  which  put  me  in  a  case  to  talk 
about  religion ;  but  it  never  once  occurred  to  me 
to  think  how  matters  stood  with  me,  whether 
my  soul  was  formed  according  to  these  holy  pre- 
cepts, whether  it  was  like  a  glass  from  which 
the  everlasting  sun  could  be  reflected  in  its 
glancing.  From  the  first,  I  had  presupposed  all 
this. 

My  French  I  learned  with  eagerness.  My 
teacher  was  a  clever  man.  He  was  not  a  vain 
empiric,  not  a  dry  grammarian  :  he  had  learning, 
he  had  seen  the  world.  Instructing  me  in  lan- 
guage, he  satisfied  my  zeal  for  knowledge  in  a 
thousand  ways.  I  loved  him  so  much,  that  I 
used  to  wait  his  coming  with  a  palpitating  heart. 
Drawing  was  not  hard  for  me :  I  would  have 
made  a  greater  progress,  had  my  teacher  been 
possessed  of  head  and  science ;  he  had  only 
hands  and  practice. 

Dancing  was  at  first  my  smallest  entertain- 
ment: my  body  was  too  sensitive  for  this,  and  I 


284 


GOETHE. 


learned  it  only  in  the  company  of  my  sisters. 
But  our  dancing  master  took  a  thought  of  gather- 
ing all  his  scholars,  male  and  female,  and  giving 
them  a  ball.  This  event  gave  dancing  quite 
another  charm  for  me. 

Amid  a  throng  of  boys  and  girls,  the  most  re- 
markable were  two  sons  of  the  Marshal  of  the 
Court.  The  youngest  was  of  my  age,  the  other 
two  years  older ;  they  were  children  of  such 
beauty,  that,  according  to  the  universal  voice, 
no  one  had  seen  their  equals.  For  my  part, 
scarcely  had  I  noticed  them,  when  I  lost  sight 
of  all  the  other  crowd.  From  that  moment  I 
began  to  dance  with  care,  and  to  wish  that  I 
could  dance  with  grace.  How  came  it,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  these  two  boys  distinguished 
me  from  all  the  rest  ?  No  matter  ;  ere  an  hour 
had  passed,  we  had  become  the  warmest  friends ; 
and  our  little  entertainment  did  not  end,  till  we 
had  fixed  upon  the  time  and  place  where  we 
were  next  to  meet.  What  a  joy  for  me  !  And 
how  charmed  was  I  next  morning,  when  both 
of  them  inquired  about  my  health,  each  in  a 
gallant  note,  accompanied  with  a  nosegay !  I 
have  never  since  felt  as  I  then  did !  Compli- 
ment was  met  by  compliment;  letter  answered 
letter.  The  church  and  the  public  walks  were 
grown  a  rendezvous ;  our  young  acquaintances, 
in  all  their  little  parties,  now  invited  us  together  ; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  we  were  sly  enough  to 
veil  the  business  from  our  parents,  so  that  they 
could  see  no  more  of  it  than  we  thought  good. 

Thus  had  I  at  once  got  a  pair  of  lovers.  I 
had  yet  decided  upon  neither  ;  they  both  pleased 
me,  and  we  did  extremely  well  together.  All 
at  once,  the  eldest  of  the  two  fell  very  sick.  I 
myself  had  frequently  been  sick ;  and  thus  I 
was  enabled,  by  despatching  to  him  many  little 
dainties  and  delicacies  suited  for  a  sick  person, 
to  afford  some  solace  to  the  sufferer.  His  parents 
thankfully  acknowledged  my  attention  :  in  com- 
pliance with  the  prayer  of  their  beloved  son, 
they  invited  me,  with  all  my  sisters,  to  their 
house,  so  soon  as  he  had  risen  from  his  sick  bed. 
The  tenderness,  which  he  displayed  on  meeting 
me,  was  not  the  feeling  of  a  child ;  from  that 
day  I  gave  the  preference  to  him.  He  warned 
me  to  keep  our  secret  from  his  brother ;  but  the 
flame  could  no  longer  be  concealed  ;  and  the 
jealousy  of  the  younger  completed  our  romance. 
He  played  us  a  thousand  tricks ;  eager  to  anni- 
hilate our  joys,  he  but  increased  the  passion  he 
was  seeking  to  destroy. 

At  last,  then,  I  had  actually  found  the  wished- 
for  lamb ;  and  this  attachment  acted  on  me  like 
my  sickness  ;  it  made  me  calm,  and  drew  me 
back  from  noisy  pleasures.  I  was  solitary,  I 
was  moved;  and  thoughts  of  God  again  occurred 
to  me.  He  was  again  my  confidant,  and  I  well 
remember  with  what  tears  I  often  prayed  for 
this  poor  boy,  who  still  continued  sickly. 

The  more  childishness  there  was  in  this  ad- 
venture, the  more  did  it  contribute  to  the  forming 
of  my  heart.  Our  French  teacher  had  now 
turned  us  from  translating,  into  daily  writing 


him  some  letter  of  our  own  invention.  I  brought 
my  little  history  to  market,  shrouded  in  the 
names  of  Phyllis  and  Damon.  The  old  man 
soon  saw  through  it;  and  to  render  me  commu- 
nicative, praised  my  labor  very  much.  I  still 
waxed  bolder  ;  came  openly  out  with  the  affair, 
adhering  even  in  the  minute  details  to  truth.  I 
do  not  now  remember  what  the  passage  was  at 
which  he  took  occasion  to  remark  :  "  How  pretty, 
how  natural  it  is !  But  the  good  Phyllis  had 
better  have  a  care  ;  the  thing  may  soon  grow 
serious.1' 

It  vexed  me,  that  he  did  not  look  upon  the 
matter  as  already  serious  ;  and  I  asked  him,  with 
an  air  of  pique,  what  he  meant  by  serious.  He 
did  not  force  me  to  repeat  the  question ;  he  ex- 
plained himself  so  clearly,  that  I  scarce  could 
hide  my  terror.  Yet,  as  anger  came  along  with 
it,  as  I  took  it  ill  that  he  should  entertain  such 
thoughts,  I  kept  myself  composed,  I  tried  to  jus- 
tify my  nymph;  and  said  with  glowing  cheeks: 
"  But,  sir,  Phyllis  is  an  honorable  girl." 

He  was  rogue  enough  to  banter  me  about  my 
honorable  heroine.  While  we  were  speaking 
French,  he  played  upon  the  word  honnete,  and 
hunted  the  honorableness  of  Phyllis  over  all  its 
meanings.  I  felt  the  ridicule  of  this,  and  was 
extremely  puzzled.  He,  not  to  frighten  me, 
broke  off;  but  afterwards  he  often  led  the  con- 
versation to  such  topics.  Plays  and  little  histo- 
ries, which  I  was  reading  and  translating  with 
him,  gave  him  frequent  opportunity  to  show 
how  feeble  a  security  our  boasted  virtue  was 
against  the  rules  of  inclination.  I  no  longer 
contradicted  him ;  but  I  was  in  secret  scanda- 
lized ;  and  his  remarks  became  a  burden  to  me. 

With  my  worthy  Damon,  too,  I  by  degrees  fell 
out  of  all  connection.  The  chicanery  of  the 
younger  boy  destroyed  our  intercourse.  Soon 
after,  both  these  blooming  creatures  died.  I 
lamented  sore;  however,  in  a  short  time  I 
forgot. 

But  Phyllis  rapidly  increased  in  stature ;  was 
altogether  healthy,  and  began  to  see  the  world. 
The  hereditary  Prince  now  married;  and  a  short 
time  after,  on  his  father's  death,  began  his  rule. 
Court  and  town  were  in  the  liveliest  movement: 
my  curiosity  had  copious  nourishment.  There 
were  plays  and  balls,  with  all  their  usual  accom- 
paniments ;  and  though  my  parents  kept  retired 
as  much  as  possible,  they  were  obliged  to  show 
themselves  at  court,  where  I  of  course  was  in- 
troduced. Strangers  were  pouring  in  from  every 
side ;  high  company  was  in  every  house  ;  even 
to  us  some  cavaliers  were  recommended,  others 
introduced ;  and  at  my  uncle's,  men  of  every 
nation  might  be  met  with. 

My  honest  Mentor  still  continued,  in  a  modest 
and  yet  striking  way,  to  warn  me  ;  and  I  to  take 
it  ill  of  him  in  secret.  With  regard  to  his  asser- 
tion, that  women  under  every  circumstance  were 
weak,  I  did  not  feel  at  all  convinced  ;  and  here 
perhaps  I  was  in  the  right,  and  my  Mentor  in 
the  wrong ;  but  he  spoke  so  earnestly,  that  once 
I  grew  afraid  he  might  be  right,  and  said  to  him. 


GOETHE. 


285 


with  much  vivacity :  "  Since  the  danger  is  so 
great,  and  the  human  heart  so  weak,  I  will  pray 
to  God  that  He  may  keep  me." 

This  simple  answer  seemed  to  please  him, 
,  for  he  praised  my  purpose  ;  but  on  my  side  it 
was  anything  but  seriously  meant.  It  was  in 
1  truth  but  an  empty  word ;  for  my  feelings  to- 
wards the  Invisible  were  almost  totally  extin- 
guished. The  hurry  and  the  crowd  with  which 
I  was  surrounded  dissipated  my  attention,  and 
carried  me  along  as  in  a  powerful  stream. 
These  were  (he  emptiest  years  of  my  life.  All 
day  long  to  speak  of  nothing,  to  have  no  solid 
thought;  never  to  do  anything  but  revel:  such 
was  my  employment.  On  my  beloved  books  I 
never  once  bestowed  a  thought.  The  people 
whom  I  lived  among  had  not  the  slightest  tinge 
of  literature  or  science :  they  were  German 
courtiers ;  a  class  of  men  at  that  time  altogether 
destitute  of  mental  culture. 

Such  society,  it  may  be  thought,  must  naturally 
have  led  me  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  I  lived  away 
in  mere  corporeal  cheerfulness ;  I  never  took 
myself  to  task,  I  never  prayed,  I  never  thought 
about  myself  or  God.  Yet  I  look  upon  it  as  a 
providential  guidance,  that  none  of  these  many 
;  handsome,  rich  and  well-dressed  men  could  take 
!  my  fancy.  They  were  rakes,  and  did  not  hide 
it ;  this  scared  me  back  :  their  speech  was  fre- 
quently adorned  with  double  meanings ;  this 
offended  me,  and  made  me  act  with  coldness 
towards  them.  Many  times  their  improprieties 
surpassed  belief;  and  I  did  not  prevent  myself 
from  being  rude. 

Besides,  my  ancient  counsellor  had  once  in 
confidence  contrived  to  tell  me,  that,  with  the 
greater  part  of  these  lewd  fellows,  health  as 
>  well  as  virtue  was  in  danger.  I  now  shuddered 
at  the  sight  of  them ;  I  was  afraid,  if  one  of 
them  in  any  way  approached  too  near  me.  I 
j  would  not  touch  their  cups  or  glasses,  even  the 
;  chairs  they  had  been  sitting  on.    Thus  morally 
and  physically  I  remained  apart  from  them  ;  all 
the  compliments  they  paid  me  I  haughtily  ac- 
cepted of,  as  incense  that  was  due. 

Among  the  strangers  then  resident  among  us, 
there  was  one  young  man  peculiarly  distin- 
guished, whom  in  sport  we  used  to  call  Narciss. 
He  had  gained  a  reputation  in  the  diplomatic 
line ;  and  among  the  various  changes  now  oc- 
curring at  our  court,  he  was  in  hopes  of  meeting 
with  some  advantageous  place.  He  soon  became 
acquainted  with  my  father :  his  acquirements  and 
|  manners  opened  for  him  the  way  to  a  select 
society  of  most  accomplished  men.  My  father 
often  spoke  in  praise  of  him:  his  figure,  which 
was  very  handsome,  would  have  been  more 
pleasing,  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain  air  of  self- 
complacency,  which  breathed  from  all  his  car- 
riage. I  had  seen  him  ;  I  thought  well  of  him ; 
but  we  had  never  spoken. 

At  a  great  ball,  where  we  chanced  to  be  in 
company,  I  danced  a  minuet  along  with  him  ; 
but  this  too  passed  without  results.  The  more 
violent  dances,  in  compliance  with  my  father's 


will,  who  felt  anxieties  about  my  health,  I  was 
accustomed  to  avoid  :  in  the  present  case,  when 
these  came  on,  I  retired  to  an  adjoining  room, 
and  began  to  talk  with  certain  of  my  friends, 
elderly  ladies,  who  had  set  themselves  to  cards. 

Narciss,  who  had  jigged  it  for  a  while,  at  last 
came  into  the  room  in  which  I  was ;  and  hav- 
ing got  the  better  of  a  bleeding  at  the  nose,  that 
had  overtaken  him  in  dancing,  he  began  to 
speak  with  me  about  a  multitude  of  things.  In 
half  an  hour,  the  talk  had  grown  so  interesting, 
that  neither  of  us  could  endure  to  think  of 
dancing  any  more.  We  were  rallied  by  our 
friends  for  this ;  but  we  did  not  let  their  banter- 
ing disturb  us.  Next  evening,  we  recommenced 
our  conversation,  and  were  very  careful  not  to 
hurt  our  health. 

The  acquaintance  then  was  made.  Narciss 
was  often  with  my  sisters  and  myself ;  and  I 
now  once  more  began  to  reckon  over  and  con- 
sider what  I  knew,  what  I  thought  of,  what  I 
had  felt,  and  what  I  could  express  myself  about 
in  conversation.  My  new  friend  had  mingled 
in  the  best  society;  besides  the  department  of 
history  and  politics,  with  every  part  of  which 
he  was  familiar,  he  had  gained  extensive  lite- 
rary knowledge ;  there  was  nothing  new  that 
issued  from  the  press,  especially  in  France,  that 
he  was  unacquainted  with.  He  brought  or  sent 
me  many  a  pleasant  book  ;  but  this  we  kept  as 
secret  as  forbidden  love.  Learned  women  had 
been  made  ridiculous,  well-informed  women 
were  with  difficulty  tolerated  ;  apparently,  be- 
cause it  would  have  been  uncourtly  to  put  so 
many  ill-informed  gentlemen  to  shame.  Even 
my  father,  much  as  he  delighted  in  this  new 
opportunity  of  cultivating  my  mind,  expressly 
stipulated  that  our  literary  commerce  should  re- 
main a  secret. 

Thus  our  intercourse  continued  almost  for  a 
year  and  a  day ;  and  still  I  could  not  say  that 
in  any  wise  Narciss  had  ever  shown  me  aught 
of  love  or  tenderness.  He  was  always  com- 
plaisant and  kind  ;  but  manifested  nothing  like 
attachment:  on  the  contrary,  he  even  seemed  to 
be  in  some  degree  affected  by  the  charms  of  my 
youngest  sister,  who  was  then  extremely  beau- 
tiful. In  sport,  he  gave  her  many  little  friendly 
names,  out  of  foreign  tongues;  for  he  could 
speak  two  or  three  of  these  extremely  well : 
and  loved  to  mix  their  idiomatic  phrases  with 
his  German.  Such  compliments  she  did  not 
answer  very  liberally  ;  she  was  entangled  in  a 
different  noose ;  and  being  very  sharp,  while  he 
was  very  sensitive,  the  two  were  often  quarrel- 
ling about  trifles.  With  my  mother  and  my 
aunt,  he  kept  himself  on  very  pleasant  terms; 
and  thus  by  gradual  advances,  he  was  grown 
to  be  a  member  of  the  family. 

Who  knows  how  long  we  might  have  lived 
in  this  way,  had  a  curious  accident  not  altered 
our  relations  all  at  once.  My  sisters  and  I  were 
invited  to  a  certain  house,  to  which  we  did  not 
like  to  go.  The  company  was  too  mixed  ;  and 
persons  of  the  stupidest  if  not  the  rudest  stamp 


286 


GOETHE. 


were  often  to  be  met  with  there.  Narciss,  on 
this  occasion,  was  invited  also;  and  on  his  ac- 
count I  felt  inclined  to  go,  for  I  was  sure  of  find- 
ing one  at  least  with  whom  I  could  converse  as 
I  desired.  Even  at  table,  we  had  many  things 
to  suffer  ;  for  several  of  the  gentlemen  had  drunk 
too  much  :  and  after  rising  from  it,  they  insisted 
on  a  game  at  forfeits.  It  went  on  with  great 
vivacity  and  tumult.  Narciss  had  lost  a  for- 
feit: they  ordered  him,  by  way  of  penalty,  to 
whisper  something  pleasant  in  the  ear  of  every 
member  of  the  company.  It  seems,  he  staid  too 
long  beside  my  neighbor,  the  lady  of  a  Captain. 
The  latter  on  a  sudden  struck  him  such  a  box 
with  his  fist,  that  the  powder  flew  about  my 
eyes  and  blinded  me.  When  I  had  cleared  my 
sight,  and  in  some  degree  recovered  from  my 
terror,  I  saw  that  both  of  them  had  drawn  their 
swords.  Narciss  was  bleeding;  and  the  other, 
mad  with  wine  and  rage  and  jealousy,  could 
scarcely  be  held  back  by  all  the  company :  I 
seized  Narciss,  led  him  by  the  arm  up  stairs ; 
and  as  I  did  not  think  my  friend  even  here  in 
safety  from  his  frantic  enemy,  I  shut  the  door 
and  bolted  it. 

Neither  of  us  looked  upon  the  wound  as  seri- 
ous ;  for  a  slight  cut  across  the  hand  was  all  we 
saw.  Soon,  however,  I  perceived  a  stream  of 
blood  running  down  his  back,  and  a  deep  wound 
appeared  upon  his  head.  I  now  began  to  be 
afraid.  I  hastened  to  the  lobby,  to  get  help  ; 
but  I  could  see  no  person ;  every  one  had  staid 
below  to  calm  the  raving  captain.  At  last  a 
daughter  of  the  family  came  skipping  up  ;  her 
mirth  annoyed  me;  she  was  like  to  die  with 
laughing  at  the  bedlam  spectacle.  I  conjured 
her  for  the  sake  of  Heaven  to  get  a  surgeon ; 
and  she,  in  her  wild  way,  sprang  down  the 
stair  to  fetch  me  one  herself. 

Returning  to  my  wounded  friend,  I  bound 
my  handkerchief  about  his  hand  ;  and  a  neck- 
kerchief,  that  was  hanging  on  the  door,  about 
his  head.  He  was  still  bleeding  copiously :  he 
now  turned  pale,  and  seemed  as  if  he  were 
about  to  faint.  There  was  none  at  hand  to  aid 
me :  I  very  freely  put  my  arm  around  him ; 
patted  his  cheek,  and  tried  to  cheer  him  up  by 
little  flatteries.  It  seemed  to  act  upon  him  like 
a  spiritual  remedy ;  he  kept  his  senses,  but  he 
sat  as  pale  as  death. 

At  last  the  active  housewife  entered :  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  her  terror  when  she  saw  my 
friend  in  this  predicament,  lying  in  my  arms, 
and  both  of  us  bestreamed  with  blood.  No  one 
had  supposed  that  he  was  wounded  ;  all  imagin- 
ed I  had  carried  him  away  in  safety. 

Now  smelling-bottles,  wine,  and  everything 
that  could  support  and  stimulate,  were  copi- 
ously produced.  The  surgeon  also  came  ;  and 
I  might  easily  have  been  dispensed  with.  Nar- 
ciss, however,  held  me  firmly  by  the  hand ;  I 
would  have  staid  without  holding.  During  the 
dressing  of  his  wounds,  I  continued  wetting  his 
lips  with  wine ;  I  minded  not  though  all  the 
company  were  now  about  us.    The  surgeon 


having  finished,  his  patient  took  a  mute  but 
tender  leave  of  me,  and  was  conducted  home. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  now  led  me  to  her 
bed-room :  she  was  forced  to  strip  me  alto- 
gether. *  *  *  No  portion  of  my  clothes 
could  be  put  on  again ;  and  as  the  people  of  the 
house  were  all  either  less  or  larger  than  myself, 
I  was  taken  home  in  a  strange  disguise.  My 
parents  were,  of  course,  astonished.  They  felt 
exceedingly  indignant  at  my  fright,  at  the 
wounds  of  their  friend,  at  the  captain's  mad- 
ness, at  the  whole  occurrence.  A  very  little 
would  have  made  my  father  send  a  challenge 
to  the  captain,  that  he  might  avenge  his  friend 
without  delay.  He  blamed  the  gentlemen  that 
had  been  there,  because  they  had  not  punished 
such  a  murderous  attempt  upon  the  spot:  for  it 
was  but  too  clear,  that  the  captain,  instantly  on 
striking,  had  pulled  out  his  sword  and  wounded 
the  other  from  behind.  The  cut  across  the  hand 
had  not  been  given,  until  Narciss  himself  was 
grasping  at  his  sword.  I  felt  unspeakably 
affected  and  altered  :  or,  how  shall  I  express  it  ? 
The  passion,  which  was  sleeping  at  the  deepest 
bottom  of  my  heart,  had  at  once  broken  loose, 
like  a  flame  on  getting  air.  And  if  joy  and  plea- 
sure are  well  suited,  for  the  first  producing  and 
the  silent  nourishing  of  love,  yet  this  passion, 
bold  by  nature,  is  most  easily  impelled  by  terror 
to  decide  and  to  declare  itself.  My  mother 
gave  some  physic  to  her  little  flurried  daughter, 
and  made  her  go  to  bed.  With  the  earliest 
morrow,  my  father  hastened  to  Narciss,  whom 
he  found  lying  very  sick  of  a  wound  fever. 

He  told  me  little  of  what  passed  between 
them,  but  tried  to  quiet  me  about  the  probable 
results  of  this  event.  They  were  now  consider- 
ing whether  an  apology  should  be  accepted  of, 
whether  the  affair  should  go  before  a  court  of 
justice,  and  many  other  points  of  that  descrip- 
tion. I  knew 'my  father  too  well  to  doubt  that 
he  would  be  averse  to  see  the  matter  end  with- 
out a  duel :  but  I  held  my  peace ;  for  I  had 
learned  from  him  before,  that  women  should 
not  meddle  in  such  things.  For  the  rest,  it  did 
not  strike  me  as  if  anything  had  passed  between 
the  friends,  in  which  my  interests  were  specially 
concerned  :  but  my  father  soon  communicated  to 
my  mother  the  purport  of  their  further  conver- 
sation. Narciss,  he  said,  appeared  to  be  exceed- 
ingly affected  at  the  help  afforded  by  me ;  had 
embraced  him,  declared  himself  my  debtor  for 
ever,  signified  that  he  desired  no  happiness  ex- 
cept what  he  could  share  with  me,  and  concluded 
by  entreating  that  he  might  presume  to  ask  my 
hand.  All  this  mamma  repeated  to  me,  but 
subjoined  the  safe  reflection,  that  "as  for  what 
was  said  in  the  first  agitation  of  mind  in  such  a 
case,  there  was  little  trust  to  be  placed  in  it." 
"  Of  course,  none,':  I  answered  with  affected 
coldness;  though  all  the  while  I  was  feeling 
Heaven  knows  what  and  how. 

Narciss  continued  sick  for  two  months ;  owing 
to  the  wound  in  his  right  hand,  he  could  not 
even  write.    Yet,  in  the  meantime,  he  showed 


GOETHE. 


287 


me  his  regard  by  the  most  obliging  courtesies. 
All  these  unusual  attentions  I  combined  with 
what  my  mother  had  disclosed  to  me;  and  con- 
stantly my  head  was  full  of  fancies.  The  whole 
city  talked  of  the  occurrence.  With  me  they 
spoke  of  it  in  a  peculiar  tone  ;  they  drew  infer- 

!  ences  which,  greatly  as  I  struggled  to  avoid 
them,  touched  me  very  close.  What  had  for- 
merly heen  habitude  and  trifling,  was  now  grown 
seriousness  and  inclination.  The  anxiety  in  which 
I  lived  was  the  more  violent,  the  more  carefully 
I  studied  to  conceal  it  from  every  one.  The  idea 
of  losing  him  affrighted  me ;  the  possibility  of 
any  closer  union  made  me  tremble.  For  a  half- 
prudent  girl,  there  is  really  something  awful  in 
the  thought  of  marriage. 

By  such  incessant  agitations,  I  was  once  more 

'  led  to  recollect  myself.  The  gaudy  imagery  of 
a  thoughtless  life,  which  used  to  hover  day  and 
night  before  my  eyes,  was  at  once  blown  away. 
My  soul  again  began  to  wake  :  but  the  greatly 
interrupted  intimacy  with  my  Invisible  Friend 
was  not  so  easy  to  renew.  We  still  continued 
at  a  frigid  distance  :  it  was  again  something ; 
but  little  to  the  times  of  old. 

A  duel  had  been  fought,  and  the  captain  been 
severely  wounded,  before  I  ever  heard  of  it. 
The  public  feeling  was  in  all  senses  strong  on 
the  side  of  my  lover,  who  at  length  again  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene.  But  first  of  all,  he  came 
with  his  head  tied  up  and  his  arm  in  a  sling,  to 
visit  us.  How  my  heart  beat  while  he  was 
there  !  The  whole  family  was  present ;  general 
thanks  and  compliments  were  all  that  passed 
on  either  side ;  Narciss,  however,  found  an  op- 
portunity to  show  some  secret  tokens  of  his  love 

1  to  me,  by  which  means  my  inquietude  was  but 
increased.  After  his  recovery,  he  visited  us 
throughout  the  winter  on  the  former  footing; 

1  and  in  spite  of  all  the  soft  private  marks  of  ten- 
derness, which  he  contrived  to  give  me,  the 
whole  affair  remained  unsettled,  undiscussed. 

In  this  manner  was  I  kept  in  constant  prac- 
tice. I  could  not  trust  my  thoughts  to  mortal ; 
and  from  God  I  was  too  far  removed.  Him  I 
had  quite  forgot  for  four  wild  years :  I  now 
again  began  at  times  to  think  of  him  ;  but  our 
acquaintance  was  grown  cool ;  they  were  visits 
of  mere  ceremony,  which  I  paid  him ;  and  as, 
besides,  in  paying  them,  I  used  to  dress  myself 
in  fine  apparel,  to  set  before  him  self-compla- 

-    cently  my  virtue,  honor  and  superiorities  to 

I  others,  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  me  or  know 
me  in  that  finery. 

A  courtier  would  have  been  exceedingly  dis- 
tiessed,  if  the  prince  who  held  his  fortune  in 
his  hands  had  treated  him  in  this  way :  but  for 
me  I  did  not  sorrow  at  it.    I  had  what  I  re- 

I    quired,  health  and  conveniences  ;  if  God  should 

j    please  to  think  of  me,  well ;  if  not,  I  reckoned 

j    I  had  done  my  duty. 

This,  in  truth,  I  did  not  think  at  that  period : 
yet  it  was  the  true  figure  of  my  soul.  But,  to 
change  and  purify  my  feelings,  preparations 
were  already  made. 


The  spring  came  on :  Narciss  once  visited 
me,  unannounced,  and  at  a  time  when  I  hap 
pened  to  be  quite  alone.  He  now  appeared  in 
the  character  of  lover  ;  and  asked  me  if  I  could 
bestow  on  him  my  heart,  and  when  he  should 
obtain  some  lucrative  and  honorable  place, 
along  with  it  my  hand. 

He  had  been  received  into  our  service:  but 
at  first  they  kept  him  back,  and  would  not 
rapidly  promote  him,  because  they  dreaded  his 
ambition.  Having  some  little  fortune  of  his 
own,  he  was  left  with  a  slender  salary. 

Notwithstanding  my  regard  for  him,  I  knew 
that  he  was  not  a  man  to  treat  with  altogether 
frankly.  I  drew  up,  therefore,  and  referred  him 
to  my  father.  About  my  father's  mind  he  did 
not  seem  to  doubt;  but  wanted  previously  to  be 
at  one  with  me,  upon  the  spot.  I  at  last  said, 
yes ;  but  stipulated  as  an  indispensable  condi- 
tion that  my  parents  should  concur.  He  then 
spoke  formally  with  both  of  them  ;  they  signified 
their  satisfaction  ;  mutual  promises  were  given 
on  the  faith  of  his  advancement,  which  it  was 
expected  would  be  speedy.  Sisters  and  aunts 
were  informed  of  this  arrangement,  and  the 
strictest  secrecy  enjoined  on  them. 

Thus  from  a  lover  I  had  got  a  bridegroom. 
The  difference  between  the  two  soon  showed 
itself  to  be  considerable.  If  any  one  could 
change  the  lovers  of  all  honorable  maidens  into 
bridegrooms,  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  our  sex, 
even  though  marriage  should  not  follow  the 
connection.  The  love  between  two  persons 
does  not  lessen  by  the  change,  but  it  becomes 
more  reasonable.  Innumerable  little  follies,  all 
coquetries  and  caprices,  disappear.  If  the  bride- 
groom tells  us,  that  we  please  him  better  in  a 
morning  cap  than  in  the  finest  head-dress,  no 
discreet  young  woman  will  disturb  herself  about 
her  hair-dressing ;  and  nothing  is  more  natural 
than  that  he  too  should  think  solidly,  and  rather 
wish  to  form  a  housewife  for  himself  than  a 
gaudy  doll  for  others.  And  thus  it  is  in  every 
province  of  the  business. 

Should  a  young  woman  of  this  kind  be  fortu- 
nate enough  to  have  a  bridegroom  who  possesses 
understanding  and  acquirements,  she  learns  from 
him  more  than  universities  and  foreign  lands 
can  teach.  She  not  only  willingly  receives  in- 
struction, when  he  offers  it,  but  she  endeavors 
to  elicit  more  and  more  from  him.  Love  makes 
much  that  was  impossible  possible.  By  degrees 
too  that  subjection,  so  necessary  and  so  graceful 
for  the  female  sex,  begins :  the  bridegroom  does 
not  govern  like  the  husband;  he  only  asks;  but 
his  mistress  seeks  to  notice  what  he  wants,  and 
to  offer  it  before  he  asks  it. 

So  did  experience  teach  me  what  I  would 
not  for  much  have  missed.  I  was  happy  ;  truly 
happy,  as  woman  could  be  in  the  world ;  that 
is  to  say,  for  a  while. 

The  Serious  of  my  old  French  teacher  now 
occurred  to  me  ;  as  well  as  the  defence,  which 
I  had  once  suggested  in  regard  to  it. 

With  God  I  had  again  become  a  little  more 


288 


GOETHE. 


acquainted.  He  had  given  me  a  bridegroom 
whom  I  loved  ;  and  for  this  I  felt  some  thank- 
fulness. Earthly  love  itself  concentrated  my 
soul,  and  put  its  powers  in  motion ;  nor  did  it 
contradict  my  intercourse  with  God.  I  naturally 
complained  to  him  of  what  alarmed  me :  but  I 
did  not  perceive  that  I  myself  was  wishing  and 
desiring  it.  In  my  own  eyes,  I  was  strong;  I 
did  not  pray:  "Lead  us  not  into  temptation!"' 
My  thoughts  were  far  beyond  temptation.  In 
this  flimsy  tinsel-work  of  virtue  I  came  to  God : 
he  did  not  drive  me  back.  On  the  smallest 
movement  towards  him,  he  left  a  soft  impres- 
sion in  my  soul ;  and  this  impression  caused 
me  always  to  return. 

Except  Narciss,  the  world  was  altogether 
dead  to  me  ;  excepting  him,  there  was  nothing 
in  it  that  had  any  charm.  Even  my  love  for 
dress  was  but  the  wish  to  please  him :  if  I  knew 
that  he  was  not  to  see  me,  I  could  spend  no 
care  upon  it.  I  liked  to  dance;  but  if  he  was 
not  beside  me,  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  bear 
the  motion.  At  a  brilliant  festival,  if  he  was 
not  invited,  I  could  neither  take  the  trouble  of 
providing  new  things,  nor  of  putting  on  the  old 
according  to  the  mode.  To  me  they  were  alike 
agreeable,  or  rather  I  might  say,  alike  burden- 
some. I  used  to  reckon  such  an  evening  very 
fairly  spent,  when  I  could  join  myself  to  any 
ancient  card-party,  though  formerly  I  was  with- 
out the  smallest  taste  for  such  things  ;  and  if 
some  old  acquaintance  came  and  rallied  me 
about  it,  I  would  smile,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  all  that  night.  So  likewise  it  was  with 
promenades,  and  every  social  entertainment 
that  can  be  imagined  : 

Him  had  1  chosen  from  ail  others, 
His  would  1  be,  and  not  another's; 
To  me  his  love  was  all  in  alL 

Thus  I  was  often  solitary  in  the  midst  of 
company;  and  real  solitude  was  generally  ac- 
ceptable to  me.  But  my  busy  soul  could  neither 
sleep  nor  dream  ;  I  felt  and  thought,  and  longed 
for  the  ability  to  speak  about  my  feelings  and 
my  thoughts  with  God.  From  this  were  feelings 
of  another  sort  unfolded ;  but  they  did  not  con- 
tradict the  former :  my  affection  to  Narciss  ac- 
corded with  the  universal  scheme  of  nature  ;  it 
nowhere  hindered  the  performance  of  a  duty. 
They  did  not  contradict  each  other,  yet  they 
were  immensely  different.  Narciss  was  the 
only  living  form  which  hovered  in  my  mind, 
and  to  which  my  love  was  all  directed ;  but  the 
other  feeling  was  not  directed  towards  any 
form,  and  yet  it  was  unspeakably  agreeable.  I 
no  longer  have  it,  I  no  longer  can  impart  it. 

My  lover,  whom  I  used  to  trust  with  all  my 
secrets,  did  not  know  of  this.  I  soon  discovered 
that  he  thought  far  otherwise :  he  often  gave 
me  writings,  which  opposed  with  light  and 
heavy  weapons  all  that  can  be  called  connection 
with  the  Invisible.  I  used  to  read  the  books, 
because  they  came  from  him :  but  at  the  end,  I 
knew  no  word  of  all  that  had  been  argued  in 
them. 


Nor  in  regard  to  sciences  and  knowledge  was 
there  any  want  of  contradiction  in  our  conduct. 
He  did  as  all  men  do,  he  mocked  at  learned 
women;  and  yet  he  kept  continually  instructing 
me.  He  used  to  speak  with  me  on  all  subjects, 
law  excepted  ;  and  while  constantly  procuring 
books  of  every  kind  for  me,  he  frequently  re- 
peated the  uncertain  precept,  "  That  a  lady  ought 
to  keep  the  knowledge  she  might'  have,  more 
secret  than  the  Calvinist  his  creed  in  Catholic 
countries."  And  while  I,  by  natural  conse- 
quence, endeavored  not  to  show  myself  more 
wise  or  learned  than  formerly  before  the  world, 
Narciss  himself  was  commonly  the  first  who 
yielded  to  the  vanity  of  speaking  about  me  and 
my  superiorities. 

A  nobleman  of  high  repute,  and  at  that  time 
valued  for  his  influence,  his  talents  and  accom- 
plishments, was  living  at  our  Court  with  great 
applause.  He  bestowed  especial  notice  on 
Narciss,  whom  he  kept  continually  about  him.  ! 
They  had  once  an  argument  about  the  virtue  of 
women.  Narciss  repeated  to  me  what  had 
passed  between  them ;  I  was  not  wanting  with 
my  observations ;  and  my  friend  required  of 
me  a  written  essay  on  the  subject.  I  could 
write  French  fluently  enough ;  I  laid  a  good 
foundation  with  my  teacher.  My  correspond- 
ence with  Narciss  was  likewise  carried  on  in 
French  :  except  in  French  books,  there  was  then 
no  elegant  instruction  to  be  had.  My  essay 
pleased  the  Count ;  I  was  obliged  to  let  him 
have  some  little  songs,  which  I  had  lately  been 
composing.  In  short,  Narciss  appeared  to  revel 
without  stint  in  the  renown  of  his  beloved  :  and 
the  story,  to  his  great  contentment,  ended  with 
a  French  epistle  in  heroic  verse,  which  the 
Count  transmitted  to  him  on  departing ;  in  which 
their  argument  was  mentioned,  and  my  friend 
reminded  of  his  happiness  in  being  destined, 
after  all  his  doubts  and  errors,  to  learn  most 
certainly  what  virtue  was,  in  the  arms  of  a  vir- 
tuous and  charming  wife. 

He  showed  this  poem  first  of  all  to  me,  and 
then  to  almost  every  one ;  each  thinking  on  the 
matter  what  he  pleased.  Thus  did  he  act  in 
several  cases  ;  every  stranger,  whom  he  valued, 
must  be  made  acquainted  in  our  house. 

A  noble  family  was  staying  for  a  season  in 
the  place,  to  profit  by  the  skill  of  our  physician. 
In  this  house  too,  Narciss  was  looked  on  as  a 
son  :  he  introduced  me  there ;  we  found  among 
these  worthy  persons  the  most  pleasant  enter- 
tainment for  the  mind  and  heart.  Even  the 
common  pastimes  of  society  appeared  less  empty 
here  than  elsewhere.  All  knew  how  matters 
stood  with  us :  they  treated  us  as  circumstances 
would  allow,  and  left  the  main  relation  unal- 
luded  to.  I  mention  this  one  family;  because, 
in  the  after  period  of  my  life,  it  had  a  powerful 
influence  upon  me. 

Almost  a  year  of  our  connection  had  elapsed; 
and  along  with  it,  our  spring  was  over.  The 
summer  came,  and  all  grew  drier  and  more 
earnest. 


GOETHE. 


2b  9 


By  several  unexpected  deaths,  some  offices 
were  rendered  vacant,  which  Narciss  might 
make  pretensions  to.  The  instant  was  at  hand, 
in  which  my  whole  destiny  must  be  decided  ; 
and  while  Narciss  and  all  our  friends  were 
making  every  effort  to  efface  some  impressions, 
which  obstructed  him  at  Court,  and  to  obtain 
for  him  the  wished-for  situation,  I  turned  with 
my  request  to  my  Invisible  Friend.  I  was  re- 
ceived so  kindly,  that  I  gladly  came  again.  I 
confessed  without  disguise  my  wish  that  Narciss 
might  obtain  the  place:  but  my  prayer  was  not 
importunate  ;  and  I  did  not  require  that  it  should 
happen  for  the  sake  of  my  petition. 

The  place  was  obtained  by  a  far  inferior 
competitor.  I  was  dreadfully  troubled  at  this 
news  ;  I  hastened  to  my  room,  the  door  of  which 
I  locked  behind  me.  The  first  fit  of  grief  went 
off  in  a  shower  of  tears ;  the  next  thought  was, 
"Yet  it  was  not  by  chance  that  it  happened;'' 
and  instantly  I  formed  the  resolution  to  be  well 
contented  with  it,  seeing'even  this  apparent  evil 
would  be  for  my  true  advantage.  The  softest 
emotions  then  pressed  in  upon  me,  and  divided 
all  the  clouds  of  sorrow.  I  felt  that,  with  help 
like  this,  there  was  nothing  one  might  not  en- 
dure. At  dinner  I  appeared  quite  cheerful,  to 
the  great  astonishment  of  all  the  house. 

Narciss  had  less  internal  force  than  I,  and  I 
was  called  upon  to  comfort  him.  In  his  family, 
too,  he  had  many  crosses  to  encounter,  some  of 
which  afflicted  him  considerably ;  and,  such 
true  confidence  subsisting  between  us,  he  in- 
trusted me  with  all.  His  negotiations  for  en- 
tering on  foreign  service  were  not  more  fortu- 
nate ;  the  whole  of  this  I  deeply  felt  on  his 
account  and  mine ;  the  whole  of  it  I  ultimately 
carried  to  the  place,  where  my  petitions  had 
i  already  been  so  well  received. 
1  The  softer  these  experiences  were,  the  oftener 
did  I  endeavor  to  renew  them;  I  hoped  conti- 
nually to  meet  with  comfort,  where  I  had  so 
often  met  with  it.  Yet  I  did  not  always  meet 
with  it:  I  was  as  one  that  goes  to  warm  him 
i  in  the  sunshine,  while  there  is  something  stand- 
ing in  the  way  that  makes  a  shadow.  "What 
is  this  ?"  I  asked  myself.  I  traced  the  matter 
zealously,  and  soon  perceived  that  it  all  de- 
pended on  the  situation  of  my  soul :  if  this  was 
not  turned  in  the  straightest  direction  towards 
God,  I  still  continued  cold;  I  did  not  feel  his 
counter  influence;  I  could  obtain  no  answer. 
The  second  question  was  :  "  What  hinders  this 
direction?"  Here  I  was  in  a  wide  field  ;  I  per- 
plexed myself  in  an  inquiry,  which  lasted  nearly 
all  the  second  year  of  my  attachment  to  Narciss. 
I  might  have  ended  the  investigation  sooner; 
for  it  was  not  long  till  I  had  got  upon  the  proper 
trace ;  but  I  would  not  confess  it,  and  I  sought 
a  thousand  outlets. 

I  very  soon  discovered  that  the  straight  direc- 
tion of  my  soul  was  marred  by  foolish  dissipa- 
tions, and  employment  with  unworthy  things. 
The  How  and  the  Where  were  clear  enough  to 
me.  Yet  by  what  means  could  I  help  myself, 
2  M 


or  extricate  my  mind  from  the  calls  of  a  world 
where  everything  was  either  cold  indifference 
or  hot  insanity  ?  Gladly  would  I  have  left  things 
standing  as  they  were,  and  lived  from  day  to 
day,  floating  down  with  the  stream,  like  other 
people  whom  I  saw  quite  happy :  but  I  durst 
not;  my  inmost  feelings  contradicted  me  too 
often.  Yet  if  I  determined  to  renounce  society, 
and  alter  my  relations  to  others,  it  was  not  in 
my  power.  I  was  hemmed  in  as  by  a  ring 
drawn  round  me  :  certain  connections  I  could 
not  dissolve;  and,  in  the  matter,  which  lay 
nearest  to  my  heart,  fatalities  accumulated  and 
oppressed  me  more  and  more.  I  often  went 
to  bed  with  tears ;  and,  after  a  sleepless  night, 
arose  again  with  tears :  I  required  some  strong 
support;  and  God  would  not  vouchsafe  it  me, 
while  I  was  running  with  the  cap  and  bells. 

I  proceeded  now  to  estimate  my  doings,  all 
and  each  ;  dancing  and  play  were  first  put  upon 
their  trial.  Never  was  there  anything  spoken, 
thought,  or  written,  for  or  against  these  practices, 
which  I  did  not  examine,  talk  of,  read,  weigh, 
reject,  aggravate,  and  plague  myself  about.  If  I 
gave  up  these  habits,  I  was  certain  that  Narciss 
would  be  offended  ;  for  he  was  excessively  afraid 
of  the  ridicule,  which  any  look  of  straight-laced 
conscientiousness  gives  one  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  And  doing  what  I  now  looked  upon  as 
folly,  noxious  folly,  out  of  no  taste  of  my  own, 
but  merely  to  gratify  him,  it  all  grew  dreadfully 
irksome  to  me. 

Without  disagreeable  prolixities  and  repeti- 
tions, it  is  not  in  my  power  to  represent  what 
pains  I  took,  in  trying  so  to  counteract  those  oc- 
cupations, which  distracted  my  attention  and 
disturbed  my  peace  of  mind,  that  my  heart,  in 
spite  of  them,  might  still  be  open  to  the  influ- 
ences of  the  Invisible  Being.  But  at  last  with 
pain  I  was  compelled  to  feel,  that  in  this  way 
the  quarrel  could  not  be  composed.  For  no 
sooner  had  I  clothed  myself  in  the  garment  of 
folly,  than  it  came  to  be  something  more  than 
a  mask  ;  that  foolishness  pierced  and  penetrated 
me  through  and  through. 

May  I  here  overstep  the  province  of  a  mere 
historical  detail,  and  offer  one  or  two  remarks 
on  what  was  then  taking  place  within  me? 
What  could  it  be,  which  so  changed  my  tastes 
and  feelings,  that,  in  my  twenty-second  year, 
nay  earlier,  I  lost  all  relish  for  the  recreations 
with  which  people  of  that  age  are  harmlessly 
delighted  ?  Why  were  they  not  harmless  for 
me?  I  may  answer,  Just  because  they  were 
not  harmless ;  because  I  was  not,  like  others  of 
my  years,  unacquainted  with  my  soul.  No!  I 
knew  from  experiences,  which  had  reached  me 
unsought,  that  there  are  loftier  emotions,  which 
afford  us  a  contentment  such  as  it  is  vain  to  seek 
in  the  amusement  of  the  world;  and  that  in 
these  higher  joys  there  is  also  kept  a  secret  trea- 
sure for  strengthening  the  spirit  in  misfortune. 

But  the  pleasures  of  society,  the  dissipations 
of  youth,  must  needs  have  had  a  powerful 
charm  for  me,  since  it  was  not  in  my  power  to 
25 


290 


GOETHE. 


engage  in  them  without  participation,  to  act 
among  them  as  if  they  were  not  there.  How 
many  things  could  I  now  do,  if  I  liked,  with 
entire  coldness,  which  then  dazzled  and  con- 
founded me,  nay  threatened  to  obtain  the  mas- 
tery over  me  !  Here  there  could  no  medium  be 
observed ;  either  those  delicious  amusements,  or 
my  nourishing  and  quickening  internal  emotions, 
must  be  given  up. 

But  in  my  soul,  the  strife  had,  without  my 
own  consciousness,  already  been  decided.  Even 
if  there  still  was  anything  within  me  that  longed 
for  earthly  pleasures,  I  was  now  become  unfitted 
for  enjoying  them.  Much  as  a  man  might 
hanker  after  wine,  all  desire  of  drinking  would 
forsake  him,  if  he  should  be  placed  among  full 
barrels  in  a  cellar,  where  the  foul  air  was  like 
to  suffocate  him.  Free  air  is  more  than  wine  : 
this  I  felt  but  too  keenly ;  and  from  the  first,  it 
would  have  cost  me  little  studying  to  prefer  the 
good  to  the  delightful,  if  the  fear  of  losing  the 
affection  of  Narciss  had  not  restrained  me.  But 
at  last,  when  after  many  thousand  struggles, 
and  thoughts  continually  renewed,  I  began  to 
cast  a  steady  eye  upon  the  bond  which  held  me 
to  him,  I  discovered  that  it  was  but  weak,  that 
it  might  be  torn  asunder.  I  at  once  perceived 
it  to  be  only  as  a  glass  bell,  which  shut  me  up 
in  the  exhausted  airless  space  :  One  bold  stroke 
to  break  the  bell  in  pieces,  and  thou  art  deli- 
vered ! 

No  sooner  thought  than  tried.  I  drew  off  the 
mask,  and  on  all  occasions  acted  as  my  heart 
directed.  Narciss  I  still  cordially  loved :  but 
the  thermometer,  which  formerly  had  stood  in 
hot  water,  was  now  hanging  in  the  natural  air; 
it  could  rise  no  higher  than  the  warmth  of  the 
atmosphere  directed. 

Unhappily  it  cooled  very  much.  Narciss  drew 
back,  and  began  to  assume  a  distant  air :  this 
was  at  his  option;  but  my  thermometer  de- 
scended as  he  drew  back.  Our  family  observed 
this ;  questioned  me,  and  seemed  to  be  surprised. 
I  explained  to  them  with  stout  defiance,  that 
heretofore  I  had  made  abundant  sacrifices;  that 
I  was  ready,  still  further  and  to  the  end  of  my 
life,  to  share  all  crosses  that  befell  him  ;  but  that 
I  required  full  freedom  in  my  conduct,  that  my 
doings  and  avoidings  must  depend  upon  my 
own  conviction ;  that  indeed  I  would  never 
bigotedly  cleave  to  my  own  opinion,  but  on  the 
other  hand  would  willingly  be  reasoned  with  ; 
yet,  as  it  concerned  my  own  happiness,  the  de- 
cision must  proceed  from  myself,  and  be  liable 
to  no  manner  of  constraint.  The  greatest  phy- 
sician could  not  move  me  by  his  reasonings  to 
take  an  article  of  food,  which  perhaps  was  alto- 
gether wholesome  and  agreeable  to  many,  so 
soon  as  my  experience  had  shown  that  on  all 
occasions  it  was  noxious  to  me ;  as  I  might  pro- 
duce coffee  for  an  instance ;  and  just  as  little, 
nay  still  less,  would  I  have  any  sort  of  conduct, 
which  misled  me,  preached  up  and  demonstrated 
upon  me  as  morally  profitable. 

Having  so  long  prepared  myself  in  silence, 


these  debates  were  rather  pleasant  than  vexa- 
tious to  me.  I  gave  vent  to  my  soul ;  I  felt  the 
whole  worth  of  my  determination.  I  yielded 
not  a  hair's  breadth  ;  and  those  to  whom  I  owed 
no  filial  respect  were  sharply  handled  and  des- 
patched. In  the  family  I  soon  prevailed.  My 
mother  from  her  youth  had  entertained  these 
sentiments,  though  in  her  they  had  never  reached 
maturity  ;  for  no  necessity  had  pressed  upon  her, 
and  exalted  her  courage  to  achieve  her  purpose. 
She  rejoiced  in  beholding  her  silent  wishes  ful- 
filled through  me.  My  younger  sisters  seemed 
to  join  themselves  with  me;  the  second  was 
attentive  and  quiet.  Our  aunt  had  the  most  to 
object.  The  arguments,  which  she  employed 
appeared  to  her  irrefragable,  and  they  were 
irrefragable,  being  altogether  common-place. 
At  last  I  was  obliged  to  show  her,  that  she  had 
no  voice  in  the  affair  in  any  sense ;  and  after 
this,  she  seldom  signified  that  she  persisted  in 
her  views.  She  was  indeed  the  only  person 
who  observed  this  passage  close  at  hand,  with- 
out in  some  degree  experiencing  its  influence.  I 
do  not  calumniate  her,  when  I  say  that  she  had 
no  character,  and  the  most  limited  ideas. 

My  father  acted  altogether  in  his  own  way. 
He  spoke  not  much,  but  often,  with  me  on  the 
matter:  his  arguments  were  rational;  and  being 
his  arguments,  they  could  not  be  impugned.  It 
was  only  the  deep  feeling  of  my  right  that  gave 
me  strength  to  dispute  against  him.  But  the 
scenes  soon  changed ;  I  was  forced  to  make  ap- 
peal to  his  heart.  Straitened  by  his  understand- 
ing. I  came  out  with  the  most  pathetic  pleadings. 
I  gave  free  course  to  my  tongue  and  to  my  tears. 
I  showed  him  how  much  I  loved  Narciss ;  how 
much  constraint  I  had  for  two  years  been  en- 
during ;  how  certain  I  was  of  being  in  the  right ; 
that  I  was  ready  to  testify  that  certainty  by  the 
loss  of  my  beloved  bridegroom  and  prospective 
happiness  ;  nay,  if  it  were  necessary,  by  the  loss 
of  all  that  I  possessed  on  earth  ;  that  I  would 
rather  leave  my  native  country,  my  parents  and 
my  friends,  and  beg  my  bread  in  foreign  lands, 
than  act  against  these  dictates  of  my  conscience. 
He  concealed  his  emotion ;  he  said  nothing  on 
the  subject  for  a  while,  and  at  last  he  openly 
declared  in  my  favor. 

During  all  this  time  Narciss  forbore  to  visit 
us ;  and  my  father  now  gave  up  the  weekly 
club,  of  which  the  former  was  a  member.  The 
business  made  a  noise  at  court,  and  in  the  town. 
People  talked  about  it,  as  is  common  in  such 
cases,  which  the  public  takes  a  vehement  in- 
terest in,  because  its  sentence  has  usurped  an 
influence  on  the  resolutions  of  weak  minds.  I 
knew  enough  about  the  world  to  understand, 
that  one's  conduct  is  often  censured  by  the  very 
persons  who  would  have  advised  it  had  one 
consulted  them  :  and  independently  of  this,  with 
my  internal  composure,  I  should  have  looked  on 
all  such  transitory  speculations  just  as  if  they 
had  not  been. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  hindered  not  myself  from 
yielding  to  my  inclination  for  Narciss.    To  me 


GOETHE. 


291 


he  had  become  invisible,  and  to  him  my  feelings 
had  not  altered.  I  loved  him  tenderly;  as  it 
were  anew,  and  much  more  steadfastly  than 
formerly.  If  he  chose  to  leave  my  conscience 
undisturbed,  then  I  was  his:  wanting  this  con- 
dition, I  would  have  refused  a  kingdom  with 
him.  For  several  months,  I  bore  these  feelings 
and  these  thoughts  about  with  me  ;  and  finding, 
at  last,  that  I  was  calm  and  strong  enough  to  go 
peacefully  and  firmly  to  work,  I  wrote  him  a 
polite  but  not  a  tender  note,  inquiring  why  he 
never  came  to  see  me. 

As  I  knew  his  manner  of  avoiding  to  explain 
himself  in  little  matters,  but  of  silently  doing 
what  seemed  good  to  him,  I  purposely  urged 
him  in  the  present  instance.  I  got  a  long,  and 
as  it  seemed  to  me  a  pitiful  reply,  in  a  vague 
style  and  unmeaning  phrases,  stating,  that  with- 
out a  better  place,  he  could  not  fix  himself  and 
offer  me  his  hand  ;  that  I  best  knew  how  hardly 
it  had  fared  with  him  hitherto ;  that  as  he  was 
afraid  lest  a  fruitless  intercourse,  so  long  con- 
tinued, might  prove  hurtful  to  my  reputation,  I 
would  give  him  leave  to  continue  at  his  present 
distance ;  so  soon  as  it  was  in  his  power  to 
make  me  happy,  he  would  look  upon  the  word 
which  he  bad  given  me  as  sacred. 

I  answered  him  upon  the  spot,  that  as  our  in- 
tercourse was  known  to  all  the  world,  it  might 
perhaps  be  rather  late  to  spare  my  reputation ; 
for  which,  at  any  rate,  my  conscience  and  my 
innocence  were  the  surest  pledges  :  however, 
that  I  hereby  freely  gave  him  back  his  word, 
and  hoped  the  change  would  prove  a  happy  one 
for  him.  The  same  hour  I  received  a  short 
reply,  which  was,  in  all  essential  particulars, 
entirely  synonymous  with  the  first.  He  adhered 
to  his  former  statement,  that  so  soon  as  he  ob- 
tained a  situation,  he  would  ask  me  if  I  pleased 
to  share  his  fortune  with  him. 

This  I  interpreted  as  meaning  simply  nothing. 
I  signified  to  my  relations  and  acquaintances, 
that  the  affair  was  altogether  settled ;  and  it 
was  so  actually.  Having,  nine  months  after- 
wards, obtained  the  much  desired  preferment, 
he  offered  me  his  hand ;  but  under  the  condi- 
tion, that  as  the  wife  of  a  man  who  must  keep 
house  like  other  people,  I  should  alter  my  opi- 
nions. I  returned  him  many  thanks  :  and  hast- 
ened with  my  heart  and  mind  away  from  this 
transaction ;  as  one  hastens  from  the  play-house 
when  the  curtain  falls.  And  as  he,  a  short  time 
afterwards,  found  a  rich  and  advantageous 
match,  a  thing  now  easy  for  him ;  and  as  I  now 
knew  him  to  be  happy  in  the  way  he  liked,  my 
own  tranquillity  was  quite  complete. 

I  must  not  pass  in  silence  the  fact,  that  several 
times  before  he  got  a  place,  and  after  it,  there 
were  respectable  proposals  made  to  me  ;  which, 
however,  I  declined  without  the  smallest  hesi- 
tation, much  as  my  father  and  my  mother  could 
have  wished  for  more  compliance  on  my  part. 

At  length,  after  a  stormy  March  and  April, 
the  loveliest  May  weather  seemed  to  be  allotted 
me.    With  good  health,  I  enjoyed  an  inde- 


scribable composure  of  mind  :  look  around  me 
as  I  pleased,  my  loss  appeared  a  gain  to  me. 
Young  and  full  of  sensibility,  I  thought  the  uni- 
verse a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  for- 
merly, when  I  required  to  have  society  and 
play,  that  in  the  fair  garden  tedium  might  not 
overtake  me.  And  now,  as  I  did  not  conceal 
my  piety,  I  likewise  took  heart  to  own  my  love 
for  the  sciences  and  arts.  I  drew,  painted, 
read  ;  and  found  enow  of  people  to  support  me  : 
instead  of  the  great  world  which  I  had  left,  or 
rather  which  had  left  me,  a  smaller  one  was 
formed  about  me,  which  was  infinitely  richer 
and  more  entertaining.  I  had  a  turn  for  social 
life ;  and  I  do  not  deny  that,  on  giving  up  my 
old  acquaintances,  I  trembled  at  the  thought  of 
solitude.  I  now  found  myself  abundantly,  per- 
haps excessively,  indemnified.  My  acquaint- 
ances ere  long  were  very  numerous;  not  at 
home  only,  but  likewise  among  people  at  a  dis- 
tance. My  story  had  been  noised  abroad  ;  and 
many  persons  felt  a  curiosity  to  see  the  woman 
who  had  valued  God  above  her  bridegroom. 
There  was  a  certain  pious  tone  to  be  observed 
at  that  time  generally  over  Germany.  In  the 
families  of  several  counts  and  princes,  a  care 
for  the  welfare  of  the  soul  had  been  awakened. 
Nor  were  there  wanting  noblemen  who  showed 
a  like  attention ;  while  in  the  inferior  classes, 
sentiments  of  this  kind  were  diffused  on  every 
side. 

The  noble  family,  whom  I  made  mention  of 
above,  now  drew  me  nearer  to  them.  They 
had,  in  the  meanwhile,  gathered  strength ; 
several  of  their  relations  having  settled  in  the 
town.  These  estimable  persons  courted  my 
familiarity,  as  I  did  theirs.  They  had  high  con- 
nections; I  became  acquainted,  in  their  house, 
with  a  great  part  of  the  princes,  counts,  and 
lords  of  the  Empire.  My  sentiments  were  not 
concealed  from  any  one  ;  they  might  be  honored 
or  be  tolerated ;  I  obtained  my  object ;  none  at- 
tacked me. 

There  was  yet  another  way,  by  which  I  was 
again  led  back  into  the  world.  About  this 
period,  a  step-brother  of  my  father,  who  till  now 
had  never  visited  the  house  except  in  passing, 
staid  with  us  for  a  considerable  time.  He  had 
left  the  service  of  his  court,  where  he  enjoyed 
great  influence  and  honor,  simply  because  all 
matters  were  not  managed  quite  according  to 
his  mind.  His  intellect  was  just,  his  character 
was  rigid.  In  these  points  he  was  very  like  my 
father  ;  only  the  latter  had  withal  a  certain  touch 
of  softness,  which  enabled  him  with  greater  ease 
to  yield  a  little  in  affairs,  and  though  not  to  do, 
yet  to  permit,  some  things  against  his  own  con- 
viction ;  and  then  to  evaporate  his  anger  at  them, 
either  in  silence  by  himself,  or  in  confidence 
amid  his  family.  My  uncle  was  a  great  deal 
younger ;  and  his  independence  of  spirit  had 
been  favored  by  his  outward  circumstances. 
His  mother  had  been  very  rich ;  and  he  still 
had  large  possessions  to  expect  from  her  near 
and  distant  relatives :  so  he  needed  no  foreign 


292 


GOETHE. 


increase  ;  whereas  my  father,  with  his  moderate 
fortune,  was  bound  to  his  place  by  the  considera- 
tion of  his  salary. 

My  uncle  had  become  still  more  unbending 
from  domestic  sufferings.  He  had  early  lost  an 
amiable  wife  and  a  hopeful  son;  and  from  that 
time,  he  appeared  to  wish  to  push  away  from 
him  everything  that  did  not  hang  upon  his  in- 
dividual will. 

In  our  family,  it  was  whispered  now  and  then 
with  some  complacency,  that  probably  he  would 
not  wed  again,  and  so  we  children  might  antici- 
pate inheriting  his  fortune.  I  paid  small  regard 
to  this  ;  but  the  demeanor  of  the  rest  was  not  a 
little  modified  by  their  hopes.  In  his  own  im- 
perturbable firmness  of  character,  my  uncle  had 
grown  into  the  habit  of  never  contradicting  any 
one  in  conversation.  On  the  other  hand,  he  lis- 
tened with  a  friendly  air  to  everyone's  opinion; 
and  would  himself  elucidate  and  strengthen  it 
by  instances  and  reasons  of  his  own.  All  who 
did  not  know  him  fancied  that  he  thought  as 
they  did  :  for  he  was  possessed  of  a  preponde- 
rating intellect ;  and  could  transport  himself  into 
the  mental  state  "of  any  man,  and  imitate  his 
manner  of  conceiving.  With  me  he  did  not 
prosper  quite  so  well :  for  here  the  question  was 
about  emotions,  of  which  he  had  not  any  glimpse; 
and  with  whatever  tolerance,  and  sympathy, 
and  rationality,  he  spoke  about  my  sentiments, 
it  was  palpable  to  me  that  he  had  not  the  slight- 
est notion  of  what  formed  the  ground  of  all  my 
conduct. 

With  all  his  secrecy,  we  by  and  by  found  out 
the  aim  of  his  unusual  stay  with  us.  He  had, 
as  we  at  length  discovered,  cast  his  eyes  upon 
our  youngest  sister,  with  the  view  of  giving  her 
in  marriage,  and  rendering  her  happy  as  he 
pleased;  and  certainly  considering  her  personal 
and  mental  attractions,  particularly  when  a 
handsome  fortune  was  laid  into  the  scale  along 
with  them,  she  might  pretend  to  the  first  matches. 
His  feelings  towards  me  he  likewise  showed  us 
pantomimically,  by  procuring  me  a  post  of  Cano- 
ness,  the  income  of  which  I  very  soon  began  to 
draw. 

My  sister  was  not  so  contented  with  his  care 
as  I.  She  now  disclosed  to  me  a  tender  secret, 
which  hitherto  she  very  wisely  had  kept  back ; 
fearing,  as  in  truth  it  happened,  that  I  would  by 
all  means  counsel  her  against  connection  with 
a  man  who  was  not  suited  to  her.  I  did  my 
utmost,  and  succeeded.  The  purpose  of  my 
uncle  was  too  serious  and  too  distinct;  the  pros- 
pect for  my  sister,  with  her  worldly  views,  was 
too  delightful  to  be  thwarted  by  a  passion  which 
her  own  understanding  disapproved;  she  mus- 
tered force  enough  to  give  it  up. 

On  her  ceasing  to  resist  the  gentle  guidance 
of  my  uncle,  the  foundation  of  his  plan  was 
quickly  laid.  She  was  appointed  Maid  of  Honor 
at  a  neighboring  court,  where  he  could  commit 
her  to  the  oversight  and  the  instructions  of  a 
lady,  his  friend,  who  presided  there  as  Gover- 
ness with  great  applause.    I  accompanied  her 


to  the  place  of  her  new  abode.  Both  of  us  had 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the  reception  which 
we  met  with  ;  and  frequently  I  could  not  help 
in  secret  smiling  at  the  character,  which  now 
as  Canoness,  as  young  and  pious  Canoness,  I 
was  enacting  in  the  world. 

In  earlier  times,  a  situation  such  as  this  would 
have  confused  me  dreadfully;  perhaps  have 
turned  my  head  ;  but  now,  in  midst  of  all  the 
splendors  that  surrounded  me,  I  felt  extremely 
cool.  With  great  quietness,  I  let  them  frizzle 
me,  and  deck  me  out  for  hours ;  and  thought  no 
more  of  it  than  that  my  place  required  me  to 
wear  that  gala  livery.  In  the  thronged  saloons, 
I  spoke  with  all  and  each,  though  no  shape  or 
character  among  them  made  impression  on  me. 
On  returning  to  my  house,  nearly  all  the  feeling 
I  brought  back  with  me  was  that  of  tired  limbs. 
Yet  my  understanding  drew  advantage  from  the 
multitude  of  persons  whom  I  saw;  and  I  grew 
acquainted  with  some  ladies,  patterns  of  every 
virtue,  of  a  noble  and  good  demeanor;  par- 
ticularly with  the  Governess,  under  whom  my 
sister  was  to  have  the  happiness  of  being 
formed. 

At  my  return,  hower,  the  consequences  of 
this  journey,  in  regard  to  health,  were  found  to 
be  less  favorable.  With  the  greatest  temper- 
ance, the  strictest  diet,  I  had  not  been  as  I  used 
to  be,  completely  mistress  of  my  time  and 
strength.  Food,  motion,  rising  and  going  to 
sleep,  dressing  and  visiting,  had  not  depended, 
as  at  home,  on  my  own  conveniency  and  wilL 
In  the  circle  of  social  life,  you  cannot  stop  with- 
out a  breach  of  courtesy:  all  that  was  needful  I 
had  willingly  performed  ;  because  I  looked  upon 
it  as  my  duty,  because  I  knew  that  it  would 
soon  be  over,  and  because  I  felt  myself  com- 
pletely healthy.  Yet  this  unusual  restless  life 
must  have  affected  me  more  strongly  than  I  was 
aware  of.  Scarcely  had  I  reached  our  house, 
and  cheered  my  parents  with  a  comfortable 
narrative,  when  a  hemorrhage  attacked  me, 
which,  although  it  was  not  dangerous  or  lasting, 
yet  left  a  weakness  after  it  perceptible  for  many 
a  day. 

Here,  then,  I  had  another  lesson  to  repeat.  I 
did  it  joyfully.  Nothing  bound  me  to  the  world  ; 
and  I  was  to  be  convinced  that  here  the  true 
good  was  never  to  be  found :  so  I  waited  in  the 
cheerfullest  and  meekest  state  ;  and  after  having 
abdicated  life,  I  was  retained  in  it. 

A  new  trial  was  awaiting  me:  my  mother 
took  a  painful  and  oppressive  ailment,  which 
she  had  to  bear  five  years,  before  she  paid  the 
debt  of  nature.  All  this  time  we  were  sharply 
proved.  Often  when  her  terror  grew  too  strong, 
she  would  make  us  all  be  summoned  in  the 
night  before  her  bed,  that  so  at  least  she  might 
be  busied  if  not  bettered  by  our  presence.  The 
load  grew  heavier,  nay  scarcely  to  be  borne, 
when  my  father  too  became  unwell.  From  liis 
youth,  he  frequently  had  violent  headaches; 
which,  however,  at  the  longest,  never  used  to 
last  beyond  six-and-thirty  hours.    But  now  they 


GOETHE. 


293 


were  continual ;  and  when  they  mounted  to  a 
high  degree  of  pain,  his  moanings  tore  my  very 
heart.  It  was  in  these  tempestuous  seasons 
that  I  chiefly  felt  my  bodily  weakness;  because 
it  kept  me  from  my  holiest  and  dearest  duties, 
or  rendered  the  performance  of  them  hard  to  an 
extreme  degree. 

It  was  now  that  I  could  try  whether  the  path, 
which  I  had  chosen,  was  the  path  of  fantasy  or 
truth  ;  whether  I  had  merely  thought  as  others 
showed  me,  or  the  object  of  my  trust  had  a 
reality.  To  my  unspeakable  support,  I  always 
found  the  latter.  The  straight  direction  of  my 
heart  to  God,  the  fellowship  of  the  "Beloved 
Ones'"*  I  had  sought  and  found ;  and  this  was 
what  made  all  things  light  to  me.  As  a  traveller 
in  the  dark,  my  soul,  when  all  was  pressing  on 
me  from  without,  hastened  to  the  place  of  re- 
fuge, and  never  did  it  return  empty. 

In  later  times,  some  champions  of  religion, 
who  seem  to  be  animated  more  by  zeal  than 
feeling  for  it,  have  required  of  their  brethren  to 
produce  examples  of  prayers  actually  heard ; 
apparently,  because  they  wished  for  seal  and 
writing,  that  they  might  proceed  against  their 
adversaries  diplomatically  and  juridically.  How 
unknown  must  the  true  feeling  of  the  matter  be 
to  these  persons !  how  few  real  experiences  can 
they  themselves  have  made ! 

I  can  say  that  I  never  returned  empty,  when 
in  straits  and  oppression  I  called  on  God.  This 
is  saying  infinitely  much ;  more  I  must  not  and 
cannot  say.  Important  as  each  experience  was 
at  the  critical  moment  for  myself,  the  recital  of 
them  would  be  flat,  improbable  and  insignifi- 
cant, were  I  to  specify  the  separate  cases.  Happy 
was  I,  that  a  thousand  little  incidents  in  combi- 
nation proved,  as  clearly  as  the  drawing  of  my 
breath  proved  me  to  be  living,  that  I  was  not 
without  God  in  the  world.  He  was  near  to  me, 
I  was  before  him.  This  is  what,  with  a  diligent 
avoidance  of  all  theological  systematic  terms,  I 
can  with  the  greatest  truth  declare. 

Much  do  I  wish  that  in  those  times  too  I  had 
been  entirely  without  system.  But  which  of  us 
arrives  early  at  the  happiness  of  being  conscious 
of  his  individual  self  in  its  own  pure  combina- 
tion, without  extraneous  forms  ?  I  was  in  earnest 
with  religion.  I  timidly  trusted  in  the  judgments 
of  others;  I  entirely  gave  in  to  the  Hallean  sys- 
tem of  conversion  ;  but  my  nature  would  by  no 
means  tally  with  it. 

According  to  this  scheme  of  doctrine,  the 
alteration  of  the  heart  must  begin  with  a  deep 
terror  on  account  of  sin ;  the  heart  in  this  agony 
must  recognise  in  a  less  or  greater  degree  the 
punishment  which  it  has  merited,  must  get  a 
foretaste  of  Hell,  and  so  embitter  the  delight  of 
sin.  At  last  it  feels  a  very  palpable  assurance 
of  grace ;  which,  however,  in  its  progress  often 
fades  away,  and  must  again  be  sought  with 
earnest  prayer. 

Of  all  this  no  jot  occurred  with  me.    When  I 


*  So  in  the  original.—  Ed. 



sought  God  sincerely,  he  let  himself  be  found 
of  me,  and  did  not  reproach  me  about  bygone 
things.  On  looking  back,  I  saw  well  enough 
where  I  had  been  unworthy,  where  I  still  was 
so;  but  the  confession  of  my  faults  was  altoge- 
ther without  terror.  Not  for  a  moment  did  the 
fear  of  Hell  occur  to  me :  nay,  die  very  notion 
of  a  wicked  Spirit,  and  a  place  of  punishment 
and  torment  after  death,  could  nowise  gain  ad- 
mission to  the  circle  of  my  thoughts.  I  looked 
upon  the  men,  who  lived  without  God,  whose 
hearts  were  shut  against  the  trust  in  and  the 
love  of  the  Invisible,  as  already  so  unhappy  that 
a  hell  and  external  pains  appeared  to  promise 
rather  an  alleviation  than  an  aggravation  of 
their  misery.  I  had  but  to  turn  my  eyes  upon 
the  persons  in  this  world,  who  in  their  breasts 
gave  scope  to  hateful  feelings ;  who  hardened 
their  hearts  against  the  Good  of  whatever  kind, 
and  strove  to  force  the  Evil  on  themselves  and 
others ;  who  shut  their  eyes  by  day,  that  so  they 
might  deny  the  shining  of  the  sun  :  How  unut- 
terably wretched  did  these  persons  seem  to  me! 
Who  could  have  formed  a  Hell  to  make  their 
situation  worse  ? 

This  mood  of  mind  continued  in  me,  without 
change,  for  half  a  score  of  years.  It  maintained 
itself  through  many  trials ;  even  at  the  moving 
death-bed  of  my  beloved  mother.  I  was  frank 
enough  on  this  occasion  not  to  hide  my  com 
fortable  frame  of  mind  from  certain  pious  but 
rigorously  orthodox  people ;  and  I  had  to  surfer 
many  a  friendly  admonition  on  that  score.  They 
reckoned  they  were  just  in  season  for  explain- 
ing with  what  earnestness  one  ought  to  strive 
to  lay  a  right  foundation  in  the  days  of  health 
and  youth. 

In  earnestness  I  too  determined  not  to  fail. 
For  the  moment,  I  allowed  myself  to  be  con- 
vinced ;  and  fain  would  I  have  grown  for  life, 
distressed  and  full  of  fears.  But  what  was  my 
surprise  on  finding  absolutely  that  I  could  not! 
When  I  thought  of  God,  I  was  cheerful  and  con- 
tented: even  at  the  painful  end  of  my  dear  mo- 
ther, I  did  not  shudder  at  the  thought  of  death. 
Yet  I  learned  many  and  far  other  things  than 
my  uncalled  teachers  thought  of,  in  these  solemn 
hours. 

By  degrees  I  grew  to  doubt  the  dictates  of  so 
many  famous  people,  and  retained  my  senti- 
ments in  silence.  A  certain  lady  of  my  friends, 
to  whom  I  had  at  first  disclosed  too  much,  in- 
sisted still  on  interfering  with  my  business. 
Of  her  too  I  was  forced  to  rid  myself;  at  last  I 
firmly  told  her,  that  she  might  spare  herself  this 
labor,  as  I  did  not  need  her  counsel ;  that  I  knew 
my  God,  and  would  have  no  guide  but  him. 
She  felt  exceedingly  offended ;  I  believe  she 
never  quite  forgave  me. 

This  determination  to  withdraw  from  the  ad- 
vices and  the  influence  of  my  friends,  in  spiritual 
matters,  produced  the  consequence,  that  also  in 
my  temporal  affairs  I  gained  sufficient  courage 
to  obey  my  own  persuasions.  But  for  the  assist- 
ance of  my  faithful  invisible  Leader,  I  could 
25* 


294  GOETHE. 


not  have  prospered  here.  I  am  still  gratefully- 
astonished  at  his  wise  and  happy  guidance.  No 
one  knew  how  matters  stood  with  me ;  even  I 
myself  did  not  know. 

The  thing,  the  wicked  and  inexplicable  thing, 
which  separates  us  from  the  Being  to  whom  we 
owe  our  life,  and  in  whom  all  that  deserves  the 
name  of  life  must  find  its  nourishment;  the 
thing,  which  we  call  Sin,  I  yet  knew  nothing  of. 

In  my  intercourse  with  my  invisible  Friend, 
I  felt  the  sweetest  enjoyment  of  all  my  powers. 
My  desire  of  constantly  enjoying  this  felicity 
was  so  predominant,  that  I  abandoned  without 
hesitation  whatever  marred  our  intercourse  ;  and 
here  experience  was  my  surest  teacher.  But  it 
was  with  me  as  with  sick  persons,  who  have 
no  medicine,  and  try  to  help  themselves  by 
diet.  Something  is  accomplished,  but  far  from 
enough. 

I  could  not  always  live  in  solitude ;  though  in 
it  I  found  the  best  preservative  against  the  dis- 
sipation of  my  thoughts.  On  returning  to  the 
tumult,  the  impression  it  produced  upon  me 
was  the  deeper  for  my  previous  loneliness. 
My  most  peculiar  advantage  lay  in  this,  that 
love  for  quiet  was  my  ruling  passion,  and  that 
in  the  end  I  still  drew  back  to  it.  I  perceived, 
as  in  a  kind  of  twilight,  my  weakness  and  my 
misery ;  and  tried  to  save  myself  by  avoiding 
danger  and  exposure. 

For  seven  years  I  had  used  my  dietetic 
scheme.  I  held  myself  not  wicked,  and  I 
thought  my  state  desirable.  But  for  some  pecu- 
liar circumstances  and  occurrences,  I  had  re- 
mained in  this  position:  it  was  by  a  curious 
path  that  I  got  further.  Contrary  to  the  advice 
of  all  my  friends,  I  entered  on  a  new  connection. 
Their  objections  made  me  pause  at  first.  I 
turned  to  my  invisible  Leader,  and,  as  he  per- 
mitted me,  I  went  forward  without  fear. 

A  man  of  spirit,  heart  and  talents,  had  bought 
a  property  beside  us.  Among  the  strangers 
whom  I  grew  acquainted  with,  were  this  per- 
son and  his  family.  In  our  manners,  domestic 
economy  and  habits,  we  accorded  well ;  and 
thus  we  soon  approximated  to  each  other. 

Philo,  as  I  propose  to  call  him,  was  already 
middle  aged:  in  certain  matters  he  was  highly 
serviceable  to  my  father,  whose  strength  was 
now  decaying.  He  soon  became  the  friend  of 
the  family  ;  and  finding  in  me,  as  he  was  pleased 
to  say,  a  person  free  alike  from  the  extravagance 
and  emptiness  of  the  great  world,  and  from  the 
narrowness  and  aridness  of  the  still  world  in 
the  country,  he  courted  intimacy  with  me,  and 
ere  long  we  were  in  one  another's  confidence. 
To  me  he  was  very  pleasing  and  useful. 

Though  I  did  not  feel  the  smallest  inclination 
or  capacity  for  mingling  in  public  business,  or 
seeking  any  influence  on  it,  yet  I  liked  to  hear 
about  such  matters,  liked  to  know  whatever 
happened  far  and  near.  Of  worldly  things,  I 
loved  to  get  a  clear  though  unconcerned  percep- 
tion :  feeling,  sympathy,  affection,  I  reserved  for 
God,  for  my  people  and  my  friends. 


The  latter  were,  if  I  may  say  so,  jealous  of 
Philo,  in  my  new  connection  with  him.  In 
more  than  one  sense,  they  were  right  in  warning 
me  about  it.  I  suffered  much  in  secret;  for 
even  I  could  not  consider  their  remonstrances 
as  altogether  empty  or  selfish.  I  had  been  ac- 
customed, from  of  old,  to  give  a  reason  for  my 
views  and  conduct ;  but  in  this  case  my  convic- 
tion would  not  follow.  I  prayed  to  God,  that 
here  a.s  elsewhere  he  would  warn,  restrain  and 
guide  me;  and  as  my  heart  on  this  did  not  dis- 
suade me,  I  went  forward  on  my  way  with 
comfort. 

Philo  on  the  whole  had  a  remote  resemblance 
to  Narciss ;  only  a  pious  education  had  more 
enlivened  and  concentrated  his  feelings.  He 
had  less  vanity,  more  character :  and,  in  busi- 
ness, if  Narciss  was  delicate,  exact,  persevering, 
indefatigable,  the  other  was  clear,  sharp,  quick 
and  capable  of  working  with  incredible  ease. 
By  means  of  him,  I  learned  the  secret  history 
of  almost  every  noble  personage  with  whose 
exterior  I  had  grown  acquainted  in  society.  It 
was  pleasant  for  me  to  behold  the  tumult,  off 
my  watch-tower,  from  afar.  Philo  could  now 
hide  nothing  from  me :  he  confided  to  me  by 
degrees  his  own  concerns  both  inward  and  out- 
ward. I  was  in  fear  because  of  him  ;  for  I 
foresaw  certain  circumstances  and  entangle- 
ments ;  and  the  mischief  came  more  speedily 
than  I  had  looked  for.  There  were  some  con- 
fessions he  had  still  kept  back  ;  and  even  at  last 
he  told  me  only  what  enabled  me  to  guess  the 
worst. 

What  an  effect  had  this  upon  my  heart!  I 
attained  experiences,  which  to  me  were  alto- 
gether new.  With  infinite  sorrow  I  beheld  an 
Agathon,  who,  being  educated  in  the  groves  of 
Delphi,  yet  owed  his  school  fee,  which  he  was 
now  obliged  to  pay  with  its  accumulated  in- 
terest ;  and  this  Agathon  was  my  especial  friend. 
My  sympathy  was  lively  and  complete ;  I  suf- 
fered with  him  ;  both  of  us  were  in  the  strangest 
state. 

After  having  long  occupied  myself  with  the 
temper  of  his  mind,  I  at  last  turned  round  to 
contemplate  my  own.  The  thought:  'Thou  art 
no  better  than  he,'  rose  like  a  little  cloud  before 
me,  and  gradually  expanded  till  it  darkened  all 
my  soul. 

I  now  not  only  thought  myself  no  better  than 
he  ;  I  felt  this,  and  felt  it  as  I  should  not  wish  to 
do  again.  Nor  was  it  any  transitory  mood.  For 
more  than  a  year,  I  was  constrained  to  feel  that, 
if  an  unseen  hand  had  not  restrained  me,  i 
might  have  become  a  Girard,  a  Cartouche,  a 
Damiens,  or  any  wretch  you  can  suppose.  The 
tendencies  to  this  I  traced  too  clearly  in  my 
heart.    Heavens  !  what  a  discovery ! 

If  hitherto  I  never  had  been  able,  in  the 
faintest  degree,  to  recognise  in  myself  the  reality 
of  sin  by  experience,  its  possibility  was  now 
become  apparent  to  me  by  anticipation,  in  the 
most  tremendous  manner.  And  yet  I  knew  not 
evil;  I  but  feared  it:  I  felt  that  I  might  be 


GOETHE. 


2<J5 


guilty,  and  could  not  accuse  myself  of  being 
so. 

Deeply  as  I  was  convinced  that  such  a  tem- 
perament of  soul,  as  I  now  saw  mine  to  be, 
could  never  be  adapted  for  that  union  with  the 
invisible  Being,  which  I  hoped  for  after  death  ; 
I  did  not,  in  the  smallest,  fear  that  I  should 
finally  be  separated  from  him.  With  all  the 
wickedness,  which  I  discovered  in  my  heart,  I 
still  loved  Him  ;  I  hated  what  I  felt,  nay,  wished 
to  hate  it  still  more  earnestly ;  my  whole  desire 
was  to  be  delivered  from  this  sickness,  and  this 
tendency  to  sickness  ;  and  I  was  persuaded  that 
the  great  Physician  would  at  length  vouchsafe 
his  help. 

The  sole  question  was :  What  medicine  will 
cure  this  malady?  The  practice  of  virtue? 
This  I  could  not  for  a  moment  think.  For  ten 
years,  I  had  already  practised  more  than  mere 
virtue ;  and  the  horrors  now  first  discovered 
had,  all  the  while,  lain  hidden  at  the  bottom  of 
my  soul.  Might  they  not  have  broken  out  with 
me,  as  they  did  with  David  when  he  looked  on 
Bathsheba  ?  Yet  was  not  he  a  friend  of  God  ; 
and  was  not  I  assured  in  my  inmost  heart  that 
God  was  my  friend? 

Was  it  then  an  unavoidable  infirmity  of  hu- 
man nature  ?  Must  we  just  content  ourselves 
in  feeling  and  acknowledging  the  sovereignty 
of  inclination  ?  And,  with  the  best  will,  is  there 
nothing  left  for  us  but  to  abhor  the  fault  we  have 
committed,  and  on  the  like  occasion  to  commit 
it  again  ? 

From  systems  of  morality  I  could  obtain  no 
comfort.  Neither  their  severity,  by  which  they 
try  to  bend  our  inclinations,  nor  their  attractive- 
ness, by  which  they  try  to  place  our  inclinations 
on  the  side  of  virtue,  gave  me  any  satisfaction. 
The  fundamental  notions,  which  I  had  imbibed 
from  intercourse  with  my  invisible  Friend,  were 
of  far  higher  value  to  me. 

Once,  while  I  was  studying  the  songs  com- 
posed by  David  after  that  tremendous  fall,  it 
struck  me  very  much  that  he  traced  his  indwell- 
ing corruption  even  in  the  substance  out  of 
which  he  had  been  shaped  ;  yet  that  he  wished 
to  be  freed  from  sin,  and  that  he  earnestly  en- 
treated for  a  pure  heart. 

But  how  was  this  to  be  attained  ?  The  answer 
from  the  Scripture  I  was  well  aware  of:  'That 
the  blood  of  Jesus  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin'  was 
a  Bible  truth,  which  I  had  long  known.  But 
now  for  the  first  time,  I  observed  that  as  yet  I 
had  never  understood  this  oft-repeated  saying. 
The  questions:  What  does  it  mean?  How  is  it 
to  be?  were  day  and  night  working  out  their 
answers  in  me.  At  last  I  thought  I  saw  as  by 
a  gleam  of  light,  that  what  I  sought  was  to  be 
found  in  the  incarnation  of  the  everlasting  Word, 
by  whom  all  things,  even  we  ourselves,  were 
made.  That  the  Eternal  descended  as  an  in- 
habitant to  the  depths  in  which  we  dwell,  which 
he  surveys  and  comprehends ;  that  he  passed 
through  our  lot  from  stage  to  stage,  from  concep- 
tion and  birth  to  the  grave ;  that  by  this  mar- 


vellous circuit  he  again  mounted  to  those  shining 
Heights,  whither  we  too  must  rise  in  ordei  to 
be  happy:  all  this  was  revealed  to  me,  as  in  a 
dawning  remoteness. 

Oh  !  Why  must  we,  in  speaking  of  such  things, 
make  use  of  figures,  which  can  only  indicate 
external  situations  !  Where  is  there  in  His  eyes 
aught  high  or  deep,  aught  dark  or  clear  ?  It  is 
we  only  that  have  an  Under  and  Above,  a  night 
and  day.  And  even  for  this  did  He  become  like 
us,  since  otherwise  we  could  have  had  no  part 
in  him. 

But  how  shall  we  obtain  a  share  in  this  price- 
less benefit?  'By  faith,'  the  Scripture  says. 
And  what  is  faith  ?  To  consider  the  account  of 
an  event  as  true — what  help  can  this  afford  me  ? 
I  must  be  enabled  to  appropriate  its  effects,  its 
consequences.  This  appropriating  faith  must 
be  a  state  of  mind  peculiar,  and  to  the  natural 
man,  unknown. 

'  Now,  gracious  Father,  grant  me  faith !'  so 
prayed  I  once  in  the  deepest  heaviness  of  heart. 
I  was  leaning  on  a  little  table,  where  I  sat;  my 
tear-stained  countenance  was  hidden  in  my 
hands.  I  was  now  in  the  condition,  in  which 
we  seldom  are,  but  in  which  we  are  required  to 
be,  if  God  is  to  regard  our  prayers. 

0  that  I  could  but  paint  what  I  felt  then  !  A 
sudden  force  drew  my  soul  to  the  cross  where 
Jesus  once  expired :  it  was  a  sudden  force,  a 
pull,  I  cannot  name  it  otherwise,  such  as  leads 
our  soul  to  an  absent  loved  one :  an  approxima- 
tion, which  perhaps  is  far  more  real  and  true 
than  we  imagine.  So  did  my  soul  approach 
the  Son  of  Man,  who  died  upon  the  cross ;  and 
that  instant  did  I  know  what  faith  was. 

'  This  is  faith  !'  said  I ;  and  started  up  as  half 
affrighted.  I  now  endeavored  to  get  certain 
of  my  feeling,  of  my  view  ;  and  shortly  I  be- 
came convinced  that  my  spirit  had  acquired  a 
power  of  soaring-  upwards,  which  was  altogether 
new  to  it. 

Words  fail  us  in  describing  such  emotions.  I 
could  most  distinctly  separate  them  from  all 
fantasy :  they  were  entirely  without  fantasy, 
without  image ;  yet  they  gave  us  just  the  cer- 
tainty of  their  referring  to  some  object,  which 
our  imagination  gives  us  when  it  paints  for  us 
the  features  of  an  absent  lover. 

When  the  first  rapture  was  over,  I  observed 
that  my  present  state  of  soul  had  formerly  been 
known  to  me ;  only  I  had  never  felt  it  in  such 
strength ;  I  had  never  held  it  fast,  never  made 
it  mine.  I  believe,  indeed,  that  every  human 
soul  at  intervals  feels  something  of  it.  Doubt- 
less it  is  this  which  teaches  every  mortal  that 
there  is  a  God. 

With  this  power,  which  used  to  visit  me  from 
time  to  time,  I  had  hitherto  been  well  content: 
and  had  not,  by  a  singular  arrangement  of  events, 
that  unexpected  sorrow  weighed  upon  me  for  a 
twelvemonth ;  had  not  my  own  ability  and 
strength  on  this  occasion  altogether  lost  its  credit 
with  me ;  I  perhaps  might  have  been  satisfied 
with  this  condition  all  my  days. 


296 


GOETHE, 


But  now,  since  that  great  moment,  I  had  as  it 
were  got  wings.  I  could  mount  aloft  above 
what  used  to  threaten  me;  as  the  bird  can  fly- 
singing  and  with  ease  across  the  fiercest  stream, 
while  the  little  dog  stands  anxiously  baying  on 
the  bank. 

My  joy  was  indescribable  ;  and  though  I  did 
not  mention  it  to  any  one,  my  people  soon  ob- 
served an  unaccustomed  cheerfulness  in  me,  and 
could  not  understand  the  reason  of  my  joy.  Had 
I  but  forever  held  my  peace,  and  tried  to  nourish 
this  serene  temper  in  my  soul  !  Had  I  not  al- 
lowed myself  to  be  misled  by  circumstances,  so 
as  to  reveal  my  secret!  Then  might  I  again 
have  saved  myself  a  long  and  tedious  circuit. 

As  in  the  previous  ten  years  of  my  Christian 
course,  this  necessary  force  had  not  existed  in 
my  soul,  I  had  just  been  in  the  case  of  other 
worthy  people ;  had  helped  myself  by  keeping 
my  fancy  always  full  of  images,  which  had 
some  reference  to  God  :  a  practice  so  far  truly 
useful ;  for  noxious  images  and  their  baneful 
consequences  are  by  that  means  kept  away. 
Often  too  our  spirit  seizes  one  or  other  of  these 
spiritual  images,  and  mounts  with  it  a  little  way 
upwards;  like  a  young  bird  fluttering  from  twig 
to  twig. 

Images  and  impressions  pointing  towards  God 
are  presented  to  us  by  the  institutions  of  the 
Church,  by  organs,  bells,  singing,  and  particu- 
larly by  the  preaching  of  our  pastors.  Of  these 
I  used  to  be  unspeakably  desirous  :  no  weather, 
no  bodily  weakness  could  keep  me  back  from 
church  ;  the  sound  of  the  Sunday  bells  was  the 
only  thing  that  rendered  me  impatient  on  a  sick 
bed.  Our  head  Court  chaplain,  a  gifted  man,  I 
heard  with  great  delight:  his  colleagues  too  I 
liked  ;  and  I  could  pick  the  golden  apple  of  the 
word  from  the  common  fruit,  with  which  on 
earthen  platters  it  was  mingled.  With  public 
ordinances,  all  sorts  of  private  exercises  were 
combined  ;  and  these  too  but  nourished  fancy 
and  a  finer  kind  of  sense.  I  was  so  accustomed 
to  this  track,  I  reverenced  it  so  much,  that  even 
now  no  higher  one  occurred  to  me.  For  my 
soul  has  only  feelers,  and  not  eyes;  it  gropes, 
but  does  not  see  :  Ah  !  that  it  could  get  eyes  and 
look! 

On  this  occasion,  therefore,  I  again  went  with 
a  longing  mind  to  sermon  :  but  alas,  what  hap- 
pened !  I  no  longer  found  what  I  was  wont  to 
find.  These  preachers  were  blunting  their  teeth 
upon  the  shell,  while  I  enjoyed  the  kernel.  I 
soon  grew  weary  of  them  ;  and  I  had  already 
been  so  spoiled,  that  I  could  not  be  content  with 
the  little  they  afforded  me.  I  required  images, 
I  wanted  impressions  from  without;  and  reck- 
oned it  a  pure  spiritual  desire  that  I  felt. 

Philo's  parents  had  been  in  connection  with 
the  Hermhuther  community  :  in  his  library  were 
many  writings  of  Count  Zinzendorf  s.  He  had 
spoken  with  me  very  candidly  and  clearly  on 
the  subject  more  than  once ;  inviting  me  to  turn 
over  one  or  two  of  these  treatises,  if  it  were  but 
for  the  sake  of  studying  a  psychological  pheno- 


menon. I  looked  upon  the  Count,  and  those 
that  followed  him,  as  very  heterodox:  and  so 
the  Ebersdorf  hymn-book,  which  my  friend  had 
pressed  upon  me,  lay  unread. 

However,  in  my  total  destitution  of  external 
excitements  for  my  soul,  I  opened  up  the  hymn- 
book  as  it  were  by  chance ;  and  found  in  it,  to 
my  astonishment,  some  songs  which  actually, 
though  under  a  fantastic  form,  appeared  to  sha- 
dow what  I  felt.  The  originality  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  expression  drew  me  on.  It 
seemed  to  be  peculiar  emotions  expressed  in  a 
peculiar  way ;  no  school  technology  suggested 
any  notion  of  formality  or  common-place.  I 
was  persuaded  that  these  people  felt  as  I  did  :  I 
was  very  happy  to  lay  hold  of  here  and  there 
a  stanza  in  their  songs,  to  fix  it  in  my  memory, 
and  carry  it  about  with  me  for  days. 

Since  the  moment,  when  the  truth  had  been 
revealed  to  me,  some  three  months  had  in  this 
way  passed  along.  At  last  I  came  to  the  deter- 
mination of  disclosing  everything  to  Philo,  and 
asking  him  to  let  me  have  those  writings,  about 
which  I  was  now  become  immoderately  curious. 
Accordingly  I  did  so,  notwithstanding  there  was 
something  in  my  heart,  which  earnestly  dis- 
suaded me. 

I  circumstantially  related  to  him  all  the  story: 
and,  as  he  was  a  leading  person  in  it,  and  my 
narrative  conveyed  the  sharpest  reprimand  on 
him,  he  felt  surprised  and  moved  to  an  extreme 
degree.  He  melted  into  tears.  I  rejoiced  at 
this;  believing  that  in  his  mind  also  a  full  and 
fundamental  change  had  taken  place. 

He  provided  me  with  all  the  writings  that  I 
could  require  ;  and  now  I  had  excess  of  nour- 
ishment for  my  imagination.  I  made  rapid  pro- 
gress in  the  Zinzendorfic  mode  of  thought  and 
speech.  And  be  it  not  supposed  that  I  am  yet 
incapable  of  prizing  the  peculiar  turn  and  man- 
ner of  the  Count.  I  willingly  do  justice  to  him ; 
he  is  no  empty  fantast;  he  speaks  of  mighty 
truths,  and  mostly  in  a  bold  figurative  style  ;  the 
people  who  despise  him  know  not  either  how 
to  value  or  discriminate  his  qualities. 

At  that  time  I  became  exceedingly  attached 
to  him.  Had  I  been  mistress  of  myself,  I  would 
certainly  have  left  my  friends  and  country,  and 
gone  to  join  him.  We  should  infallibly  have 
understood  each  other,  and  should  hardly  have 
agreed  together  long. 

Thanks  to  my  better  genius  that  now  kept 
me  so  confined  by  my  domestic  duties!  I  reck- 
oned it  a  distant  journey  if  I  visited  the  garden. 
The  charge  of  my  aged  weakly  father  afforded 
me  employment  enough,  and  in  hours  of  recre- 
ation I  had  Fancy  to  procure  me  pastime.  The 
only  mortal  whom  I  saw  was  Philo  :  he  was 
highly  valued  by  my  father ;  but  with  me,  his 
intimacy  had  been  cooled  a  little  by  the  late 
explanation.  Its  influence  on  him  had  not  pene- 
trated deep  ;  and  as  some  attempts  to  talk  in 
my  dialect  had  not  succeeded  with  him,  he 
avoided  touching  on  this  subject ;  and  the  more 
readily,  as  his  extensive  knowledge  put  it  always 


GOETHE. 


297 


in  his  power  to  introduce  new  topics  in  his  con- 
versation. 

I  was  thus  a  Herrnhuth  sister  on  my  own 
footing.  I  had  especially  to  hide  this  new  turn 
of  my  temper  and  my  inclinations  from  the 
head  Court  chaplain,  whom,  as  my  father  con- 
fessor, I  had  much  cause  to  honor;  and  whose 
high  merits,  his  extreme  aversion  to  the  Herrn- 
huth community  did  not  diminish  in  my  eyes 
even  then.  Unhappily  this  worthy  person  had 
to  suffer  many  troubles  on  account  of  me  and 
others. 

Several  years  before  he  had  become  acquaint- 
ed with  an  upright  pious  gentleman,  residing  in 
a  distant  quarter;  and  had  long  continued  in 
;  unbroken  correspondence  with  him  as  with  one 
who  truly  sought  God.  How  painful  was  it  to 
the  spiritual  leader,  when  this  gentleman  sub- 
sequently joined  himself  to  the  community  of 
Herrnhuth,  where  he  lived  for  a  long  while ! 
How  delightful,  on  the  other  hand,  when  at 
length  he  quarrelled  with  the  brethren;  deter- 
mined to  settle  in  our  neighborhood  ;  and  seemed 
once  more  to  yield  himself  completely  to  the 
guidance  of  his  ancient  friend  ! 

The  stranger  was  presented,  as  in  triumph, 
by  the  upper  Pastor  to  all  the  chosen  lambs  of 
his  fold.  To  our  house  alone  he  was  not  intro- 
duced, because  my  father  did  not  now  see  com- 
|  pany.  The  gentleman  obtained  no  little  appro- 
bation :  he  combined  the  polish  of  the  court 
with  the  winning  manner  of  the  Brethren ;  and 
having  also  many  fine  qualities  by  nature,  he 
soon  became  the  favorite  saint  with  all  who 
knew  him;  a  result  at  which  the  chaplain  was 
exceedingly  contented.  But,  alas!  it  was  merely 
in  externals  that  the  gentleman  had  split  with 
the  community ;  in  his  heart  he  was  yet  entirely 
a  Herrnhuther.  He  was,  in  truth,  concerned 
for  the  reality  of  the  matter  :  but  yet  the  gim- 
cracks,  which  the  Count  had  stuck  around  it, 
were  at  the  same  time  quite  adapted  to  his 
taste.  Besides  he  had  now  become  accustomed 
to  this  mode  of  speaking  and  conceiving;  and 
if  he  had  to  hide  it  carefully  from  his  ancient 
friend,  it  but  became  the  more  necessary  for 
him,  whenever  he  could  get  a  knot  of  trusty 
persons  round  him,  to  come  forth  with  his  cou- 
plets, litanies,  and  little  figures;  in  which,  as 
might  have  been  supposed,  he  met  with  great 
applause. 

I  knew  nothing  of  the  whole  affair,  and  daw- 
dled forward  in  my  separate  path.  For  a  long 
time,  we  continued  mutually  unknown. 

At  a  leisure  hour,  I  happened  once  to  visit  a 
lady  who  was  sick.  I  found  several  acquaint- 
ances along  with  her ;  and  soon  perceived  that 
my  appearance  had  cut  short  their  conversation. 
I  affected  not  to  notice  anything ;  but  saw  ere 
long,  with  great  surprise,  some  Herrnhuth  figures 
stuck  upon  the  wall  in  elegant  frames.  Quickly 
comprehending  what  had  passed  before  my  en- 
trance, I  expressed  my  pleasure  at  the  sight  in 
a  few  suitable  verses. 

Conceive  the  wonder  of  my  friends!  We 
2  N 


explained  ourselves;  instantly  we  were  agreed, 
and  in  each  other's  confidence. 

I  henceforth  often  sought  for  opportunities  of 
going  out.  Unhappily  I  found  them  only  once 
in  three  or  four  weeks:  yet  I  grew  acquainted 
with  our  gentleman  apostle,  and  by  degrees 
with  all  the  body.  I  visited  their  meetings, 
when  I  could :  with  my  social  disposition,  it 
was  quite  delightful  for  me  to  communicate  to 
others,  and  to  hear  from  them,  the  feelings 
which  till  now  I  had  conceived  and  harbored 
by  myself. 

But  I  was  not  so  completely  taken  with  my 
friends,  as  not  to  see  that  few  of  them  could 
really  feel  the  sense  of  those  affecting  words 
and  emblems;  and  that  from  these  they  drew 
as  little  benefit,  as  formerly  they  did  from  the 
symbolic  language  of  the  Church.  Yet,  notwith- 
standing, I  went  on  with  them,  not  letting  this 
disturb  me.  I  thought  I  was  not  called  to  search 
and  try  the  hearts  of  others;  even  although  by 
long-continued  guiltless  exercisings,  I  had  been 
prepared  for  something  better.  1  had  my  share 
of  profit  from  our  meetings :  in  speaking,  I  in- 
sisted on  attending  to  the  sense  and  spirit,  which, 
in  things  so  delicate,  is  rather  apt  to  be  disguised 
by  words  than  indicated  by  them;  and  for  the 
rest  I  left  with  silent  toleration  each  to  act  ac- 
cording to  his  own  conviction. 

These  quiet  times  of  secret  social  joy  were 
shortly  followed  by  storms  of  open  bickering 
and  contradiction;  contentions  which  excited 
great  commotion,  I  might  almost  say  occasioned 
not  a  little  scandal,  in  the  Court  and  town. 
The  period  was  now  arrived  when  our  Chap- 
lain, that  stout  gainsayer  of  the  Herrnhuth  Bre- 
thren, must  discover,  to  his  deep,  but  I  trust, 
sanctified  humiliation,  that  his  best  and  once 
most  zealous  hearers  were  now  all  leaning  to 
the  side  of  that  Community.  He  was  exces- 
sively provoked  :  in  the  first  moments,  he  forgot 
all  moderation :  and  could  not,  even  if  he  had 
inclined  it,  afterwards  retract.  Violent  debates 
took  place ;  in  which  most  happily  I  was  not 
mentioned  ;  both  as  I  was  but  an  accidental 
member  of  that  hated  body;  and  as  our  zealous 
preacher  could  not  spare  my  father  and  my 
friend,  in  certain  civic  matters.  With  silent 
satisfaction,  I  continued  neutral.  It  was  irksome 
to  me  to  converse  about  such  feelings  and  ob- 
jects, even  with  well  affected  people,  if  they 
could  not  penetrate  the  deepest  sense,  and  lin- 
gered merely  on  the  surface.  But  to  strive  with 
adversaries  about  things  on  which  even  friends 
could  scarcely  understand  each  other  seemed 
to  me  unprofitable,  nay  pernicious.  For  I  could 
soon  perceive  that  many  amiable  noblemen, 
who  on  this  occurrence  could  not  shut  their 
hearts  to  enmity  and  hatred,  had  very  soon 
passed  over  to  injustice  ;  and,  in  order  to  defend 
an  outward  form,  had  almost  sacrificed  their 
most  substantial  duties. 

Greatly  as  the  worthy  clergyman  might,  in 
the  present  case,  be  wrong;  much  as  others 
tried  to  irritate  me  at  him,  I  could  never  hesi- 


298 


GOETHE. 


tate  to  give  him  my  sincere  respect.  I  knew 
him  well:  I  could  candidly  transport  myself 
into  his  way  of  looking  at  these  matters.  I  have 
never  seen  a  man  without  his  weaknesses  ;  only, 
in  distinguished  men  they  strike  us  more.  We 
wish,  and  will  at  all  rates  have  it,  that  persons 
privileged  as  they  are  should  at  the  same  time 
pay  no  tribute,  no  tax  whatever.  I  honored  him 
as  a  superior  man:  and  hoped  to  use  the  influ- 
ence of  my  calm  neutrality  to  bring  about,  if  not 
a  peace,  at  least  a  truce.  I  know  not  what  my 
efforts  might  have  done;  but  God  concluded  the 
affair  more  briefly,  and  took  the  Chaplain  to 
Himself.  On  his  coffin,  all  wept  who  lately  had 
been  striving  with  him  about  words.  His  up- 
rightness, his  fear  of  God,  no  one  ever  had 
doubted. 

I  too  was  ere  long  forced  to  lay  aside  this 
Hermhuth  doll  work,  which,  by  means  of  these 
contentions,  now  appeared  before  me  in  a  rather 
different  light.  Our  uncle  had  in  silence  exe- 
cuted his  intentions  with  my  sister.  He  offered 
her  a  young  man  of  rank  and  fortune  as  a  bride- 
groom ;  and  showed,  by  a  rich  dowry,  what 
might  be  expected  of  himself.  My  father  joy- 
fully consented :  my  sister  was  free  and  fore- 
warned, she  did  not  hesitate  to  change  her  state. 
The  bridal  was  appointed  at  my  uncle's  castle  : 
family  and  friends  were  all  invited ;  and  we 
came  in  the  highest  spirits. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  the  aspect  of  a 
house  excited  admiration  in  me.  I  had  often 
heard  of  my  uncle's  taste,  of  his  Italian  archi- 
tect, of  his  collections  and  his  library  ;  but,  com- 
paring this  with  what  I  had  already  seen,  I  had 
formed  a  very  vague  and  fluctuating  picture  of 
it  in  my  thoughts.  Great,  accordingly,  was  my 
surprise  at  the  earnest  and  harmonious  impres- 
sion which  I  felt  on  entering  the  house,  and 
which  every  hall  and  chamber  deepened.  If 
elsewhere  pomp  and  decoration  had  but  dissi- 
pated my  attention,  I  felt  here  concentrated  and 
drawn  back  upon  myself.  In  like  manner,  the 
preparatives  for  these  solemnities  and  festivals 
produced  a  silent  pleasure,  by  their  air  of  dig- 
nity and  splendor ;  and  to  me  it  seemed  as  in- 
conceivable, that  one  man  could  have  invented 
and  arranged  the  whole  of  this  as  that  more 
than  one  could  have  combined  to  labor  in  so 
high  a  spirit.  Yet  withal  the  landlord  and  his 
people  were  entirely  natural;  not  a  trace  of 
stiffness  or  of  empty  form  was  to  be  seen. 

The  wedding  itself  was  managed  in  a  striking 
way:  an  exquisite  strain  of  vocal  music  came 
upon  us  by  surprise ;  and  the  clergyman  went 
through  the  ceremony  with  a  singular  solemnity. 
I  was  standing  by  Philo  at  the  time  ;  and  instead 
of  a  congratulation,  he  whispered  in  my  ear : 
"When  I  saw  your  sister  give  away  her  hand, 
I  felt  as  if  a  stream  of  boiling  water  had  been 
poured  upon  me."  "  Why  so  ?"  I  inquired.  "  It 
is  always  the  way  with  me,"  said  he,  "  when  I 
behold  two  people  joined."  I  laughed  at  him  ; 
but  I  have  often  since  had  cause  to  recollect  his 
words. 


The  revel  of  the  party,  among  whom  were 
many  young  people,  looked  particularly  glitter 
ing  and  airy,  as  everything  around  us  was  dig- 
nified and  serious.  The  furniture,  plate,  table 
ware,  and  table  ornaments,  accorded  with  the 
general  whole;  and  if  in  other  houses,  the  fur- 
nisher and  architect  seemed  to  have  proceeded 
from  the  same  school,  it  here  appeared  that  both 
furnisher  and  butler  had  taken  lessons  from  the 
architect. 

We  staid  together  several  days ;  and  our  in- 
telligent and  gifted  landlord  had  variedly  pro- 
vided for  the  entertainment  of  his  guests.  I  did 
not  in  the  present  case  repeat  the  melancholy 
proof,  which  has  so  often  in  my  life  been  forced 
upon  me,  how  unhappily  a  large  mixed  com- 
pany are  situated,  when,  altogether  left  to  them- 
selves, they  must  select  the  most  general  and 
vapid  pastimes,  that  the  blockheads  of  the  party 
may  not  want  amusement,  however  it  may  fare 
with  those  that  are  not  such. 

My  uncle  had  arranged  it  altogether  differ- 
ently. Two  or  three  Marshals,  if  I  may  call  them 
so,  had  been  appointed  by  him :  one  of  them 
had  charge  of  providing  entertainment  for  the 
young.  Dances,  excursions,  little  games,  were 
of  his  invention,  and  under  his  direction ;  and 
as  young  people  take  delight  in  being  out  of 
doors,  and  do  not  fear  the  influences  of  the  air, 
the  garden  and  the  garden  hall  had  been  as- 
signed to  them  ;  while  some  additional  pavilions 
and  galleries  had  been  erected  and  appended 
to  the  latter,  formed  of  boards  and  canvas 
merely,  but  in  such  proportions,  so  elegant  and 
noble,  they  reminded  one  of  nothing  else  but 
stone  and  marble. 

How  rare  is  a  festivity,  in  which  the  person 
who  invites  the  guests  feels  also  that  it  is  his 
duty  to  provide  for  their  conveniences  and  wants 
of  every  kind! 

Hunting  and  card  parties,  short  promenades, 
opportunities  for  trustful  private  conversations, 
were  afforded  to  the  elder  persons:  and  who- 
ever wished  to  go  earliest  to  bed  was  certain  to 
be  lodged  the  most  remote  from  noise. 

By  this  happy  order,  the  space  in  which  we 
lived  appeared  to  be  a  little  world ;  and  yet. 
considered  narrowly,  the  castle  was  not  large; 
without  an  accurate  knowledge  of  it,  and  with- 
out the  spirit  of  its  owner,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  keep  so  many  people  in  it,  and  to 
quarter  each  according  to  his  humor. 

As  the  aspect  of  a  well-formed  person  pleases 
us,  so  also  does  a  fair  establishment,  by  means 
of  which  the  presence  of  a  rational  intelligent 
mind  is  made  apparent  to  us.  We  feel  a  joy  in 
entering  even  a  cleanly  house,  though  it  may  be 
tasteless  in  its  structure  and  its  decorations;  be- 
cause it  shows  us  the  presence  of  a  person  cul- 
tivated in  at  least  one  sense.  Doubly  pleasing 
is  it,  therefore,  when,  from  a  human  dwelling, 
the  spirit  of  a  higher  though  merely  sensual  cul- 
ture speaks  to  us. 

All  this  was  vividly  impressed  upon  my  ob- 
servation at  my  uncle's  castle.    I  had  heard 


GOETHE. 


299 


and  read  much  of  art ;  Philo,  too,  was  a  lover 
of  pictures,  and  had  a  fine  collection  ;  I  myself 
had  often  practised  drawing;  but  I  had  been 
too  deeply  occupied  with  my  emotions  for  tast- 
ing aught  that  did  not  bear  upon  the  one  thing 
,  needful,  which  alone  I  was  bent  on  carrying  to 
perfection ;  and  besides,  such  objects  of  art  as 
I  had  seen  appeared,  like  all  other  worldly  ob- 
jects, to  distract  my  thoughts.  But  now  for  the 
first  time,  outward  things  had  led  me  back  upon 
myself:  I  now  first  perceived  the  difference 
between  the  natural  charm  of  the  nightingale's 
song,  and  that  of  a  four-voice  anthem  pealed 
from  the  expressive  organs  of  men. 

I  did  not  hide  my  joy  at  this  discovery  from 
my  uncle;  who,  when  all  the  rest  were  settled 
at  their  posts,  was  wont  to  come  and  talk  with 
me  in  private.  He  spoke  with  great  modesty 
of  what  he  had  produced  and  made  his  own ; 
with  great  decision,  of  the  views  in  which  it 
had  been  gathered  and  arranged :  and  I  could 
easily  observe  that  he  spoke  with  a  forbearance 
towards  me ;  seeming,  in  his  usual  way,  to  rate 
the  excellence,  of  which  he  was  himself  pos- 
sessed, below  the  excellence,  which,  in  my 
opinion,  was  the  best  and  properest. 

"  If  we  can  conceive  it  possible,"  he  once  ob- 
served, "  that  the  Creator  of  the  world  himself 
assumed  the  form  of  his  creature,  and  lived  in 
;    that  manner  for  a  time  upon  the  earth,  this  crea- 
I    ture  must  appear  to  us  of  infinite  perfection,  be- 
|    cause  susceptible  of  such  a  combination  with 
its  Maker.    Hence,  in  our  idea  of  man  there 
can  be  no  inconsistency  with  our  idea  of  God : 
I    and  if  we  often  feel  a  certain  disagreement  with 
Him,  and  remoteness  from  Him,  it  is  but  the 
more  on  that  account  our  duty,  not  like  advo- 
I    cates  of  the  wicked  Spirit,  to  keep  our  eyes  con- 
l    tinually  upon  the  nakedness  and  weakness  of 
our  nature;  but  rather  to  seek  out  every  pro- 
,    perty  and  beauty,  by  which  our  pretension  to 
a  similarity  with  the  Divinity  may  be  made 
good." 

I  smiled  and  answered :  "  Do  not  make  me 
blush,  dear  uncle,  by  your  complaisance  in  talk- 
ing in  my  language !  What  you  have  to  say  is 
of  such  importance  to  me,  that  I  wish  to  hear 
it  in  your  own  most  peculiar  style ;  and  then 
what  parts  of  it  I  cannot  quite  appropriate,  I 
will  endeavor  to  translate." 

"  I  may  continue,"  he  replied,  "  in  my  own 
most  peculiar  way,  without  any  alteration  of 
my  tone.  Man's  highest  merit  always  is  as 
much  as  possible  to  rule  external  circumstan- 
ces, and  as  little  as  possible  to  let  himself  be 
ruled  by  them.  Life  lies  before  us,  as  a  huge 
quarry  lies  before  the  architect :  he  deserves  not 
the  name  of  architect,  except  when,  out  of  this 
fortuitous  mass,  he  can  combine,  with  the  great- 
est economy,  suitableness  and  durability,  some 
form,  the  pattern  of  which  originated  in  his 

i     spirit.    All  things  without  us,  nay,  I  may  add, 
all  things  on  us,  are  mere  elements  ;  but  deep 

1     within  us,  lies  the  creative  force,  which  out  of 
these  can  produce  what  they  were  meant  to  be ; 


and  which  leaves  us  neither  sleep  nor  rest,  till 
in  one  way  or  another,  without  us  or  on  us,  this 
has  been  produced.  You,  my  dear  niece,  have, 
it  may  be,  chosen  the  better  part:  you  have 
striven  to  bring  your  moral  being,  your  earnest 
lovely  nature  to  accordance  with  itself  and  with 
the  Highest ;  but  neither  ought  we  to  be  blamed, 
when  we  strive  to  get  acquainted  with  the  sen- 
tient man  in  all  his  comprehensiveness,  and  to 
bring  about  an  active  harmony  among  his  pow- 
ers." 

By  such  discoursing,  we  in  time  grew  more 
familiar;  and  I  begged  of  him  to  speak  with 
me  as  with  himself,  omitting  every  sort  of  con- 
descension. "Do  not  think,"  replied  my  uncle, 
"  that  I  flatter  you,  when  I  commend  your  mode 
of  thinking  and  of  acting.  I  reverence  the  in- 
dividual who  understands  distinctly  what  he 
wishes  ;  who  unweariedly  advances,  who  knows 
the  means  conducive  to  his  object,  and  can  seize 
and  use  them.  How  far  his  object  may  be  great 
or  little,  may  merit  praise  or  censure,  is  the  next 
consideration  with  me.  Believe  me,  love,  most 
part  of  all  the  misery  and  mischief,  of  all  that 
is  denominated  evil,  in  the  world,  arises  from 
the  fact  that  men  are  too  remiss  to  get  a  proper 
knowledge  of  their  aims,  and  when  they  do 
know  them  to  work  intensely  in  attaining  them. 
They  seem  to  me  like  people  who  have  taken 
up  a  notion,  that  they  must  and  will  erect  a 
tower,  and  who  yet  expend  on  the  foundation 
no  more  stones  and  labor  than  would  be  suf- 
ficient for  a  hut.  If  you,  my  friend,  whose 
highest  want  it  was  to  perfect  and  unfold  your 
moral  nature,  had,  instead  of  those  bold  and 
noble  sacrifices,  merely  trimmed  between  your 
duties  to  yourself  and  to  your  family,  your  bride- 
groom, or  perhaps  your  husband,  you  must  have 
lived  in  constant  contradiction  with  your  feel- 
ings, and  never  could  have  had  a  peaceful  mo- 
ment." 

"  You  employ  the  word  sacrifice,"  I  answered 
here  ;  "  and  I  have  often  thought  that  to  a  higher 
purpose,  as  to  a  divinity,  we  offer  up,  by  way 
of  sacrifice,  a  thing  of  smaller  value ;  feeling, 
like  persons  who  should  willingly  and  gladly 
bring  a  favorite  lamb  to  the  altar,  for  the  health 
of  a  beloved  father." 

"  Whatever  it  may  be,"  said  he,  "  reason  or 
feeling  that  commands  us  to  give  up  the  one 
thing  for  the  other,  to  choose  the  one  before  the 
other,  decision  and  perseverance  are,  in  my 
opinion,  the  most  noble  qualities  of  man.  You 
cannot  have  the  ware  and  the  money  both  at 
once :  and  he  who  always  hankers  for  the  ware 
without  having  heart  enough  to  give  the  money 
for  it,  is  no  better  off  than  he  who  repents  him 
of  the  purchase  when  the  ware  is  in  his  hands. 
But  I  am  far  from  blaming  men  on  this  account : 
it  is  not  they  who  are  to  blame  :  it  is  the  diffi- 
cult entangled  situation  they  are  in ;  they  know 
not  how  to  guide  themselves  in  its  perplexities. 
Thus,  for  instance,  you  will  on  the  average  find 
fewer  bad  economists  in  the  country  than  in 
towns,  and  fewer  again  in  small  towns  than  in 


300 


GOETHE. 


great;  and  why?  Man  is  intended  for  a  limited 
condition  ;  objects  that  are  simple,  near,  deter- 
minate, he  comprehends,  and  he  becomes  ac- 
customed to  employ  such  means  as  are  at  hand  ; 
but  on  entering  a  wider  field,  he  now  knows 
neither  what  he  would  nor  what  he  should  ; 
and  it  amounts  to  quite  the  same,  whether  his 
attention  is  distracted  by  the  multitude  of  ob- 
jects, or  is  overpowered  by  their  magnitude  and 
dignity.  It  is  always  a  misfortune  for  him, 
when  he  is  induced  to  struggle  after  anything, 
with  which  he  cannot  join  himself  by  some 
regular  exertion  of  his  powers. 

"  Certainly,"  pursued  he,  "  without  earnest- 
ness there  is  nothing  to  be  done  in  life  :  yet 
among  the  people  whom  we  name  cultivated 
men,  but  little  earnestness  is  to  be  found :  in 
labors  and  employments,  in  arts,  nay,  even  in 
recreations,  they  proceed,  if  I  may  say  so,  with 
a  sort  of  self-defence  ;  they  live,  as  they  read  a 
heap  of  newspapers,  only  to  be  done  with  it; 
they  remind  one  of  that  young  Englishman  at 
Rome,  who  told,  with  a  contented  air,  one  even- 
ing in  some  company,  that  'to-day  he  had  des- 
patched six  churches  and  two  galleries.'  They 
wish  to  know  and  learn  a  multitude  of  things, 
and  exactly  those  with  which  they  have  the 
least  concern  ;  and  they  never  see  that  hunger 
is  not  stilled  by  snapping  at  the  air.  When  I 
become  acquainted  with  a  man,  my  first  inquiry 
is :  With  what  does  he  employ  himself,  and  how, 
and  with  what  degree  of  perseverance  ?  The 
answer  regulates  the  interest  which  I  shall  take 
in  him  for  life." 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  I  replied,  "  you  are  per- 
haps too  rigorous ;  you  perhaps  withdraw  your 
helping  hand  from  here  and  there  a  worthy  man 
to  whom  you  might  be  useful." 

"  Can  it  be  imputed  as  a  fault,"  said  he,  "to 
one  who  has  so  long  and  vainly  labored  on  them 
and  about  them'?  How  much  we  have  to  suffer 
in  our  youth  from  men,  who  think  they  are  in- 
viting us  to  a  delightful  pleasure  party,  when 
they  undertake  to  introduce  us  to  the  Danaides 
or  Sysiphus !  Heaven  be  praised !  I  have  rid 
myself  of  these  people  :  if  one  of  them  unfor- 
tunately comes  within  my  sphere,  instantly, 
in  the  politest  manner,  I  compliment  him  out 
again.  It  is  from  these  people  that  you  hear 
the  bitterest  complaints  about  the  miserable 
course  of  things,  the  aridity  of  science,  the  levity 
of  artists,  the  emptiness  of  poets,  and  much 
more  of  that  sort.  They  do  not  recollect  that 
they,  and  the  many  like  them,  are  the  very  per- 
sons who  would  never  read  a  book,  which  had 
been  written  just  as  they  require  it;  that  true 
poetry  is  alien  to  them ;  that  even  an  excellent 
work  of  art  can  never  gain  their  approbation 
save  by  means  of  prejudice.  But  let  us  now 
break  off ;  for  this  is  not  the  time  to  rail  or  to 
complain." 

He  directed  my  attention  to  the  different  pic- 
tures, which  were  fixed  upon  the  wall :  my  eye 
dwelt  on  those  whose  look  was  beautiful  or  sub- 
ject striking.    This  he  permitted  for  a  while ; 


at  last  he  said:  "Bestow  a  little  notice  on  the 
spirit,  which  is  manifested  in  these  other  worka. 
Good  minds  delight  to  trace  the  finger  of  the 
Deity  in  nature :  why  not  likewise  pay  some 
small  regard  to  the  hand  of  his  imitator?"  He 
then  led  my  observation  to  some  unobtrusive 
figures ;  endeavoring  to  make  me  understand, 
that  it  was  the  history  of  art  alone,  which  could 
give  us  an  idea  of  the  worth  and  dignity  of  any 
work  of  art;  that  we  should  know  the  weary 
steps  of  mere  handicraft  and  mechanism,  over 
which  the  man  of  talents  has  arisen  in  the 
course  of  centuries,  before  we  can  conceive  how 
it  is  possible  for  the  man  of  genius  to  move  with 
airy  freedom,  on  the  pinnacle  whose  very  aspect 
makes  us  giddy. 

With  this  view,  he  had  formed  a  beautifu 
series  of  works ;  and  whilst  he  explained  it.  i 
could  not  help  conceiving  that  I  saw  before  me 
a  similitude  of  moral  culture.  When  I  expressed 
my  thoughts  to  him,  he  answered :  "  You  are 
altogether  in  the  right;  and  we  see  from  this, 
that  those  do  not  act  properly,  who  follow  moral 
cultivation  by  itself  exclusively.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  will  be  found  that  he  whose  spirit 
strives  for  a  development  of  this  kind,  has  like- 
wise every  reason,  at  the  same  time,  to  improve 
his  finer  sentient  powers,  that  so  he  may  not 
run  the  risk  of  sinking  from  his  moral  height, 
by  giving  way  to  the  enticements  of  a  lawless 
fancy,  and  degrading  his  moral  nature  by  allow- 
ing it  to  take  delight  in  tasteless  baubles,  if  not 
in  something  worse." 

I  did  not  in  the  least  suspect  him  of  levelling 
at  me ;  but  I  felt  myself  struck,  when  I  thought 
how  many  insipidities  had  been  among  the 
songs  that  used  to  edify  me ;  and  how  little 
favor  the  figures,  which  had  joined  themselves 
to  my  religious  ideas,  would  have  found  in  the 
eyes  of  my  uncle. 

Philo,  in  the  mean  time,  had  frequently  been 
busied  in  the  library:  he  now  took  me  along 
with  him.  We  admired  the  selection  as  well 
as  the  multitude  of  books.  They  had  been  col- 
lected on  my  uncle's  general  principle ;  there 
were  none  among  them  to  be  found  but  such 
as  either  lead  us  to  correct  knowledge,  or  teach 
us  right  management;  such  as  either  give  us  fit 
materials,  or  further  the  concordance  of  our 
spirit. 

In  the  course  of  my  life,  I  had  read  very 
largely;  in  certain  branches,  there  was  scarce 
a  work  unknown  to  me :  the  more  pleasant 
was  it  for  me  here,  to  speak  about  the  general 
survey  of  the  whole,  and  to  observe  deficien- 
cies, where  I  had  formerly  seen  nothing  but  a 
hampered  confusion  or  a  boundless  expansion. 

Here  too  we  became  acquainted  with  a  very 
interesting,  quiet  man.  He  was  a  physician 
and  a  naturalist :  he  seemed  rather  one  of  the 
Penates  than  of  the  inmates.  He  showed  us 
the  museum,  which  like  the  library  was  fixed 
in  glass  cases  to  the  walls  of  the  chamber, 
adorning  and  ennobling  the  space  which  it  did 
not  crowd.    On  this  occasion,  I  recalled  with 


GOETHE. 


301 


joy  the  days  of  youth,  and  showed  my  father 
many  objects,  which  he  formerly  had  laid  upon 
the  sick  bed  of  his  little  child,  that  had  yet 
scarcely  looked  into  the  world.  At  the  same 
time,  the  Physician,  in  our  present  and  follow- 
ing conversations,  did  not  scruple  to  avow  how 
I  nearly  he  approximated  to  me  in  respect  of  my 
religious  sentiments :  he  warmly  praised  my 
uncle  for  his  tolerance,  and  his  esteem  of  all 
that  testified  or  forwarded  the  worth  and  unity 
of  human  nature;  admitting  also,  that  he  called 
for  a  similar  return  from  others,  and  was  wont 
ttftshun  and  to  condemn  nothing  else  so  heartily 
as  individual  darkness  and  narrowness  of  mind. 

Since  the  nuptials  of  my  sister,  joy  had  sparkled 
in  the  eyes  of  our  uncle  :  he  often  spoke  with 
me  of  what  he  meant  to  do  for  her  and  for  her 
children.  He  had  several  fine  estates;  he  ma- 
naged them  himself,  and  hoped  to  leave  them 
in  the  best  condition  to  his  nephews.  Regarding 
the  small  estate,  on  which  we  were  at  present 
living,  he  appeared  to  entertain  peculiar  thoughts. 
"  I  will  leave  it  to  none,"  said  he,  "  but  to  a  per- 
son who  can  understand,  and  value  and  enjoy 
what  it  contains,  and  who  feels  how  loudly  every 

■  man  of  wealth  and  quality,  especially  in  Ger- 
many, is  called  on  to  exhibit  something  like  a 
model  to  others." 

Most  part  of  his  guests  were  now  gone ;  we 
too  were  making  ready  for  departure,  thinking 
we  had  seen  the  final  scene  of  this  solemnity; 
when  his  attention  in  affording  us  some  digni- 
fied enjoyment  produced  a  new  surprise.  We 
had  mentioned  to  him  the  delight  which  the 
chorus  of  voices,  that  suddenly  commenced  with- 
out accompaniment  of  any  instrument,  had  given 
us,  at  my  sister's  marriage.  We  hinted,  at  the 
same  time,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  were  such 
a  thing  repeated  ;  but  he  seemed  to  pay  no  heed 
to  us.  The  livelier,  on  this  account,  was  our 
surprise,  when  he  said  one  evening :  "  The  music 
of  the  dance  has  died  away ;  our  transitory, 
youthful  friends  have  left  us;  the  happy  pair 
themselves  have  a  more  serious  look  than  they 

■  had  some  days  ago  :  to  part  at  such  a  time,  when 
we  perhaps  shall  never  meet  again,  certainly 
never  without  changes,  exalts  us  to  a  solemn 
mood,  which  I  know  not  how  to  entertain  more 
nobly  than  by  the  music  that  some  of  you  were 
lately  signifying  a  desire  to  have  repeated." 

The  chorus,  which  had  in  the  meanwhile 
gathered  strength,  and  by  secret  practice  more 
expertness,  was  accordingly  made  to  sing  us  a 
series  of  four  and  of  eight  voiced  melodies, 
which,  if  I  may  say  so,  gave  a  real  foretaste  of 
bliss.  Till  then,  I  had  only  known  the  pious 
mode  of  singing,  as  good  souls  practise  it,  fre- 
;  quently  with  hoarse  pipes,  imagining,  like  wild 
birds,  that  they  are  praising  God,  while  they 
procure  a  pleasant  feeling  to  themselves.  Or 
perhaps  I  had  hearkened  to  the  vain  music  of 
concerts,  in  which  one  is  at  best  invited  to  ad- 
mire the  talent  of  the  singer,  and  very  seldom 
even  to  a  transient  feeling  of  enjoyment.  Now, 
nowever,  I  was  listening  to  music,  which,  as  it 


originated  in  the  deepest  principles  of  the  most 
accomplished  human  beings,  was  by  suitable 
and  practised  organs  in  harmonious  unity  made 
again  to  address  the  deepest  and  best  principles 
of  man,  and  to  impress  him  at  that  moment 
with  a  lively  sense  of  his  likeness  to  the  Deity. 
They  were  all  devotional  songs,  in  the  Latin 
language:  they  sat  like  jewels  in  the  golden 
ring  of  a  polished  intellectual  conversation;  and 
without  pretending  to  edify,  they  elevated  me 
and  made  me  happy  in  the  most  spiritual  man- 
ner. 

At  our  departure,  he  presented  all  of  us  with 
handsome  gifts.  To  me  he  gave  the  cross  of 
my  order,  more  beautifully  and  artfully  worked 
and  enamelled  than  I  had  seen  it  before.  It 
was  hung  upon  a  large  brilliant,  by  which  it  was 
likewise  fastened  to  the  chain,  and  to  which  it 
gave  the  aspect  of  the  noblest  stone  in  the  cabi- 
net of  some  collector. 

My  sister  with  her  husband  went  to  their 
estates  ;  the  rest  of  us  to  our  abodes  ;  appearing 
to  ourselves,  so  far  as  outward  circumstances 
were  concerned,  to  have  returned  to  quite  an 
every-day  existence.  We  had  been,  as  it  were, 
dropped  from  a  palace  of  the  fairies  down  upon 
the  common  earth  ;  and  were  again  obliged  to 
help  ourselves  as  best  we  could. 

The  singular  experiences,  which  this  new 
circle  had  afforded,  left  a  fine  impression  on  my 
mind.  This,  however,  did  not  long  continue  in 
its  first  vivacity  ;  although  my  uncle  tried  to 
nourish  and  renew  it,  by  sending  to  me  certain 
of  his  best  and  most  pleasing  works  of  art ; 
changing  them,  from  time  to  time,  with  others 
which  I  had  not  seen. 

I  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to  be  busied 
with  myself,  in  regulating  the  concerns  of  my 
heart  and  temper,  and  conversing  on  these 
matters  with  persons  of  a  like  mind,  that  I 
could  not  long  study  any  work  of  art  attentively 
without  being  turned  by  it  back  upon  myself.  I 
was  used  to  look  upon  a  picture  or  a  copperplate 
merely  as  upon  the  letters  of  a  book.  Fine  print- 
ing pleases  well :  but  who  would  read  a  book 
for  the  beauty  of  its  printing?  In  like  manner, 
I  required  of  each  pictorial  form  that  it  should 
tell  me  something,  should  instruct,  affect,  im- 
prove me  :  and  after  all  my  uncle's  letters  to 
expound  his  works  of  art,  say  what  he  would,  I 
continued  in  my  former  humor. 

Yet  not  only  my  peculiar  disposition,  external 
incidents  and  changes  in  our  family  still  further 
drew  me  back  from  contemplations  of  that  na- 
ture, nay  for  some  time  even  from  myself.  I 
had  to  suffer  and  to  do,  more  than  my  slender 
strength  seemed  fit  for. 

My  maiden  sister  had  till  now  been  as  a 
right  arm  to  me.  Healthy,  vigorous,  unspeakably 
good-natured,  she  had  managed  all  the  house- 
keeping, I  myself  being  busied  with  the  personal 
nursing  of  our  aged  father.  She  was  seized  with 
a  catarrh,  which  changed  to  a  disorder  in  the 
lungs:  in  three  weeks  she  was  lying  in  her 
coffin.  Her  death  inflicted  wounds  on  me,  the 
26 


302 


GOETHE. 


scars  of  which  I  am  not  yet  willing  to  exa- 
mine. 

I  was  lying  sick  before  they  buried  her :  the 
old  ailment  in  my  breast  appeared  to  be  awaken- 
ing ;  I  coughed  with  violence,  and  was  so  hoarse 
I  could  not  speak  beyond  a  whisper. 

My  married  sister,  out  of  fright  and  grief,  was 
brought  to  bed  before  her  time.  Our  old  father 
thought  himself  at  once  about  to  lose  his  children 
and  the  hope  of  their  posterity :  his  natural  tears 
increased  my  sorrow  ;  I  prayed  to  God  that  he 
would  give  me  back  a  sufferable  state  of  health. 
I  asked  him  but  to  spare  my  life  until  my  father 
should  be  dead.  I  recovered  ;  I  was  what  I 
reckoned  well ;  being  able  to  discharge  my  du- 
ties, though  with  pain. 

My  sister  was  again  with  child.  Many  cares, 
which  in  such  cases  are  committed  to  the  mo- 
ther, in  the  present  instance  fell  to  me.  She 
was  not  altogether  happy  with  her  husband ; 
this  was  to  be  hidden  from  our  father :  I  was 
frequently  made  judge  of  their  disputes ;  in 
which  I  could  decide  with  greater  safety,  as 
my  brother  trusted  in  me,  and  the  two  were 
really  worthy  persons,  only  each  of  them,  in- 
stead of  humoring,  endeavored  to  convince  the 
other ;  and  out  of  eagerness  to  live  in  constant 
harmony,  they  never  could  agree.  I  now  learn- 
ed to  mingle  seriously  in  worldly  matters,  and 
to  practise  what  of  old  I  had  but  sung. 

My  sister  bore  a  son :  the  feebleness  of  my 
father  did  not  hinder  him  from  travelling  to  her. 
The  sight  of  the  child  exceedingly  enlivened  and 
cheered  him  ;  at  the  christening,  contrary  to  his 
custom,  he  seemed  as  if  inspired ;  nay,  I  might 
say  like  a  Genius  with  two  faces.  With  the  one 
he  looked  joyfully  forward  to  those  regions 
which  he  soon  hoped  to  enter ;  with  the  other, 
to  the  new,  hopeful,  earthly  life,  which  had 
arisen  in  the  boy  that  was  descended  from  him. 
On  our  journey  home,  he  never  tired  with  talk- 
ing to  me  of  the  child,  its  form,  its  health,  and 
his  wish  that  the  endowments  of  this  new  de- 
nizen of  earth  might  be  cultivated  rightly.  His 
reflections  on  the  subject  lasted  when  we  had 
arrived  at  home :  it  was  not  till  some  days 
afterwards,  that  I  observed  a  kind  of  fever  in 
him  ;  which  displayed  itself,  without  shivering, 
in  a  sort  of  languid  heat  commencing  after  din- 
ner. He  did  not  yield,  however  ;  he  went  out 
as  usual  in  the  mornings,  faithfully  attending  to 
the  duties  of  his  office,  till  at  last  continuous 
serious  symptoms  kept  him  in  the  house. 

I  never  shall  forget  with  what  distinctness, 
clearness,  and  repose  of  mind,  he  settled  in  the 
greatest  order  the  concerns  of  his  house,  the  ar- 
rangements of  his  funeral,  as  if  these  had  been 
the  business  of  some  other  person. 

With  a  cheerfulness,  which  he  never  used  to 
show,  and  which  now  mounted  to  a  lively  joy, 
he  said  to  me,  "  Where  is  the  fear  of  death 
which  once  I  felt  1  Shall  I  shrink  at  departing  ? 
I  have  a  gracious  God  ;  the  grave  awakes  no 
terror  in  me ;  I  have  an  eternal  life." 

To  recall  the  circumstances  of  his  death, 


which  shortly  followed,  forms  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  entertainments  of  my  solitude:  the 
visible  workings  of  a  higher  Power  in  that  so- 
lemn time,  no  one  shall  argue  from  my  memory 
and  my  belief. 

The  death  of  my  beloved  father  altogether 
changed  my  mode  of  life.  From  the  strictest 
obedience,  the  narrowest  confinement,  I  passed 
at  once  into  the  greatest  freedom ;  I  enjoyed  it 
like  a  sort  of  food  from  which  one  has  long  ab 
stained.  Formerly  I  very  seldom  spent  two 
hours  from  home  ;  now  I  very  seldom  lived  a 
day  there.  My  friends,  whom  I  had  been  allow- 
ed  to  visit  but  by  hurried  snatches,  wished  to 
have  my  company  uninterruptedly,  as  I  did  to 
have  theirs.  I  was  often  asked  to  dinner :  at 
walks  and  pleasure  jaunts  I  never  failed.  Eul 
when  once  the  circle  had  been  fairly  run,  I  saw 
that  the  invaluable  happiness  of  liberty  consist- 
ed, not  in  doing  what  one  pleases  and  what 
circumstances  may  invite  to,  but  in  being  able, 
without  hindrance  or  restraint,  to  do  in  the 
direct  way  what  one  regards  as  right  and  pro- 
per :  and  in  this  case,  I  was  old  enough  to  reach 
a  precious  truth,  without  having  smarted  for  my 
ignorance. 

One  pleasure  I  could  not  deny  myself:  it 
was,  as  soon  as  might  be,  to  renew  and  strengthen 
my  connection  with  the  Herrnhuth  Brethren.  I 
made  haste  accordingly  to  visit  one  of  their 
establishments  at  no  great  distance  :  but  here  I 
by  no  means  found  what  I  had  been  anticipating. 
I  was  frank  enough  to  signify  my  disappoint- 
ment, which  they  tried  to  soften  by  alleging  that 
the  present  settlement  was  nothing  to  a  full  and 
fitly  organized  community.  This  I  did  not  take 
upon  me  to  deny ;  yet  in  my  thought,  the  genuine 
spirit  of  the  matter  should  have  been  displayed 
in  a  small  body  as  well  as  in  a  great  one. 

One  of  their  Bishops  who  was  present,  a  per- 
sonal disciple  of  the  Count,  took  considerable 
pains  with  me.  He  spoke  English  perfectly, 
and  as  I  too  understood  a  little  of  it,  he  reckoned 
this  a  token  that  we  both  belonged  to  one  class : 
I  however  reckoned  nothing  of  the  kind ;  his 
conversation  did  not  in  the  smallest  satisfy  me. 
He  had  been  a  cutler  ;  was  a  native  of  Moravia: 
his  mode  of  thought  still  savored  of  the  artisan. 
With  Herr  Von  L — ,  who  had  been  a  Major  in 
the  French  service,  I  got  upon  a  better  footing ; 
yet  I  never  could  reduce  myself  to  the  submis- 
siveness,  which  he  displayed  to  his  superiors; 
nay,  I  felt  as  if  one  had  given  me  a  box  on  the 
ear,  when  I  saw  the  Major's  wife,  and  other 
women  more  or  less  like  ladies,  take  the  Bishop's 
hand  and  kiss  it.  Meanwhile  a  journey  into 
Holland  was  proposed  ;  which,  however,  doubt- 
less for  my  good,  did  not  take  place. 

About  this  time,  my  sister  was  delivered  of 
a  daughter;  and  now  it  was  the  turn  of  us 
women  to  exult,  and  to  consider  how  the  little 
creature  should  be  bred  like  one  of  us.  The 
husband,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  so  satisfied, 
when  in  the  following  year  another  daughter 
saw  the  light :  with  his  large  estates,  he  wanted 


GOETHE. 


303 


to  have  boys  about  him,  who  in  future  might 
assist  him  in  his  management. 

My  health  was  feeble ;  I  kept  myself  in 
peace;  and  observing  a  quiet  mode  of  life,  I 
enjoyed  a  tolerable  equability.  I  was  not  afraid 
of  death ;  nay,  I  wished  to  die  ;  yet  I  secretly 

I  perceived  that  God  was  granting  time  for  me 
to  prove  my  soul,  and  to  advance  still  nearer  to 
himself.  In  my  many  sleepless  nights  espe- 
cially, I  have  at  times  felt  something,  which  I 
cannot  undertake  to  describe. 

It  was  as  if  my  soul  were  thinking  separately 
from  the  body ;  she  looked  upon  the  body  as  a 
foreign  substance,  as  we  look  upon  a  garment. 
She  pictured  with  extreme  vivacity  events  and 

,  times  long  past,  and  felt  by  means  of  this,  events 
that  were  to  follow.  Those  times  are  all  gone 
by;  what  follows  likewise  will  go  by;  the  body 
too  will  fall  to  pieces  like  a  vesture ;  but  I,  the 
well-known  I,  I  am. 

The  thought  is  great,  exalted  and  consoling ; 
yet  an  excellent  friend,  with  whom  I  every  day 
became  more  intimate,  instructed  me  to  dwell 
on  it  as  little  as  I  could.  This  was  the  Phy- 
sicia/i  whom  I  met  with  in  my  uncle's  house, 
and  who  since  then  had  accurately  informed 
himself  about  the  temper  of  my  body  and  my 
spirit.    He  showed  me  how  much  these  feel- 

:  ings,  when  we  cherish  them  within  us  inde- 

,  pendently  of  outward  objects,  tend  as  it  were  to 

j  excavate  us,  and  to  undermine  the  whole  foun- 
dation of  our  being.  "To  be  active,"  he  would 
say,  "is  the  primary  vocation  of  man;  all  the 

j  intervals,  in  which  he  is  obliged  to  rest,  he 
should  employ  in  gaining  clearer  knowledge  of 

I  external  things,  for  this  will  in  its  turn  facilitate 

■  activity." 

This  friend  was  acquainted  with  my  custom 

I  of  looking  on  my  body  as  an  outward  object ;  he 
knew  also  that  I  pretty  well  understood  my  con- 
stitution, my  disorder,  and  the  medicines  of  use 
for  it ;  nay,  that  by  continual  sufferings  of  my 

|  own  or  other  people,  I  had  really  grown  a  kind 
of  half  doctor ;  he  now  carried  forward  my  at- 

'  tention  from  the  human  body,  and  the  drugs 
which  act  upon  it,  to  the  kindred  objects  of  crea- 
tion :  he  led  me  up  and  down  as  in  the  Paradise 
of  the  first  man  ;  only,  if  I  may  continue  my 

.  comparison,  allowing  me  to  trace  in  dim  re- 
moteness the  Creator  walking  in  the  Garden  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening. 

How  gladly  did  I  now  see  God  in  nature, 

:  when  I  bore  him  with  such  certainty  within  my 
heart !  How  interesting  to  me  was  his  handy- 
work  ;  how  thankful  did  I  feel  that  he  had 
pleased  to  quicken  me  with  the  breath  of  his 
mouth ! 

We  again  had  hopes  that  my  sister  would 
!  present  us  with  a  boy;  her  husband  waited 

anxiously  for  that  event,  but  did  not  live  to  see 

it.  He  died  in  consequence  of  an  unlucky  fall 
|  from  horseback;  and  my  sister  followed  him, 

soon  after  she  had  brought  into  the  world  a 
|  lovely  boy.    The  four  orphans  they  had  left  I 

could  not  look  at  but  with  sadness.    So  many 


healthy  people  had  been  called  away  before 
poor  sickly  me  ;  might  I  not  also  have  to  witness 
blights  among  these  fair  and  hopeful  blossoms? 
I  knew  the  world  sufficiently  to  understand 
what  dangers  threaten  the  precarious  breeding 
of  a  child,  especially  a  child  of  rank ;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  since  the  period  of  my  youth 
these  dangers  had  increased.  I  felt  that  weakly 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  be  of  much,  perhaps  of 
any  service  to  the  little  ones ;  and  I  rejoiced  the 
more  on  finding  that  my  uncle,  as  indeed  might 
have  been  looked  for,  had  determined  to  devote 
his  whole  attention  to  the  education  of  these 
amiable  creatures.  And  this  they  doubtless 
merited  in  every  sense  :  they  were  handsome  ; 
and  with  great  diversities,  all  promised  to  be 
well  conditioned,  reasonable  persons. 

Since  my  worthy  Doctor  had  suggested  it,  I 
loved  to  trace  out  family  likenesses  among  our 
relatives  and  children.  My  father  had  carefully 
preserved  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors,  and  got 
his  own  and  those  of  his  descendants  drawn  by 
tolerable  masters ;  nor  had  my  mother  and  her 
people  been  forgotten.  We  accurately  knew  the 
characters  of  all  the  family:  and  as  we  had 
frequently  compared  them  with  each  other,  we 
now  endeavored  to  discover  in  the  children  the 
same  peculiarities  outward  or  inward.  My 
sister's  eldest  son,  we  thought,  resembled  his 
paternal  grandfather,  of  whom  there  was  a  fine 
youthful  picture  in  my  uncle's  collection :  he 
had  been  a  brave  soldier ;  and  in  this  point  too 
the  boy  took  after  him,  liking  arms  above  all 
other  things,  and  busying  himself  with  them 
whenever  he  had  opportunity.  In  paying  me  a 
visit  this  was  constantly  remarkable  :  my  father 
had  possessed  a  very  pretty  armory;  and  the 
boy  got  neither  peace  nor  rest  till  I  had  given 
him  a  pair  of  pistols  and  a  fowling-piece  out  of 
it,  and  he  had  learned  the  proper  way  of  using 
them.  At  the  same  time,  in  his  conduct  or  his 
bearing,  there  was  nothing  which  approached 
to  rudeness :  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  always 
meek  and  sensible. 

The  eldest  daughter  had  attracted  my  espe- 
cial love ;  of  which  perhaps  the  reason  was 
that  she  resembled  me,  and  of  all  the  four  held 
closest  to  me.  But  I  may  well  admit  that  the 
more  closely  I  observed  her  as  she  grew,  the 
more  she  shamed  me ;  I  could  not  look  on  her 
without  a  sentiment  of  admiration ;  nay,  I  may 
almost  say,  of  reverence.  You  would  scarce 
have  seen  a  nobler  form,  a  more  peaceful  spirit, 
an  activity  so  equable  and  universal.  No  mo- 
ment of  her  life  was  she  unoccupied  ;  and  every 
occupation  in  her  hands  grew  dignified.  All 
seemed  indifferent  to  her,  so  that  she  could  but 
accomplish  what  was  proper  in  the  place  and 
time ;  and  in  the  same  manner,  she  could  pa- 
tiently continue  unemployed,  when  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  This  activity  without  the 
need  of  occupation  I  have  never  elsewhere  met 
with.  In  particular  her  conduct  to  the  suffering 
and  destitute  was  from  her  earliest  youth  inimi- 
table. For  my  part,  I  freely  confess  that  I  never 


304 


GOETHE. 


had  the  gift  myself  to  make  a  business  of  bene- 
ficence:  I  was  not  niggardly  to  the  poor;  nay, 
I  often  gave  too  largely  for  my  means;  yet  this 
was  little  more  than  buying  myself  off ;  and  a 
person  needed  to  be  made  for  me,  if  I  was  to 
bestow  attention  on  him.  Directly  the  reverse 
was  the  conduct  of  my  niece.  I  never  saw  her 
give  a  poor  man  money  ;  whatever  she  obtained 
from  me  for  this  purpose,  she  failed  not  in  the 
first  place  to  change  lor  some  necessary  article. 
Never  did  she  seem  more  lovely  in  my  eyes, 
than  when  rummaging  my  clothes-presses:  she 
was  always  sure  to  light  on  something  which  I 
did  not  wear  and  did  not  need :  and  to  sew 
these  old  cast  articles  together,  and  put  them  on 
some  ragged  child,  she  thought  her  highest  hap- 
piness. 

Her  sister's  turn  of  mind  appeared  already 
different:  she  had  much  of  her  mother;  she 
promised  to  be  soon  very  elegant  and  beautiful, 
and  she  now  bids  fair  to  keep  her  promise.  She 
is  greatly  taken  up  with  her  exterior ;  from  her 
earliest  years,  she  could  deck  herself  and  bear 
herst  If  in  a  way  that  struck  you.  I  still  remem- 
ber with  what  ecstasy,  when  quite  a  little  crea- 
ture, she  beheld  her  figure  in  a  mirror,  after  I 
had  been  obliged  to  bind  on  her  some  precious 
pearls,  once  my  mother's,  which  she  had  by 
chance  discovered  near  me. 

In  reflecting  on  these  diverse  inclinations,  it 
was  pleasant  for  me  to  consider  how  my  pro- 
perty would,  after  my  decease,  be  shared  among 
them,  and  again  called  into  use  by  them.  I  saw 
the  fowling-pieces  of  my  father  once  more  tra- 
velling round  the  fields  upon  my  nephew's 
shoulder,  and  birds  once  more  falling  out  from 
his  hunting-pouch:  I  saw  my  whole  wardrobe 
issuing  from  the  church  at  the  Easter  Confirma- 
tion, on  the  persons  of  tidy  little  girls ;  while 
the  best  pieces  of  it  were  employed  to  decorate 
some  virtuous  burgher  maiden  on  her  marriage 
day.  In  furnishing  such  children  and  poor  little 
girls,  Natalia  had  a  singular  delight;  although, 
as  I  must  here  remark,  she  did  not  show  the 
smallest  love,  or  if  I  may  say  it,  smallest  need 
of  a  dependence  upon  any  visible  or  invisible 
Being,  such  as  I  had  manifested  in  my  youth  so 
strongly. 

When  I  further  thought  that  her  younger  sis- 
ter, on  that  very  day,  would  wear  my  jewels 
and  my  pearls  at  court,  I  could  view  with  peace 
my  possessions  like  my  body  given  back  to  the 
elements. 

The  children  waxed  apace :  to  my  comfort, 
they  are  healthy,  handsome,  clever  creatures. 
That  my  uncle  keeps  them  from  me  I  endure 
without  repining  :  when  staying  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, or  even  in  the  town,  they  seldom  see  me. 

A  singular  personage,  regarded  as  a  French 
clergyman,  though  no  one  rightly  knows  his 
history,  has  been  intrusted  with  the  oversight 
of  all  the  children.  He  has  them  taught  in  va- 
rious places ;  they  are  put  to  board  now  here 
now  there. 

At  first  I  could  perceive  no  plan  whatever  in 


this  mode  of  education ;  till  at  last  the  Doctor 
told  me  that  the  Abbe  had  convinced  my  uncle, 
that  in  order  to  accomplish  anything  by  educa- 
tion, we  must  first  become  acquainted  with  the 
pupil's  tendencies  and  wishes :  that  when  these 
are  ascertained,  he  ought  to  be  transported  to  a 
situation  where  he  may,  as  speedily  as  possible, 
content  the  former  and  attain  the  latter ;  and  so 
if  we  have  been  mistaken,  may  still  in  time 
perceive  his  error ;  and  at  last  having  found 
what  suits  him,  may  hold  the  faster  by  it,  may 
the  more  diligently  fashion  himself  according  to 
it.  I  wish  this  strange  experiment  may  pros- 
per :  with  such  excellent  natures  it  perhaps  is 
possible. 

But  there  is  one  peculiarity  in  these  instruct- 
ors, which  I  never  can  approve  of:  they  study 
to  seclude  the  children  from  whatever  might 
awaken  them  to  an  acquaintance  with  them- 
selves and  with  the  invisible,  sole,  faithful  Friend. 
I  often  take  it  badly  of  my  uncle  that,  on  this 
account,  he  looks  on  me  as  dangerous  for  the 
little  ones.  Thus  in  practice  there  is  no  man 
tolerant !  Many  assure  us  that  they  willingly 
leave  each  to  take  his  way;  yet  all  of  them  en- 
deavor to  exclude  from  action  every  one  that 
does  not  think  as  they  do. 

This  removal  of  the  children  troubles  me  the 
more,  the  more  I  am  convinced  of  the  reality 
of  my  belief.  How  can  it  fail  to  have  a  heavenly 
origin,  an  actual  object,  when  in  practice  it  is  so 
effectual?  Is  it  not  by  practice  only  that  we 
prove  our  own  existence?  Why  then,  by  a  like 
mode,  may  we  not  demonstrate  to  ourselves  the 
influence  of  that  Power  who  gives  us  all  good 
things  ? 

That  I  am  still  advancing,  never  retrograding; 
that  my  conduct  is  approximating  more  and 
more  to  the  image  I  have  formed  of  perfection; 
that  I  every  day  feel  more  facility  in  doing  what 
I  reckon  proper,  even  while  the  weakness  of 
my  body  hinders  me  so  much :  can  all  this  be 
accounted  for  upon  the  principles  of  human  na- 
ture, whose  corruption  I  have  seen  so  clearly? 
For  me,  at  least,  it  cannot. 

I  scarce  remember  a  command;  to  me  there 
is  nothing  that  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  law ;  it 
is  an  impulse,  which  leads  me,  and  guides  ine 
always  rightly.  I  freely  follow  my  emotions, 
and  know  as  little  of  constraint  as  of  repentance. 
God  be  praised  that  I  know  to  whom  I  owe 
this  happiness,  and  that  I  cannot  think  of  these 
advantages  without  humility!  Never  shall  I 
run  the  risk  of  growing  proud  of  my  own  abi- 
lity and  power,  having  seen  so  clearly  what  a 
monster  might  be  formed  and  nursed  in  every 
human  bosom,  did  not  higher  influence  restrain 
us. 


INDENTURE. 

FROM  THE  SAMS. 

Art  is  long,  life  short;  judgment  difficult, 
occasion  transient.    To  act  is  easy,  to  think  is 


GOE 


THE. 


305 


hard;  to  act  according  to  our  thought  is  trouble- 
some. Every  beginning  is  cheerful ;  the  thres- 
hold is  the  place  of  expectation.  The  boy  stands 
astonished,  his  impressions  guide  him  ;  he  learns 
sportfully,  seriousness  comes  on  him  by  sur- 

;    prise.    Imitation  is  born  with  us;  what  should 

I  be  imitated  is  not  easy  to  discover.  The  excel- 
lent is  rarely  found,  more  rarely  valued.  The 

'  height  charms  us,  the  steps  to  it  do  not;  with 
the  summit  in  our  eye,  we  love  to  walk  along 
the  plain.    It  is  but  a  part  of  art  that  can  be 

i  taught ;  the  artist  needs  it  all.  Who  knows  it 
half,  speaks  much  and  is  always  "wrong ;  who 
knows  it  wholly,  inclines  to  act  and  speaks  sel- 
dom or  late.  The  former  have  no  secrets  and 
no  force ;  the  instruction  they  can  give  is  like 

'  baked  bread,  savory  and  satisfying  for  a  single 
day ;  but  flour  cannot  be  sown,  and  seed  corn 
ought  not  to  be  ground.  Words  are  good,  but 
they  are  not  the  best.    The  best  is  not  to  be  ex- 

.  plained  by  words.  The  spirit  in  which  we  act 
is  the  highest  matter.  Action  can  be  understood 
and  again  represented  by  the  spirit  alone.  No 
one  knows  what  he  is  doing,  while  he  acts 
rightly;  but  of  what  is  wrong  we  are  always 
conscious.  Whoever  works  with  symbols  only 
is  a  pedant,  a  hypocrite,  or  a  bungler.  There 
are  many  such,  and  they  like  to  be  together. 
Their  babbling  detains  the  scholar ;  their  obsti- 
nate mediocrity  vexes  even  the  best.  The  in- 
struction, which  the  true  artist  gives  us,  opens 
up  the  mind ;  for  where  words  fail  him,  deeds 

i  speak.  The  true  scholar  learns  from  the  known 
to  unfold  the  unknown,  and  approaches  more 
and  more  to  being  a  master. 


THE  EXEQUIES  OF  MIGNON. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

The  Abbe  called  them  in  the  evening  to  at- 

>  tend  the  exequies  of  Mignon.  The  company 
proceeded  to  the  Hall  of  the  Past;  they  found 
it  magnificently  ornamented  and  illuminated. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  azure  tapestry  al- 

•  most  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  so  that  nothing 
but  the  cornices  and  friezes  above  and  below 
were  visible.  On  the  four  candilabras  in  the 
corners,  large  wax  lights  were  burning;  smaller 
lights  were  in  the  four  smaller  candilabras 
placed  by  the  sarcophagus  in  the  middle.  Near 

.  this  stood  four  Boys,  dressed  in  azure  with 
silver ;  they  had  broad  fans  of  ostrich  feathers, 

i  which  they  waved  above  a  figure  that  was 
resting  upon  the  sarcophagus.  The  company 
sat  down  :  two  invisible  Choruses  began  in  a 
soft  musical  recitative  to  ask:  "Whom  bring  ye 
us  to  the  still  dwelling?"  The  four  Boys  replied 
with  lovely  voices:  "'Tis  a  tired  playmate 
whom  we  bring  you;  let  her  rest  in  your  still 

!  dwelling,  till  the  songs  of  her  heavenly  sisters 
once  more  awaken  her." 

2o 


CHORUS. 

"Firstling  of  youth  in  our  circle,  we  welcome 
thee!  With  sadness  welcome  thee!  May  no 
boy,  no  maiden  follow  !  Let  age  only,  willing 
and  composed,  approach  the  silent  Hall,  and  in 
the  solemn  company,  repose  this  one  dear 
child ! 

BOYS. 

Ah  !  reluctantly  we  brought  her  hither  !  Ah  ! 

and  she  is  to  remain  here !    Let  us  too  remain  ; 

let  us  weep,  let  us  weep  upon  her  bier! 

m 

CHORUS. 

Yet  look  at  the  strong  wings ;  look  at  the 
light  clear  robe !  how  glitters  the  golden  band 
upon  her  head !  Look  at  the  beautiful,  the  noble 
repose ! 

BOYS. 

Ah !  the  wings  do  not  raise  her ;  in  the  frolic 
game,  her  robe  flutters  to  and  fro  no  more ; 
when  we  bound  her  head  with  roses,  her  looks 
on  us  were  kind  and  friendly. 

CHORUS. 

Cast  forward  the  eyes  of  your  spirits  !  Awake 
in  your  souls  the  imaginative  power,  which 
carries  Life,  the  fairest,  the  highest  of  earthly 
endowments,  away  beyond  the  stars. 

BOYS. 

But  ah  !  We  find  her  not  here  ;  in  the  garden 
she  wanders  not ;  the  flowers  of  the  meadow 
she  plucks  no  longer.  Let  us  weep,  we  are 
leaving  her  here !  Let  us  weep  and  remain 
with  her ! 

CHORUS. 

Children,  turn  back  into  life!  Your  tears  let 
the  fresh  air  dry  which  plays  upon  the  rushing 
water.  Fly  from  Night!  Day  and  Pleasure  and 
Continuance  are  the  lot  of  the  living. 

BOYS. 

Up  !  Turn  back  into  life  !  Let  the  day  give 
us  labor  and  pleasure,  till  the  evening  brings 
us  rest,  and  the  nightly  sleep  refreshes  us. 

CHORUS. 

Children !  Hasten  into  life  !  In  the  pure  gar- 
ments of  beauty,  may  Love  meet  you  with 
heavenly  looks  and  with  the  wreath  of  im- 
mortality I" 

The  Boys  had  retired  ;  the  Abbe  rose  from 
his  seat,  and  went  behind  the  bier.  "It  is  the 
appointment,"  said  he,  "  of  the  Man  who  pre- 
pared this  silent  abode,  that  each  new  tenant 
of  it  shall  be  introduced  with  a  solemnity. 
After  him,  the  builder  of  this  mansion,  the 
founder  of  this  establishment,  we  have  next 
brought  a  young  stranger  hither  ;  and  thus  al- 
ready does  this  little  space  contain  two  altogether 
different  victims  of  the  rigorous,  arbitrary  and 
inexorable  goddess  of  Death.  By  appointed 
laws  we  enter  into  life ;  the  days  are  num- 
bered, which  make  us  ripe  to  see  the  light;  but 
26* 


306 


GOETHE. 


for  the  duration  of  our  life  there  is  no  law. 
The  weakest  thread  will  spin  itself  to  unex- 
pected length  ;  and  the  strongest  is  cut  suddenly 
asunder  by  the  scissors  of  the  Fates,  delighting, 
as  it  seems,  in  contradictions.  Of  the  child, 
whom  we  have  here  committed  to  her  final 
rest,  we  can  say  but  little.  It  is  still  uncertain 
whence  she  came ;  her  parents  we  know  not ; 
the  years  of  her  life  we  can  only  conjecture. 
Her  deep  and  closely  shrouded  soul  allowed  us 
scarce  to  guess  at  its  interior  movements ;  there 
was  nothing  clear  in  her,  nothing  open  but  her 
affection  for  the  man,  who  had  snatched  her 
from  the  hands  of  a  barbarian.  This  impas- 
sioned tenderness.,  this  vivid  gratitude,  appeared 
to  be  the  flame,  which  consumed  the  oil  of  her 
life :  the  skill  of  the  physician  could  not  save 
that  fair  life,  the  most  anxious  friendship  could 
not  lengthen  it.  But  if  art  could  not  stay  the 
departing  spirit,  it  has  done  its  utmost  to  pre- 
serve the  body,  and  withdraw  it  from  decay.  A 
balsamic  substance  has  been  forced  through  all 
the  veins,  and  now  tinges,  in  the  place  of  blood, 
these  cheeks  too  early  faded.  Come  near,  my 
friends,  and  view  this  wonder  of  art  and  care!" 

He  raised  the  veil :  the  child  was  lying  in 
her  angel's  dress,  as  if  asleep,  in  the  most  soft 
and  graceful  posture.  They  approached  it,  and 
admired  this  show  of  life.  Wilhelm  alone  con- 
tinued sitting  in  his  place ;  he  was  not  able  to 
compose  himself :  what  he  felt,  he  durst  not 
think ;  and  every  thought  seemed  ready  to 
destroy  his  feeling. 

For  the  sake  of  the  Marchese,  the  speech  had 
been  pronounced  in  French.  That  nobleman 
came  forward  with  the  rest,  and  viewed  the 
figure  with  attention.  The  Abbe  thus  pro- 
ceeded. "With  a  holy  confidence,  this  kind 
heart,  shut  up  to  men,  was  continually  turned 
to  its  God.  Humility,  nay  an  inclination  to 
abase  herself  externally,  seemed  natural  to  her. 
She  clave  with  zeal  to  the  catholib  religion,  in 
which  she  had  been  born  and  educated.  Often 
she  expressed  a  still  wish  to  sleep  on  conse- 
crated ground :  and  according  to  the  usage  of 
the  church  we  have  therefore  consecrated  this 
marble  coffin,  and  the  little  earth,  which  is 
hidden  in  the  cushion  that  supports  her  head. 
With  what  ardor  did  she  in  her  last  moments 
kiss  the  image  of  the  Crucified,  which  stood 
beautifully  figured,  on  her  tender  arm,  with 
many  hundred  points  !"  So  saying,  he  stripped 
up  her  right  sleeve ;  and  a  crucifix,  with  marks 
and  letters  round  it,  showed  itself  in  blue  upon 
the  white  skin. 

The  Marchese  looked  at  this  with  eagerness, 
stooping  down  to  view  it  more  intensely.  "O 
God !"  cried  he,  as  he  stood  upright,  and  raised 
his  hands  to  Heaven  ;  "  Poor  child  !  Unhappy 
niece !  Do  I  meet  thee  here !  What  a  painful 
joy  to  find  thee,  whom  we  had  long  lost  hope 
of;  to  find  this  dear  frame,  which  we  had  long 
believed  the  prey  of  fishes  in  the  ocean,  here 
preserved,  though  lifeless!  I  assist  at  thy  funeral, 
splendid  in  its  external  circumstances,  still  more 


splendid  from  the  noble  persons  who  attend 
thee  to  thy  place  of  rest.  And  to  these,"  added 
he  with  a  faltering  voice,  "so  soon  as  I  can 
speak,  I  will  express  my  thanks." 

Tears  hindered  him  from  saying  more.  By 
the  pressure  of  a  spring,  the  Abbe  sank  the 
body  into  the  cavity  of  the  marble.  Four  Youths, 
dressed  as  the  Boys  had  been,  came  out  from 
behind  the  tapestry;  and  lifting  the  heavy, 
beautifully  ornamented  lid  upon  the  coffin,  thus 
began  their  song. 

THE  TOUTHS. 

"  Well  is  the  treasure  now  laid  up ;  the  fair 
image  of  the  Past !  Here  sleeps  it  in  the  marble, 
undecaying ;  in  your  hearts  too  it  lives,  it  works. 
Travel,  travel  back  into  life  !  Take  along  with 
you  this  holy  Earnestness;  for  Earnestness  aloue 
makes  life  eternity." 

The  invisible  Chorus  joined  in  with  the  last 
words :  but  no  one  heard  the  strengthening 
sentiment;  all  were  too  much  busied  with  them- 
selves, and  the  emotions,  which  these  wonder- 
ful disclosures  had  excited.  The  Abbe  and 
Natalia  conducted  the  Marchese  out ;  Theresa 
and  Lothario  walked  by  Wilhelm.  It  was  not 
till  the  music  had  altogether  died  away,  that 
their  sorrows,  thoughts,  meditations,  curiosity 
again  fell  on  them  with  all  their  force,  and 
made  them  long  to  be  transported  back  into 
that  exalting  scene. 


EXTRACTS 

FROM  WILHELM  MEISTER'S  TRAVELS.* 

By  a  short  and  pleasant  road,  Wilhelm  had 
reached  the  town,  to  which  his  letter  was  di- 
rected. He  found  it  gay  and  well  built ;  but  its 
new  aspect  showed  too  clearly  that  not  long 
before  it  must  have  suffered  by  a  conflagration. 
The  address  of  his  letter  led  him  into  the  last 
small  uninjured  portion  of  the  place,  to  a  house 
of  ancient,  earnest  architecture,  yet  well  kept, 
and  of  a  tidy  look.  Dim  windows,  strangely 
fashioned,  indicated  an  exhilarating  pomp  of 
colours  from  within.  Nor,  in  fact,  did  the  inte- 
rior fail  to  correspond  with  the  exterior.  In 
clean  apartments,  everywhere  stood  furniture 
which  must  have  served  several  generations, 
intermixed  with  very  little  that  was  new.  The 
master  of  the  house  received  our  traveller 
kindly,  in  a  little  chamber  similarly  fitted  up. 
These  clocks  had  already  struck  the  hour  of 
many  a  birth  and  many  a  death ;  everything 
which  met  the  eye  reminded  one  that  the  past 
might,  as  it  were,  be  protracted  into  the  present. 

The  stranger  delivered  his  letter ;  but  the 
landlord,  without  opening  it,  laid  it  aside,  and 
endeavored,  in  a  cheerful  conversation,  imme- 
diately to  get  acquainted  with  his  guest.  They 
soon  grew  confidential ;  and  as  Wilhelm,  con- 
trary to  his  usual  habit,  let  his  eye  wander  in- 
*  See  Vol.  IV.  German  Romance,  by  T.  Carlyle. 


GOETHE. 


307 


quisitively  over  the  room,  the  good  old  man  said 
to  him :  "  My  domestic  equipment  excites  your 
attention.  You  here  see  how  long  a  thing  may 
last;  and  one  should  make  such  observations 
now  and  then,  by  way  of  counterbalance  to  so 
much  in  the  world  that  rapidly  changes  and 
passes  away.  This  same  tea-kettle  served  my 
parents,  and  was  a  witness  of  our  evening  fa- 
mily assemblages ;  this  copper  fire-screen  still 
guards  me  from  the  fire,  which  these  stout  old 
tongs  still  help  me  to  mend ;  and  so  it  is  with 
all  throughout.  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  bestow 
my  care  and  industry  on  many  other  things,  as 
I  did  not  occupy  myself  with  changing  these 
external  necessaries,  a  task  which  consumes  so 
many  people's  time  and  resources.  An  affec- 
tionate attention  to  what  we  possess  makes  us 
rich,  for  thereby  we  accumulate  a  treasure  of 
remembrances  connected  with  indifferent  things. 
I  knew  a  young  man  who  got  a  common  pin 
from  his  love,  while  taking  leave  of  her ;  daily 
fastened  his  breast -frill  with  it,  and  brought 
back  this  guarded  and  not  unemployed  treasure 
from  a  long  journeying  of  several  years.  In  us 
little  men,  such  little  things  are  to  be  reckoned 
virtue." 

"  Many  a  one  too,;'  answered  Wilhelm,  "  brings 
back,  from  such  long  and  far  travellings,  a  sharp 
pricker  in  his  heart,  which  he  would  fain  be 
quit  of." 

The  old  man  seemed  to  know  nothing  of  Le- 
nardo's  situation,  though  in  the  meanwhile  he 
had  opened  the  letter  and  read  it;  for  he  re- 
turned to  his  former  topics. 

"Tenacity  of  our  possessions,"  continued  he, 
"  in  many  cases  gives  us  the  greatest  energy. 
To  this  obstinacy  in  myself  I  owe  the  saving  of 
my  house.  When  the  town  was  on  fire,  some 
people  wished  to  snatch  out  their  goods,  and 
lodge  them  here.  I  forbade  this ;  bolted  my 
doors  and  windows;  and  turned  out,  with  seve- 
ral neighbors,  to  oppose  the  flames.  Our  efforts 
succeeded  in  preserving  this  summit  of  the 
town.  Next  morning  all  was  standing  here  as 
you  now  see  it,  and  as  it  has  stood  for  almost  a 
hundred  years." 

«  Yet  you  will  confess,"  said  Wilhelm,  "  that 
no  man  withstands  the  change  which  Time 
produces." 

"That,  in  truth!"  said  the  other:  "but  he 
who  holds  out  longest  has  still  done  something. 

"Yes!  even  beyond  the  limits  of  our  being 
we  are  able  to  maintain  and  secure ;  we  trans- 
i  mit  discoveries,  we  hand  down  sentiments,  as 
well  as  property :  and  as  the  latter  was  my 
chief  province,  I  have  for  a  long  time  exercised 
the  strictest  foresight,  invented  the  most  pecu- 
liar precautions ;  yet  not  till  lately  have  I  suc- 
ceeded in  seeing  my  wish  fulfilled. 

"  Commonly  the  son  disperses  what  the  father 
has  collected,  collects  something  different,  or  in 
a  different  wray.  Yet  if  we  can  wait  for  the 
grandson,  for  the  new  generation,  we  find  the 
same  tendencies,  the  same  tastes,  again  making 
their  appearance.    And  so  at  last,  by  the  care 


of  our  Pedagogic  friends,  I  have  found  an  active 
youth,  who,  if  possible,  pays  more  regard  to  old 
possession  than  even  I,  and  has  withal  a  vehe- 
ment attachment  to  every  sort  of  curiosities. 
My  decided  confidence  he  gained  by  the  violent 
exertions  with  which  he  struggled  to  keep  off 
the  fire  from  our  dwelling.  Doubly  and  trebly 
has  he  merited  the  treasure  which  I  mean  to 
leave  him :  nay,  it  is  already  given  into  his 
hands ;  and  ever  since  that  time  our  store  is  in- 
creasing in  a  wonderful  way. 

"  Not  all,  however,  that  you  see  here  is  ours. 
On  the  contrary,  as  in  the  hands  of  pawnbrokers 
you  find  many  a  foreign  jewel,  so  with  us  I  can 
show  you  precious  articles,  which  people,  under 
the  most  various  circumstances,  have  deposited 
with  us,  for  the  sake  of  better  keeping." 

Wilhelm  recollected  the  beautiful  Box,  which, 
at  any  rate,  he  did  not  like  to  carry  with  him 
in  his  wanderings ;  and  showed  it  to  his  land- 
lord. The  old  man  viewed  it  with  attention ; 
gave  the  date  when  it  was  probably  made  ;  and 
showed  some  similar  things.  Wilhelm  asked 
him  if  he  thought  it  should  be  opened.  The  old 
man  thought  not.  "I  believe,  indeed."  said  he, 
"  it  could  be  done  without  special  harm  to  the 
casket;  but  as  you  found  it  in  so  singular  a  way, 
you  must  try  your  luck  on  it.  For  if  you  are 
born  lucky,  and  this  little  box  is  of  any  conse- 
quence, the  key  will  doubtless  by  and  by  be 
found,  and  in  the  very  place  where  you  are 
least  expecting  it." 

"There  have  been  such  occurrences,"  said 
Wilhelm. 

"I  have  myself  experienced  such,"  replied 
the  old  man  ;  "  and  here  you  behold  the  strangest 
of  them.  Of  this  ivory  crucifix  I  have  had  for 
thirty  years,  the  body  with  the  head  and  feet, 
in  one  place.  For  its  own  nature,  as  well  as 
for  the  glorious  art  displayed  in  it,  I  kept  the 
figure  laid  up  in  my  most  private  drawer  :  nearly 
ten  years  ago  I  got  the  cross  belonging  to  it,  with 
the  inscription  ;  and  was  then  induced  to  have 
the  arms  supplied  by  the  best  carver  of  our  day. 
Far,  indeed,  was  this  expert  artist  from  equal- 
ling his  predecessor;  yet  I  let  his  work  pass, 
more  for  devout  purposes,  than  for  any  admira- 
tion of  its  excellence. 

"Now,  conceive  my  delight!  A  little  while 
ago  the  original,  genuine  arms,  were  sent  me, 
as  you  see  them  here  united  in  the  loveliest 
harmony ;  and  I,  charmed  at  so  happy  a  coin- 
cidence, cannot  help  recognising  in  this  crucifix 
the  fortunes  of  the  Christian  religion,  which, 
often  enough  dismembered  and  scattered  abroad, 
will  ever  in  the  end  again  gather  itself  together 
at  the  foot  of  the  Cross." 

Wilhelm  admired  the  figure,  and  its  strange 
combination.  "I  will  follow  your  counsel," 
added  he  ;  "  let  the  casket  continue  locked  till 
the  key  of  it  be  found,  though  it  should  lie  till 
the  end  of  my  life." 

"  One  who  lives  long,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  sees  much  collected  and  much  cast  asunder." 

The  young  partner  in  the  house  now  chanced 


308  GOETHE. 


to  enter,  and  Wilhelm  signified  bis  purpose  of 
intrusting  the  Box  to  their  keeping.  A  large 
book  was  thereupon  produced,  the  deposit  in- 
scribed in  it,  with  many  ceremonies  and  stipu- 
lations;  a  receipt  granted,  which  applied  in 
words  to  any  bearer,  but  was  only  to  be  honored 
on  the  giving  of  a  certain  token  agreed  upon 
with  the  owner. 

So  passed  their  hours  in  instructive  and  en- 
tertaining conversation,  till  at  last  Felix,  mounted 
on  a  gay  pony,  arrived  in  safety.  A  groom  had 
accompanied  him,  and  was  now  for  some  time 
to  attend  and  serve  Wilhelm.  A  letter  from 
Lenardo,  delivered  at  the  same  time,  complained 
that  he  could  find  no  vestige  of  the  Nut-brown 
Maid  ;  and  Wilhelm  was  anew  conjured  to  do 
his  utmost  in  searching  her  out.  Wilhelm  im- 
parted the  matter  to  his  landlord.  The  latter 
smiled,  and  said :  "  We  must  certainly  make 
every  exertion,  for  our  friend's  sake  5  perhaps  I 
may  succeed  in  learning  something  of  her.  As 
I  keep  these  old  primitive  household  goods,  so 
likewise  have  I  kept  some  old  primitive  friends. 
You  tell  me  that  this  maiden's  father  was  dis- 
tinguished by  his  piety.  The  pious  have  a  more 
intimate  connection  with  each  other  than  the 
wicked;  though  externally  it  may  not  always 
prosper  so  well.  By  this  means  I  hope  to  obtain 
some  traces  of  what  you  are  sent  to  seek.  But, 
as  a  preparative,  do  you  now  pursue  the  resolu- 
tion of  placing  your  Felix  among  his  equals,  and 
turning  him  to  some  fixed  department  of  acti- 
vity. Hasten  with  him  to  the  great  Institution. 
I  will  point  out  the  way  you  must  follow  in 
order  to  find  the  Chief,  who  resides  now  in  one, 
now  in  another  division  of  his  Province.  You 
shall  have  a  letter,  with  my  best  advice  and 
direction." 

******** 

The  pilgrims  pursuing  the  way  pointed  out  to 
them,  had,  without  difficulty,  reached  the  limits 
of  the  Province,  where  they  were  to  see  so 
many  singularities.  At  the  very  entrance,  they 
found  themselves  in  a  district  of  extreme  fer- 
tility; in  its  soft  knolls,  favorable  to  crops ;  in 
its  higher  hills,  to  sheep-husbandry;  in  its  wide 
bottoms,  to  grazing.  Harvest  was  near  at  hand, 
and  all  was  in  the  richest  luxuriance  :  yet  what 
most  surprised  our  travellers  was,  that  they  ob- 
served neither  men  nor  women ;  but  in  all 
quarters,  boys  and  youths  engaged  in  preparing 
for  a  happy  harvest,  nay  already  making  ar- 
rangements for  a  merry  harvest-home.  Our  tra- 
vellers saluted  several  of  them,  and  inquired 
for  the  Chief,  of  whose  abode,  however,  they 
could  gain  no  intelligence.  The  address  of  their 
letter  was :  To  the  Chief,  or  the  Three.  Of  this 
also  the  boys  could  make  nothing  ;  however, 
they  referred  the  strangers  to  an  Overseer,  who 
was  just  about  mounting  his  horse  to  ride  off. 
Our  friends  disclosed  their  object  to  this  man; 
the  frank  liveliness  of  Felix  seemed  to  please 
him,  and  so  they  all  rode  along  together. 

Wilhelm  had  already  noticed,  that  in  the  cut 


and  color  of  the  young  people's  clothes,  a  variety 
prevailed,  which  gave  the  whole  tiny  popula- 
tion a  peculiar  aspect:  he  was  just  about  to 
question  his  attendant  on  this  point,  when  a 
still  stranger  observation  forced  itself  upon  him  ; 
all  the  children,  how  employed  soever,  laid 
down  their  work,  and  turned  with  singular,  yet 
diverse  gestures,  towards  the  party  riding  past 
them  ;  or  rather,  as  it  was  easy  to  infer,  towards 
the  Overseer,  who  was  in  it.  The  youngest  laid 
their  arms  crosswise  over  their  breasts,  and 
looked  cheerfully  up  to  the  sky;  those  of  middle 
size  held  their  hands  on  their  backs,  and  looked 
smiling  on  the  ground ;  the  eldest  stood  with  a 
frank  and  spirited  air ;  their  arms  stretched 
down,  they  turned  their  heads  to  the  right,  and 
formed  themselves  into  a  line ;  whereas  the 
others  kept  separate,  each  where  he  chanced 
to  be. 

The  riders  having  stopped  and  dismounted 
here,  as  several  children,  in  their  various  modes, 
were  standing  forth  to  be  inspected  by  the  Over- 
seer, Wilhelm  asked  the  meaning  of  these  ges- 
tures ;  but  Felix  struck  in,  and  cried  gaily : 
"What  posture  am  I  to  take,  then?" 

"Without  doubt,"  said  the  Overseer,  "as  the 
first  posture  :  The  arms  over  the  breast,  the  face 
earnest  and  cheerful  towards  the  sky." 

Felix  obeyed,  but  soon  cried :  "  This  is  not 
much  to  my  taste  ;  I  see  nothing  up  there  :  does 
it  last  long1?  But  yes!"  exclaimed  he  joyfully, 
"  yonder  are  a  pair  of  falcons  flying  from  the 
west  to  the  east:  that  is  a  good  sign  too?" 

"  As  thou  takest  it,  as  thou  behavest,"  said  the 
other;  "now  mingle  among  them,  as  they  min- 
gle." He  gave  a  signal,  and  the  children  left 
their  postures,  and  again  betook  them  to  work, 
or  sport,  as  before. 

"  Are  you  at  liberty,"  said  Wilhelm  then,  "to 
explain  this  sight  which  surprises  me?  I  easily 
perceive  that  these  positions,  these  gestures,  are 
salutations  directed  to  you." 

"Just  so,"  replied  the  Overseer;  "salutations 
which  at  once  indicate  in  what  degree  of  cul- 
ture each  of  these  boys  is  standing." 

"But,  can  you  explain  to  me  the  meaning  of 
this  gradation?"  inquired  Wilhelm;  "for  that 
there  is  one,  is  clear  enough." 

"  This  belongs  to  a  higher  quarter,"  said  the 
other:  "so  much,  however,  I  may  tell  you,  that 
these  ceremonies  are  not  mere  grimaces ;  that 
on  the  contrary,  the  import  of  them,  not  the 
highest,  but  still  a  directing,  intelligible  import, 
is  communicated  to  the  children  ;  while,  at  the 
same  time,  each  is  enjoined  to  retain  and  con- 
sider for  himself  whatever  explanation  it  has 
been  thought  meet  to  give  him ;  they  are  not 
allowed  to  talk  of  these  things,  either  to  strangers 
or  among  themselves ;  and  thus  their  instruc- 
tion is  modified  in  many  ways.  Besides,  se- 
crecy itself  has  many  advantages;  for  when 
you  tell  a  man  at  once  and  straight  forward,  the 
purpose  of  any  object,  he  fancies  there  is  nothing 
in  it.  Certain  secrets,  even  if  known  to  every 
one,  men  find  that  they  must  still  reverence  by 


GOETHE. 


309 


concealment  and  silence,  for  this  works  on  mo- 
desty and  good  morals." 

"I  understand  you,"  answered  Wilhelm: 
1  why  should  not  the  principle  which  is  so  ne- 
cessary in  material  things,  be  applied  to  spiritual 
also?  But  perhaps,  in  another  point,  you  can 
satisfy  my  curiosity.  The  great  variety  of  shape 
and  color  in  these  children's  clothes  attracts  my 
notice;  and  yet  I  do  not  see  all  sorts  of  colors, 
but  a  few  in  all  their  shades,  from  the  lightest 
to  the  deepest.  At  the  same  time,  I  observe  that 
by  this  no  designation  of  degrees  in  age  or  merit 
can  be  intended;  for  the  oldest  and  the  youngest 
boys  may  be  alike  both  in  cut  and  color,  while 
those  of  similar  gestures  are  not  similar  in 
dress." 

"On  this  matter  also,"  said  the  other,  "silence 
is  prescribed  to  me :  but  I  am  much  mistaken, 
or  you  will  not  leave  us  without  receiving  all 
the  information  you  desire." 

Our  party  continued  following  the  trace  of  the 
Chief,  which  they  believed  themselves  to  be 
upon.  But  now  the  strangers  could  not  fail  to 
notice,  with  new  surprise,  that  the  farther  they 
advanced  into  the  district,  a  vocal  melody  more 
and  more  frequently  sounded  towards  them 
from  the  fields.  Whatever  the  boys  might  be 
engaged  with,  whatever  labor  they  were  carry- 
ing on,  they  accompanied  it  with  singing ;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  songs  were  specially  adapted 
to  their  various  sorts  of  occupation,  and  in  simi- 
lar cases,  everywhere  the  same.  If  there  chanced 
to  be  several  children  in  company,  they  sang 
together  in  alternating  parts.  Towards  evening, 
appeared  dancers  likewise,  whose  steps  were 
enlivened  and  directed  by  choruses.  Felix 
struck  in  with  them,  not  altogether  unsuccess- 
fully, from  horseback,  as  he  passed  ;  and  Wil- 
helm felt  gratified  in  this  amusement,  which 
gave  new  life  to  the  scene. 

"Apparently,"  he  said  to  his  companion, 
"you  devote  considerable  care  to  this  branch 
of  instruction;  the  accomplishment,  otherwise, 
could  not  be  so  widely  diffused,  and  so  com- 
pletely practised." 

"We  do,"  replied  the  other:  "on  our  plan, 
Song  is  the  first  step  in  education ;  all  the  rest 
are  connected  with  it,  and  attained  by  means 
of  it.  The  simplest  enjoyment,  as  well  as  the 
simplest  instruction,  we  enliven  and  impress  by 
Song;  nay,  even  what  religious  and  moral 
principles  we  lay  before  our  children,  are  com- 
municated in  the  way  of  Song.  Other  ad- 
vantages for  the  excitement  of  activity,  spon- 
taneously arise  from  this  practice ;  for,  in  ac- 
customing the  children  to  write  the  tones  they 
are  to  utter,  in  musical  characters,  and  as  oc- 
casion serves,  again  to  seek  these  characters  in 
the  utterance  of  their  own  voice  ;  and  besides 
this,  to  subjoin  the  text  below  the  notes,  they 
are  forced  to  practise  hand,  ear,  and  eye  at 
once,  whereby  they  acquire  the  art  of  penman- 
ship sooner  than  you  would  expect ;  and  as  all 
this  in  the  long  run  is  to  be  effected  by  copying 
precise  measurements  and  accurately  settled 


numbers,  they  come  to  conceive  the  high  value 
of  Mensuration  and  Arithmetic  much  sooner 
than  in  any  other  way.  Among  all  imaginable 
things,  accordingly,  we  have  selected  music  as 
the  element  of  our  teaching;  for  level  roads  run 
out  from  music  towards  every  side." 

Wilhelm  endeavored  to  obtain  still  farther 
information,  and  expressed  his  surprise  at  hear- 
ing no  instrumental  music :  "  This  is  by  no  means 
neglected,  here,"  said  the  other;  "but  practised 
in  a  peculiar  district,  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
valleys  among  the  Mountains;  and  there  again 
we  have  arranged  it  so  that  the  different  instru- 
ments shall  be  taught  in  separate  places.  The 
discords  of  beginners,  in  particular,  are  banished 
into  certain  solitudes,  where  they  can  drive  no 
one  to  despair ;  for  you  will  confess  that  in 
well-regulated  civil  society,  there  is  scarcely  a 
more  melancholy  suffering  to  be  undergone, 
than  what  is  forced  on  us  by  the  neighbourhood 
of  an  incipient  player  on  the  flute  or  violin. 

"  Our  learners,  out  of  a  laudable  desire  to  be 
troublesome  to  no  one,  go  forth  of  their  accord, 
for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  time,  into  the  wastes; 
and  strive,  in  their  seclusion,  to  attain  the  merit 
which  shall  again  admit  them  into  the  inhabited 
world.  Each  of  them,  from  time  to  time,  is 
allowed  to  venture  an  attempt  for  admission, 
and  the  trial  seldom  fails  of  success ;  for  bash- 
fulness  and  modesty,  in  this,  as  in  all  other 
parts  of  our  system,  we  strongly  endeavor  to 
maintain  and  cherish.  That  your  son  has  a 
good  voice,  I  am  glad  to  observe:  all  the  rest  is 
managed  with  so  much  the  greater  ease." 

They  had  now  reached  a  place  where  Felix 
was  to  stop  and  make  trial  of  its  arrangements, 
till  a  formal  reception  should  be  granted  him. 
From  a  distance,  they  had  been  saluted  by  a 
jocund  sound  of  music;  it  was  a  game  in  which 
the  boys  were,  for  the  present,  amusing  them- 
selves in  their  hour  of  play.  A  general  chorus 
mounted  up  ;  each  individual  of  a  wide  circle 
striking  in  at  his  time,  with  a  joyful,  clear,  firm 
tone,  as  the  sign  was  given  him  by  the  Over- 
seer. The  latter  more  than  once  took  the 
singers  by  surprise,  when  at  a  signal  he  sus- 
pended the  choral  song,  and  called  on  any 
single  boy,  touching  him  with  his  rod,  to  catch 
by  himself  the  expiring  tone,  and  adapt  to  it  a 
suitable  song,  fitted  also  to  the  spirit  of  what 
had  preceded.  Most  part  showed  great  dex- 
terity; a  few,  who  failed  in  this  feat,  willingly 
gave  in  their  pledges,  without  altogether  being 
laughed  at  for  their  ill  success.  Felix  was  child 
enough  to  mix  among  them  instantly;  and  in 
his  new  task  he  acquitted  himself  tolerably 
well.  The  First  Salutation  was  then  enjoined 
on  him :  he  directly  laid  his  hands  on  his  breast, 
iooked  upwards,  and  truly  with  so  roguish  a 
countenance,  that  it  was  easy  to  observe  no 
secret  meaning  had  yet  in  his  mind  attached 
itself  to  this  posture. 

The  delightful  spot,  his  kind  reception,  the 
merry  playmates,  all  pleased  the  boy  so  well, 
that  he  felt  no  very  deep  sorrow  as  his  father 


310 


GOETHE. 


moved  away :  the  departure  of  the  pony  was 
perhaps  a  heavier  matter;  but  he  yielded  here 
also,  on  learning  that  in  this  circle  it  could  not 
possihly  be  kept;  and  the  Overseer  promised 
him,  in  compensation,  that  he  should  find  an- 
other horse,  as  smart  and  well-broken,  at  a 
time  when  he  was  not  expecting  it. 

As  the  Chief,  it  appeared,  was  not  to  be  come 
at,  the  Overseer  turned  to  Wilhelm  and  said : 
"I  must  now  leave  you,  to  pursue  my  occupa- 
tions ;  but  first  I  will  bring  you  to  the  Three, 
who  preside  over  our  sacred  things.  Your  letter 
is  addressed  to  them  likewise,  and  they  together 
represent  the  Chief."  Wilhelm  could  have 
wished  to  gain  some  previous  knowledge  of 
these  sacred  tbings,  but  his  companion  answered : 
"The  Three  will  doubtless,  in  return  for  the 
confidence  you  show  in  leaving  us  your  son, 
disclose  to  you  in  their  wisdom  and  fairness 
what  is  most  needful  for  you  to  learn.  The 
visible  objects  of  reverence,  which  I  named 
sacred  things,  are  collected  in  this  separate 
circle ;  are  mixed  with  nothing,  interfered  with 
by  nothing :  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year  only 
are  our  pupils  admitted  here,  to  be  taught  in 
their  various  degrees  of  culture,  by  historical 
and  sensible  means ;  and  in  these  short  inter- 
vals they  carry  off  a  deep  enough  impression  to 
suffice  them  for  a  time,  during  the  performance 
of  their  other  duties." 

Wilhelm  had  now  reached  the  gate  of  a 
wooded  vale,  surrounded  with  high  walls  :  on 
a  certain  sign  the  little  door  opened,  and  a  man 
of  earnest  and  imposing  look  received  our  tra- 
veller. The  latter  found  himself  in  a  large 
beautifully  umbrageous  space,  decked  with  the 
richest  foliage,  shaded  with  trees  and  bushes  of 
all  sorts;  while  stately  walls  and  magnificent 
buildings  were  discerned  only  in  glimpses 
through  this  thick  natural  boscage.  A  friendly 
reception  from  the  Three,  who  by  and  by  ap- 
peared, at  last  turned  into  a  general  conversa- 
tion, the  substance  of  which  we  now  present  in 
an  abbreviated  shape. 

"Since  you  intrust  your  son  to  us,"  said  they, 
"it  is  fair  that  we  admit  you  to  a  closer  view 
of  our  procedure.  Of  what  is  external  you  have 
seen  much,  that  does  not  bear  its  meaning  on 
its  front.  What  part  of  this  do  you  chiefly  wish 
to  have  explained?" 

"Dignified,  yet  singular  gestures  of  salutation 
I  have  noticed,  the  import  of  which  I  would 
gladly  learn  :  with  you,  doubtless,  the  exterior 
has  a  reference  to  the  interior,  and  inversely; 
let  me  know  what  this  reference  is." 

"Well-formed,  healthy  children,"  replied  the 
Three,  "  bring  much  into  the  world  along  with 
them :  Nature  has  given  to  each  whatever  he 
requires  for  time  and  duration;  to  unfold  this 
is  our  duty;  often  it  unfolds  itself  better  of  its 
own  accord.  One  thing  there  is,  however,  which 
no  child  brings  into  the  world  with  him ;  and 
yet  it  is  on  this  one  thing  that  all  depends  for 
making  man  in  every  point  a  man.  If  you 
can  discover  it  yourself,  speak  it  out."  Wil- 


helm thought  a  little  while,  then  shook  his 

head. 

The  Three,  after  a  suitable  pause,  exclaimed  : 
"Reverence!"  Wilhelm  seemed  to  hesitate. 
"  Reverence  !"  cried  they  a  second  time.  "  All 
want  it,  perhaps  you  yourself. 

"  Three  kinds  of  gestures  you  have  seen;  and 
we  inculcate  a  threefold  Reverence,  which, 
when  commingled  and  formed  into  one  whole, 
attains  its  highest  force  and  effect.  The  first  is 
Reverence  for  what  is  above  us.  That  posture, 
the  arms  crossed  over  the  breast,  the  look  turned 
joyfully  towards  Heaven  ;  that  is  what  we  have 
enjoined  on  young  children  ;  requiring  from  them 
thereby  a  testimony  that  there  is  a  God  above, 
who  images  and  reveals  himself  in  parents, 
teachers,  superiors.  Then  comes  the  second, 
Reverence  for  what  is  under  us.  Those  hands 
folded  over  the  back,  and,  as  it  were,  tied  to- 
gether, that  down-turned,  smiling  look,  announce 
that  we  are  to  regard  the  Earth  with  attention 
and  cheerfulness:  from  the  bounty  of  the  Earth 
we  are  nourished  :  the  Earth  affords  unutterable 
joys ;  but  disproportionate  sorrows  she  also 
brings  us.  Should  one  of  our  children  do  him- 
self external  hurt,  blameably  or  blamelessly; 
should  others  hurt  him  accidentally  or  purpose- 
ly ;  should  dead  involuntary  matter  do  him 
hurt;  then  let  him  well  consider  it;  for  such 
dangers  will  attend  him  all  his  days.  But  from 
this  posture  we  delay  not  to  free  our  pupil,  the 
instant  we  become  convinced  that  the  instruc- 
tion connected  with  it  has  produced  sufficient 
influence  on  him.  Then,  on  the  contrary,  we 
bid  him  gather  courage,  and  turning  to  his  com- 
rades, range  himself  along  with  them.  Now, 
at  last,  he  stands  forth,  frank  and  bold;  not  self- 
ishly isolated;  only  in  combination  with  his 
equals  does  he  front  the  world.  Farther  we 
have  nothing  to  add." 

"I  see  a  glimpse  of  it!"  said  Wilhelm.  "Are 
not  the  mass  of  men  so  marred  and  stinted,  be- 
cause they  take  pleasure  only  in  the  element  of 
evil-wishing  and  evil-speaking?  Whoever  gives 
himself  to  this,  soon  comes  to  be  indifferent  to- 
wards God,  contemptuous  towards  the  world, 
spiteful  towards  his  equals  ;  and  the  true,  genu- 
ine, indispensable  sentiment  of  self-estimation 
corrupts  into  self-conceit  and  presumption.  Al- 
low me,  however,"  continued  he,  "to  state  one 
difficulty.  You  say  that  reverence  is  not  natural 
to  man :  now,  has  not  the  reverence  or  fear  of 
rude  people  for  violent  convulsions  of  Nature, 
or  other  inexplicable,  mysteriously- foreboding 
occurrences,  been  heretofore  regarded  as  the 
germ  out  of  which  a  higher  feeling,  a  purer  sen- 
timent, was  by  degrees  to  be  developed?" 

"Nature  is  indeed  adequate  to  fear,"  replied 
they ;  "  but  to  reverence  not  adequate.  Men 
fear  a  known  or  unknown  powerful  being  ;  the 
strong  seeks  to  conquer  it,  the  weak  to  avoid  it; 
both  endeavor  to  get  quit  of  it,  and  feel  them- 
selves happy  when  for  a  short  season  they  have 
put  it  aside,  and  their  nature  has  in  some  de- 
gree restored  itself  to  freedom  and  independence. 


GOETHE. 


311 


The  natural  man  repeats  this  operation  millions 
of  times  in  the  course  of  his  life;  from  fear  he 
struggles  to  freedom  ;  from  freedom  he  is  driven 
back  to  fear,  and  so  makes  no  advancement. 
To  fear  is  easy,  but  grievous ;  to  reverence  is 
difficult,  but  satisfactory.  Man  does  not  will- 
ingly submit  himself  to  reverence;  or  rather  he 
never  so  submits  himself:  it  is  a  higher  sense, 
which  must  be  communicated  to  his  nature  ; 
which  only  in  some  peculiarly  favored  indivi- 
duals unfolds  itself  spontaneously,  who  on  this 
account  too  have  of  old  been  looked  upon  as 
saints  and  gods.  Here  lies  the  worth,  here  lies 
the  business  of  all  true  Religions ;  whereof  there 
are  likewise  only  three,  according  to  the  objects 
towards  which  they  direct  our  devotion." 

The  men  paused ;  Wilhelm  reflected  for  a 
time  in  silence ;  but  feeling  in  himself  no  pre- 
tension to  unfold  the  meaning  of  these  strange 
words,  he  requested  the  Sages  to  proceed  with 
their  exposition.  They  immediately  complied. 
"No  religion  that  grounds  itself  on  fear,"  said 
they,  "  is  regarded  among  us.  With  the  reve- 
rence, to  which  a  man  should  give  dominion  in 
his  mind,  he  can,  in  paying  honor,  keep  his  own 
honor;  he  is  not  disunited  with  himself,  as  in 
the  former  case.  The  Religion  which  depends 
on  reverence  for  what  is  above  us,  we  denomi- 
nate the  Ethnic  ;  it  is  the  religion  of  the  nations, 
and  the  first  happy  deliverance  from  a  degrad- 
ing fear  :  all  Heathen  religions,  as  we  call  them, 
are  of  this  sort,  whatsoever  names  they  may 
bear.  The  Second  Religion,  which  founds  it- 
self on  reverence  for  what  is  around  us,  we  de- 
nominate the  Philosophical  ;  for  the  philosopher 
stations  himself  in  the  middle,  and  must  draw 
down  to  him  all  that  is  higher,  and  up  to  him 
all  that  is  lower,  and  only  in  this  medium  con- 
dition does  he  merit  the  title  of  Wise.  Here, 
as  he  surveys  with  clear  sight  his  relation  to  his 
equals,  and  therefore  to  the  whole  human  race ; 
his  relation  likewise  to  all  other  earthly  circum- 
stances and  arrangements  necessary  or  acci- 
dental, he  alone,  in  a  cosmic  sense,  lives  in 
Truth.  But  now  we  have  to  speak  of  the  Third 
Religion,  grounded  on  reverence  for  what  is  be- 
neath us:  this  we  name  the  Christian,  as  in  the 
Christian  religion  such  a  temper  is  with  most 
distinctness  manifested  :  it  is  a  last  step  to  which 
mankind  were  fitted  and  destined  to  attain. 
But  what  a  task  was  it,  not  only  to  be  patient 
with  the  Earth,  and  let  it  lie  beneath  us,  we 
appealing  to  a  higher  birth-place;  but  also  to 
recognise  humility  and  poverty,  mockery  and 
despite,  disgrace  and  wretchedness,  suffering 
and  death,  to  recognise  these  things  as  divine; 
nay,  even  on  sin  and  crime  to  look  not  as  hin- 
drances, but  to  honor  and  love  them  as  further- 
ances, of  what  is  holy.  Of  this,  indeed,  we  find 
some  traces  in  all  ages:  but  the  trace  is  not  the 
goal ;  and  this  being  now  attained,  the  human 
species  cannot  retrograde  ;  and  we  may  say,  that 
the  Christian  religion  having  once  appeared 
cannot  again  vanish ;  having  once  assumed  its 
divine  shape,  can  be  subject  to  no  dissolution." 


"To  which  of  these  religions  do  you  specially 
adhere?"  inquired  Wilhelm. 

"To  all  the  three,"  replied  they:  "for  in  their 
union  they  produce  what  may  properly  be  called 
the  true  religion.  Out  of  those  Three  Reve- 
rences springs  the  highest  reverence,  reverence 
for  one's  self,  and  those  again  unfold  themselves 
from  this;  so  that  man  attains  the  highest  ele- 
vation of  which  he  is  capable,  that  of  being  jus- 
tified in  reckoning  himself  the  Best  that  God 
and  Nature  have  produced  ;  nay,  of  being  able 
to  continue  on  this  lofty  eminence,  without  being 
again  by  self-conceit  and  presumption  drawn 
down  from  it  into  the  vulgar  level." 

"Such  a  confession  of  faith,  developed  in  this 
manner,  does  not  repulse  me,"  answered  Wil- 
helm ;  "  it  agrees  with  much  that  one  hears  now 
and  then  in  the  course  of  life ;  only,  you  unite 
what  others  separate." 

To  this  they  replied  :  "Our  confession  has  al- 
ready been  adopted,  though  unconsciously,  by  a 
great  part  of  the  world." 

"  How,  then,  and  where  ?"  said  Wilhelm. 

"In  the  Creed!"  exclaimed  they:  "for  the 
first  Article  is  Ethnic,  and  belongs  to  all  na- 
tions ;  the  second,  Christian,  for  those  struggling 
with  affliction  and  glorified  in  affliction ;  the 
third,  in  fine,  teaches  an  inspired  Communion 
of  Saints,  that  is,  of  men  in  the  highest  degree 
good  and  wise.  And  should  not  therefore  the 
Three  Divine  Persons,  under  the  similitudes 
and  names  of  which  these  threefold  doctrines 
and  commands  are  promulgated,  justly  be  con- 
sidered as  in  the  highest  sense  One  !" 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Wilhelm,  "for  having 
pleased  to  lay  all  this  before  me  in  such  clear- 
ness and  combination,  as  before  a  grown-up 
person,  to  whom  your  three  modes  of  feeling 
are  not  altogether  foreign.  And  now,  when  I 
reflect  that  you  communicate  this  high  doctrine 
to  your  children,  in  the  first  place  as  a  sensible 
sign,  then,  with  some  symbolical  accompani- 
ment attached  to  it,  and  at  last  unfold  to  them 
its  deepest  meaning,  I  cannot  but  warmly  ap- 
prove of  your  method." 

"  Right,"  answered  they:  "but  now  we  must 
show  you  more,  and  so  convince  you  the  better 
that  your  son  is  in  no  bad  hands.  This,  how- 
ever, may  remain  for  the  morrow :  rest  and 
refresh  yourself,  that  you  may  attend  us  in  the 
morning,  as  a  man  satisfied,  and  unimpeded, 
into  the  interior  of  our  Sanctuary." 

*        #        *        *        *       *  * 

At  the  hand  of  the  Eldest,  our  friend  now 
proceeded  through  a  stately  portal,  into  a  round, 
or  rather  octagonal  hall,  so  richly  decked  with 
pictures,  that  it  struck  him  with  astonishment 
as  he  entered.  All  this,  he  easily  conceived, 
must  have  a  significant  import,  though  at  the 
moment  he  saw  not  so  clearly  what  it  was. 
While  about  to  question  his  guide  on  this  sub- 
ject, the  latter  invited  him  to  step  forward  into 
a  gallery,  open  on  the  one  side,  and  stretching 
round  a  spacious  gay  flowery  garden.  The 


312 


GOETHE. 


wall,  however,  not  the  flowers,  attracted  the 
eyes  of  the  stranger ;  it  was  covered  with 
paintings,  and  Wilhelm  could  not  walk  far 
without  observing  that  the  Sacred  Books  of  the 
Israelites  had  furnished  the  materials  for  these 
figures. 

"  It  is  here,"  said  the  Eldest,  "  that  we  teach 
our  First  Religion,  the  religion  which,  for  the 
sake  of  brevity,  I  named  the  Ethnic.  The  spirit 
of  it  is  to  be  sought  for  in  the  history  of  the 
world  ;  its  outward  form,  in  the  events  of  that 
history.  Only  in  the  return  of  similar  destinies 
on  whole  nations,  can  it  properly  be  appre- 
hended." 

"I  observe,"  said  Wilhelm,  "you  have  done 
the  Israelites  the  honor  to  select  their  history  as 
the  groundwork  of  this  delineation,  or  rather, 
you  have  made  it  the  leading  object  there." 

"As  you  see,"  replied  the  Eldest;  "for  you 
will  remark,  that  on  the  socles  and  friezes  we 
have  introduced  another  series  of  transactions 
and  occurrences,  not  so  much  of  a  synchronistic, 
as  of  a  symphonistic  kind  ;  since,  among  all  na- 
tions, we  discover  records  of  a  similar  import, 
and  grounded  on  the  same  facts.  Thus  you 
perceive  here,  while  in  the  main  field  of  the 
picture,  Abraham  receives  a  visit  from  his  gods 
in  the  form  of  fair  youths,  Apollo,  among  the 
herdsmen  of  Admetus,  is  painted  above  on  the 
frieze.  From  which  we  may  learn,  that  the 
gods,  when  they  appear  to  men,  are  commonly 
unrecognised  of  them." 

The  friends  walked  on.  Wilhelm,  for  the 
most  part,  met  with  well-known  objects,  but 
they  were  here  exhibited  in  a  livelier  and  more 
expressive  manner  than  he  had  been  used  to 
see  them.  On  some  few  matters  he  requested 
explanation,  and  at  last  could  not  help  returning 
to  his  former  question:  Why  the  Israelitish  his- 
tory had  been  chosen  in  preference  to  all  others  ? 

The  Eldest  answered  :  "  Among  all  Heathen 
religions,  for  such  also  is  the  Israelitish,  this  has 
the  most  distinguished  advantages;  of  which  I 
shall  mention  only  a  few.  At  the  Ethnic  judg- 
ment-seat, at  the  judgment-seat  of  the  God  of 
Nations,  it  is  not  asked  Whether  this  is  the 
best,  the  most  excellent  nation,  but  whether  it 
lasts,  whether  it  has  continued.  The  Israelitish 
people  never  was  good  for  much,  as  its  own 
leaders,  judges,  rulers,  prophets,  have  a  thou- 
sand times  reproachfully  declared  ;  it  possesses 
few  virtues,  and  most  of  the  faults  of  other  na- 
tions:  but  in  cohesion,  steadfastness,  valor,  and 
when  all  this  would  not  serve,  in  obstinate 
toughness,  it  has  no  match.  It  is  the  most  per- 
severant  nation  in  the  world  :  it  is,  it  was,  and 
it  will  be;  to  glorify  the  name  of  Jehovah, 
through  all  ages.  We  have  set  it  up,  therefore, 
as  the  pattern  figure ;  as  the  main  figure,  to 
which  the  others  only  serve  as  a  frame." 

"  It  becomes  not  me  to  dispute  with  you," 
said  Wilhelm,  "since  you  have  instruction  to 
impart.  Open  to  me,  therefore,  the  other  ad- 
vantages of  this  people,  or  rather  of  its  history, 
of  its  religion." 


"One  chief  advantage,"  said  the  other,  is  its 
excellent  collection  of  Sacred  Books.  These 
stand  so  happily  combined  together,  that  even 
out  of  the  most  diverse  elements,  the  feeling  of 
a  whole  still  rises  before  us.  They  are  com- 
plete enough  to  satisfy;  fragmentary  enough  to 
excite ;  barbarous  enough  to  rouse ;  tender 
enough  to  appease :  and  for  how  many  other 
contradicting  merits  might  not  these  Books, 
might  not  this  one  Book,  be  praised!" 

The  series  of  main  figures,  as  well  as  their 
relations  to  the  smaller  which  above  and  below 
accompanied  them,  gave  the  guest  so  much  to 
think  of,  that  he  scarcely  heard  the  pertinent 
remarks  of  his  guide ;  who,  by  what  he  said, 
seemed  desirous  rather  to  divert  our  friend's  at- 
tention, than  to  fix  it  on  the  paintings.  Once, 
however,  the  old  man  said,  on  some  occasion: 
"Another  advantage  of  the  Israelitish  religion, 
I  must  here  mention  ;  it  has  not  embodied  its 
god  in  any  form ;  and  so  has  left  us  at  liberty 
to  represent  him  in  a  worthy  human  shape,  and 
likewise,  by  way  of  contrast,  to  designate  Idola- 
try by  forms  of  beasts  and  monsters." 

Our  friend  had  now,  in  his  short  wandering 
through  this  hall,  again  brought  the  spirit  of 
universal  history  before  his  mind;  in  regard  to 
the  events,  he  had  not  failed  to  meet  with 
something  new.  So  likewise,  by  the  simultane- 
ous presentment  of  the  pictures,  by  the  reflec- 
tions of  his  guide,  many  new  views  had  risen 
on  him;  and  he  could  not  but  rejoice  in  think- 
ing that  his  Felix  was,  by  so  dignified  a  visible 
representation,  to  seize  and  appropriate  for  his 
whole  life  those  great,  significant,  and  exem- 
plary events,  as  if  they  had  actually  been  pre- 
sent, and  transacted  beside  him.  He  came  at 
length  to  regard  the  exhibition  altogether  with 
the  eyes  of  the  child,  and  in  this  point  of  view 
it  perfectly  contented  him.  Thus  wandering 
on,  they  had  now  reached  the  gloomy  and  per- 
plexed periods  of  the  history,  the  destruction  of 
the  City  and  the  Temple,  the  murder,  exile, 
slavery  of  whole  masses  of  this  stiff-necked 
people.  Its  subsequent  fortunes  were  delineated 
in  a  cunning  allegorical  way ;  a  real  historical 
delineation  of  them  would  have  lain  without 
the  limits  of  true  Art. 

At  this  point,  the  gallery  abruptly  terminated 
in  a  closed  door,  and  Wilhelm  was  surprised  to 
see  himself  already  at  the  end.  "  In  your  his- 
torical series,"  said  he,  "  I  find  a  chasm.  You 
have  destroyed  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem,  and 
dispersed  the  people ;  yet  you  have  not  intro- 
duced the  divine  Man  who  taught  there  shortly 
before ;  to  whom,  shortly  before,  they  would 
give  no  ear." 

"To  have  done  this,  as  you  require  it,  would 
have  been  an  error.  The  life  of  that  divine 
Man,  whom  you  allude  to,  stands  in  no  connec- 
tion with  the  general  history  of  the  world  in 
his  time.  It  was  a  private  life ;  his  teaching 
was  a  teaching  for  individuals.  What  has 
publicly  befallen  vast  masses  of  people,  and 
the  minor  parts  which  compose  them,  belongs 


GOE 


313 


to  the  general  history  of  the  world,  to  the  gene- 
ral religion  of  the  world  ;  the  religion  we  have 
named  the  First.  What  inwardly  hefalls  in- 
dividuals, belongs  to  the  Second  religion,  the 

.  Philosophical :  such  a  religion  was  it  that  Christ 
taught  and  practised,  so  long  as  he  went  about 

,  on  Earth.  For  this  reason,  the  external  here 
closes,  and  I  now  open  to  you  the  internal." 

A  door  went  back,  and  they  entered  a  similar 
gallery;  where  Wilhelm  soon  recognised  a  cor- 

■  responding  series  of  pictures  from  the  New 
Testament.  They  seemed  as  if  by  another  hand 
than  the  first:  all  was  softer;  forms,  move- 
ments, accompaniments,  light,  and  coloring. 

"  Here,'1  said  the  guide,  after  they  had  looked 
over  a  few  pictures,  "you  behold  neither  actions 
nor  events,  but  Miracles  and  Similitudes.  There 
is  here  a  new  world,  a  new  exterior,  different 

,  from  the  former ;  and  an  interior,  which  was 
altogether  wanting  there.  By  Miracles  and 
Similitudes,  a  new  world  is  opened  up.  Those 
make  the  common  extraordinary,  these  the  ex- 
traordinary common." 

u  You  will  have  the  goodness,"  said  Wilhelm, 
"to  explain  these  few  words  more  minutely; 
for,  by  my  own  light,  I  cannot." 

"  They  have  a  natural  meaning,"  said  the 
other,  "  though  a  deep  one.  Examples  will 
bring  it  out  most  easily  and  soonest.    There  is 

j  nothing  more  common  and  customary  than  eat- 
ing and  drinking;  but  it  is  extraordinary  to 
transform  a  drink  into  another  of  more  noble 

!  sort;  to  multiply  a  portion  of  food  that  it  suffice 
a  multitude.    Nothing  is  more  common  than 

,  sickness  and  corporeal  diseases ;  but  to  remove, 
to  mitigate  these  by  spiritual,  or  spiritual-like 
means,  is  extraordinary ;  and  even  in  this  lies 
the  wonder  of  the  Miracle,  that  the  common  and 
the  extraordinary,  the  possible  and  the  impossi- 
ble, become  one.  With  the  Similitude  again, 
with  the  Parable,  the  converse  is  the  case  :  here 
it  is  the  sense,  the  view,  the  idea,  that  forms 

■  the  high,  the  unattainable,  the  extraordinary. 
When  this  embodies  itself  in  a  common,  cus- 
tomary, comprehensible  figure,  so  that  it  meets 
us  as  if  alive,  present,  actual ;  so  that  we  can 
seize  it,  appropriate,  retain  it,  live  with  it  as 
with  our  equal :  this  is  a  second  sort  of  miracle, 

■  and  is  justly  placed  beside  the  first  sort;  nay, 
perhaps  preferred  to  it.  Here  a  living  doctrine 
is  pronounced,  a  doctrine  which  can  cause  no 
argument :  it  is  not  an  opinion  about  what  is 
riyht  and  wrong ;  it  is  Right  and  Wrong  them- 
selves, and  indisputably." 

This  part  of  the  gallery  was  shorter ;  indeed 
it  formed  but  the  fourth  part  of  the  circuit  en- 
closing the  interior  court.    Yet  if  in  the  former 
i    part  you  merely  walked  along,  you  here  liked 
to  linger,  you  here  walked  to  and  fro.    The  ob- 
jects were  not  so  striking,  not  so  varied:  yet 
they  invited  you  the  more  to  penetrate  their 
I    deep  still  meaning.    Our  two  friends,  accord- 
|    ingly,  turned  round  at  the  end  of  the  space, 
j    Wilhelm,  at  the  same  time,  expressing  some 
surprise  that  these  delineations  went  no  farther 
2p 


than  the  Supper,  than  the  scene  where  the  Mas- 
ter and  his  Disciples  part.  He  inquired  for  the 
remaining  portion  of  the  history. 

"  In  all  sorts  of  instruction,"  said  the  Eldest, 
"in  all  sorts  of  communication,  we  are  fond  of 
separating  whatever  it  is  possible  to  separate; 
for  by  this  means  alone  can  the  notion  of  im- 
portance and  peculiar  significance  arise  in  the 
young  mind.  Actual  experience  of  itself  min- 
gles and  mixes  all  things  together:  here,  accord- 
ingly, we  have  entirely  disjoined  that  sublime 
Man's  life  from  its  termination.  In  life,  he  ap- 
pears as  a  true  Philosopher — let  not  the  expres- 
sion stagger  you — as  a  wise  man  in  the  highest 
sense.  He  stands  firm  to  his  point;  he  goes  on 
his  way  inflexibly;  and  while  he  exalts  the 
lower  to  himself,  while  he  makes  the  ignorant, 
the  poor,  the  sick,  partakers  of  his  wisdom,  of 
his  riches,  of  his  strength,  he,  on  the  other  hand, 
in  no  wise  conceals  his  divine  origin ;  he  dares 
to  equal  himself  with  God,  nay,  to  declare  that 
he  himself  is  God.  In  this  manner  is  he  wont, 
from  youth  upwards,  to  astound  his  familiar 
friends  ;  of  these  he  gains  a  part  to  his  own 
cause;  irritates  the  rest  against  him  ;  and  shows 
to  all  men,  who  are  aiming  at  a  certain  eleva- 
tion in  doctrine  and  life,  what  they  have  to  look 
for  from  the  world.  And  thus,  for  the  noble 
portion  of  mankind,  his  walk  and  conversation 
are  even  more  instructive  and  profitable  than 
his  death  :  for  to  those  trials  every  one  is  called, 
to  this  trial  but  a  few.  Now,  omitting  all  that 
results  from  this  consideration,  do  but  look  at 
the  touching  scene  of  the  Last  Supper.  Here 
the  Wise  Man,  as  it  ever  is,  leaves  those  that 
are  his  own  utterly  orphaned  behind  him  ;  and 
while  he  is  careful  for  the  Good,  he  feeds  along 
with  them  a  traitor  by  whom  he  and  the  Better 
are  to  be  destroyed." 

With  these  words  the  Eldest  opened  a  door ; 
and  Wilhelm  faltered  in  surprise,  as  he  found 
himself  again  in  the  first  hall  at  the  entrance. 
They  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  as  he  now  saw, 
passed  round  the  whole  circuit  of  the  court.  "  I 
hoped,"  said  Wilhelm,  "  you  were  leading  me 
to  the  conclusion,  and  you  take  me  back  to  the 
beginning." 

"For  the  present,"  said  the  Eldest,  "I  can 
show  you  nothing  farther :  more  we  do  not  lay 
before  our  pupils,  more  we  do  not  explain  to 
them,  than  what  you  have  now  gone  through. 
All  that  is  external,  worldly,  universal,  we  com- 
municate to  each  from  youth  upwards;  what  is 
more  particularly  spiritual  and  conversant  with 
the  heart,  to  those  only  who  grow  up  with  some 
thoughtfulness  of  temper ;  and  the  rest,  which 
is  opened  only  once  a-year,  cannot  be  imparted 
save  to  those  whom  we  are  sending  forth  as 
finished.  That  last  Religion  which  arises  from 
the  Reverence  of  what  is  beneath  us;  that  vene- 
ration of  the  contradictory,  the  hated,  the  avoid- 
ed, we  give  each  of  our  pupils,  in  small  portions 
by  way  of  outfit,  along  with  him  into  the  world, 
merely  that  he  may  know  where  more  is  to  be 
had,  should  such  a  want  spring  up  within  him. 
27 


3U 


GOETHE. 


I  invite  you  to  return  hither  at  the  end  of  a  year, 
to  visit  our  general  festival,  and  see  how  far 
your  son  is  advanced:  then  shall  you  be  admit- 
ted into  the  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow." 

"Permit  me  one  question,"  said  Wilhelm: 
"  as  you  have  set  up  the  life  of  this  divine  Man 
for  a  pattern  and  example,  have  you  likewise 
selected  his  sufferings,  his  death,  as  a  model  of 
exalted  patience  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly  we  have,"  replied  the  Eldest. 
"  Of  this  we  make  no  secret ;  but  we  draw  a 
veil  over  those  sufferings,  even  because  we  re- 
verence them  so  highly.  We  hold  it  a  damnable 
audacity  to  bring  forth  that  torturing  Cross,  and 
the  Holy  One  who  suffers  on  it,  or  to  expose 
them  to  the  light  of  the  sun,  which  hid  its  face 
when  a  reckless  world  forced  such  a  sight  on 
it;  to  take  these  mysterious  secrets,  in  which 
the  divine  depth  of  Sorrow  lies  hid,  and  play 
with  them,  fondle  them,  trick  them  out.  and  rest 
not  till  the  most  reverend  of  all  solemnities  ap- 
pears vulgar  and  paltry.  Let  so  much,  for  the 
present,  suffice  to  put  your  mind  at  peace  re- 
specting your  son ;  and  to  convince  you,  that  on 
meeting  him  again,  you  will  find  him  trained, 
more  or  less,  in  one  department  or  another,  but 
at  least  in  a  proper  way ;  and,  at  all  events,  not 
wavering,  perplexed,  and  unstable." 

Wilhelm  still  lingered,  looking  at  the  pictures 
in  this  entrance-hall,  and  wishing  to  get  expla- 
nation of  their  meaning.  "  This,  too,"  said  the 
Eldest,  "we  must  still  owe  you  for  a  twelve- 
month. The  instruction  which,  in  the  interim, 
we  give  the  children,  no  stranger  is  allowed  to 
witness:  then,  however,  come  to  us;  and  you 
will  hear  what  our  best  speakers  think  it  ser- 
viceable to  make  public  on  these  matters." 

Shortly  after  this  conversation,  a  knocking 
was  heard  at  the  little  gate.  The  Overseer  of 
last  night  announced  himself :  he  had  brought 
out  Wilhelm's  horse;  and  so  our  friend  took 
leave  of  the  Three ;  who,  as  he  set  out,  con- 
signed him  to  the  Overseer  with  these  words : 
"  This  man  is  now  numbered  among  the  Trusted, 
and  thou  understandest  what  thou  hast  to  tell 
him  in  answer  to  his  questions ;  for,  doubtless, 
he  still  wishes  to  be  informed  on  much  that  he 
has  seen  and  heard  while  here :  purpose  and 
circumstance  are  known  to  thee." 

Wilhelm  had,  in  fact,  some  questions  on  his 
mind  ;  and  these  he  ere  long  put  into  words. 
As  they  rode  along  they  were  saluted  by  the 
children,  as  on  the  preceding  evening;  but  to- 
day, though  rarely,  he  now  and  then  observed 
a  boy  who  did  not  pause  in  his  work  to  salute 
the  Overseer,  but  let  him  pass  unheeded.  Wil- 
helm asked  the  cause  of  this,  and  what  such  an 
exception  meant.  His  companion  answered : 
"  It  is  full  of  meaning ;  for  it  is  the  highest  pun- 
ishment which  we  inflict  on  our  pupils  ;  they 
are  declared  unworthy  to  show  reverence,  and 
obliged  to  exhibit  themselves  as  rude  and  un- 
cultivated natures:  but  they  do  their  utmost  to 
get  free  of  this  situation,  and  in  general  adapt 
themselves  with  great  rapidity  to  any  duty. 


Should  a  young  creature,  on  the  other  hand,  ob- 
durately make  no  attempt  at  return  and  amend- 
ment, he  is  then  sent  back  to  his  parents,  with 
a  brief  but  pointed  statement  of  his  case.  Who-  1 
ever  cannot  suit  himself  to  the  regulations,  must 
leave  the  district  where  they  are  in  force." 

Another  circumstance  excited  Wilhelm's  cu- 
riosity to-day,  as  it  had  done  yesterday:  the 
variety  of  color  and  shape  apparent  in  the  dress 
of  the  pupils.  Hereby  no  gradation  could  be 
indicated  ;  for  children  who  saluted  differently, 
were  sometimes  clothed  alike  ;  and  others  agree- 
ing in  salutation,  differed  in  apparel.  Wilhelm 
inquired  the  reason  of  this  seeming  contradic- 
tion. "  It  will  be  explained,"  said  the  other, 
"  when  I  tell  you,  that,  by  this  means,  we 
deavor  to  find  out  the  children's  several  cna- 
racters.  With  all  our  general  strictness  and 
regularity,  we  allow  in  this  point  a  certain  lati- 
tude of  choice.  Within  the  limits  of  our  own 
stores  of  cloths  and  garnitures,  the  pupils  are 
permitted  to  select  what  color  they  please;  and 
so  likewise  within  moderate  limits,  in  regard  to 
shape  and  cut.  Their  procedure,  in  these  mat- 
ters, we  accurately  note ;  for  by  the  color,  we 
discover  their  turn  of  thinking ;  by  the  cut,  thpir 
turn  of  acting.  However,  a  decisive  judgment 
in  this  is  rendered  difficult  by  one  peculiar  pro- 
perty of  human  nature,  by  the  tendency  to  imi- 
tate, the  inclination  to  unite  with  something. 
It  is  very  seldom  that  a  pupil  fancies  any  dress 
that  has  not  been  already  there ;  for  most  part, 
they  select  something  known,  something  which 
they  see  before  their  eyes.  Yet  this  also  we 
find  worth  observing;  by  such  external  circum- 
stances, they  declare  themselves  of  one  party 
or  another;  they  unite  with  this  or  that;  and 
thus  some  general  features  of  their  characters 
are  indicated ;  we  perceive  whither  each  tends, 
what  example  he  follows. 

"  We  have  had  cases  where  the  dispositions 
of  our  children  verged  to  generality;  where  one 
fashion  threatened  to  extend  over  all ;  and  any 
deviation  from  it  to  dwindle  into  the  state  of  an 
exception.  Such  a  turn  of  matters  we  endeavor 
softly  to  stop  :  we  let  our  stores  run  out ;  this 
and  that  sort  of  stuff,  this  and  that  sort  of  decora- 
tion, is  no  longer  to  be  had  :  we  introduce  some- 
thing new  and  attractive  ;  by  bright  colors  and 
short  smart  shape,  we  allure  the  lively;  by 
grave  shadings,  by  commodious  many-folded 
make,  the  thoughtful ;  and  thus,  by  degrees,  re- 
store the  equilibrium. 

"For  to  uniform,  we  are  altogether  disin- 
clined ;  it  conceals  the  character,  and,  more 
than  any  other  species  of  distortion,  withdraws 
the  peculiarities  of  children  from  the  eye  of 
their  superiors." 

Amid  this  and  other  conversation,  Wilhelm 
reached  the  border  of  the  Province ;  and  this  at 
the  point,  where,  by  the  direction  of  his  anti- 
quarian friend,  he  was  to  leave  it,  to  pursue  his 
next  special  object. 

At  parting,  it  was  now  settled  with  the  Over- 
seer, that,  after  the  space  of  a  twelvemonth, 


GOETHE. 


315 


Vilhelm  should  return,  when  the  grand  Trien- 
ial  Festival  was  to  be  celebrated  ;  on  which 
ccasion  all  the  parents  were  invited  ;  and 
:inished  pupils  were  sent  forth  into  the  tasks  of 
.hanceful  life.  Then,  too,  so  he  was  informed, 
ie  might  visit  at  his  pleasure  all  the  other  Dis- 
'ricts;  where,  on  peculiar  principles,  each  branch 
if*  education  was  communicated  and  reduced  to 
practice  in  complete  isolation,  and  with  every 
urtherance. 

*        *        *        *        *       *  * 

That  a  year  must  have  passed  since  Wilhelm 
eft  the  Pedagogic  Province,  is  rendered  certain, 
jy  the  circumstance,  that  we  now  meet  him  at 
l.he  Festival  to  which  he  had  been  invited :  but 
is  our  wandering  Renunciants  sometimes  un- 
expectedly dive  down  and  vanish  from  our 
sight,  and  then  again  emerge  into  view  at  a 
place  where  they  were  not  looked  for,  it  cannot 
;be  determined  with  certainty  what  track  they 
aave  followed  in  the  interim. 

Now,  however,  the  Traveller  advances  from 
the  side  of  the  plain  country  into  the  Pedagogic 
Province:  he  comes  over  fields  and  pasturages; 
skirts,  on  the  dry  lea,  many  a  little  freshet;  sees 
bushy  rather  than  woody  hills;  a  free  prospect 
on  all  sides,  over  a  surface  but  little  undulated. 
On  such  tracks,  he  did  not  long  doubt  that  he 
jwas  in  the  horse-producing  region;  and  accord- 
ingly, he  failed  not  here  and  there  to  observe 
greater  or  smaller  herds  of  mares  and  foals. 
!But  all  at  once  the  horizon  darkens  with  a  fierce 
cloud  of  dust,  which,  rapidly  swelling  nearer 
and  nearer,  covers  all  the  breadth  of  the  space ; 
yet  at  last,  rent  asunder  by  a  sharp  side  wind, 
is  forced  to  disclose  its  interior  tumult. 

At  full  gallop,  rushes  forward  a  vast  multi- 
tude of  these  noble  animals,  guided  and  held 
together  by  mounted  keepers.  The  monstrous 
hurlyburly  whirls  past  the  wanderer  ;  a  fair  boy 
among  the  keepers  looks  at  him  with  surprise; 
pulls  in;  leaps  down,  and  embraces  his  father. 

Now  commences  a  questioning  and  answer- 
ling:  the  boy  relates  that  an  agricultural  life  had 
not  agreed  with  him  ;  the  harvest-home  he  had 

■  indeed  found  delightful,  but  the  subsequent  ar- 
rangements, the  ploughing  and  digging,  by  no 

■  means  so.  This  the  Superiors  remark,  and  ob- 
serve at  the  same  time  that  he  likes  to  employ 
himself  with  animals;  they  direct  him  to  the 
useful  and  necessary  domestic  breeds;  try  him 

[as  a  sequestered  herdsman  and  keeper,  and  at 
last  promote  him  to  the  more  lively  equestrian 
occupation  ;  where  accordingly  he  now,  himself 
a  young  foal,  has  to  watch  over  foals,  and  to 
forward  their  good  nourishment  and  training, 
under  the  oversight  of  skilful  comrades. 

Father  and  son,  following  the  herd,  by  vari- 
ous lone-lying  spacious  farm-yards,  reached  the 
town  or  hamlet,  near  which  the  great  annual 
I  Market  was  held.  Here  rages  an  incredible 
i  confusion,  in  which  it  is  hard  to  determine 
whether  merchants  or  wares  raise  more  dust. 
From  all  countries,  purchasers  assemble  here  to 


procure  animals  of  noble  blood  and  careful 
training;  all  the  languages  of  the  Earth,  you 
would  fancy,  meet  your  ear.  Amid  all  this  hub- 
bub, too,  rises  the  lively  sound  of  powerful  wind- 
instruments  :  everything  bespeaks  motion,  vigor, 
and  life. 

The  wanderer  meets  his  Overseer  of  last 
year,  who  presents  him  to  the  others:  he  is  even 
introduced  to  one  of  the  Three;  and  by  him, 
though  only  in  passing,  paternally  and  expres- 
sively saluted. 

Wilhelm,  here  again  observing  an  example 
of  exclusive  culture  and  life-leading,  expresses 
a  desire  to  know  in  what  else  the  pupils  are 
practised,  by  way  of  counterpoise ;  that  so  in 
this  wild,  and,  to  a  certain  degree,  savage  occu- 
pation of  feeding  animals,  the  youth  may  not 
himself  roughen  into  an  animal.  And,  in 
answer,  he  is  gratified  to  learn,  that  precisely 
with  this  violent  and  rugged-looking  occupation 
the  softest  in  the  world  is  united ;  the  learning 
and  practising  of  languages. 

"To  this,"  it  was  said,  "we  have  been  in- 
duced by  the  circumstance,  that  there  are  youths 
from  all  quarters  of  the  world  assembled  here  : 
now  to  prevent  them  from  uniting,  as  usually 
happens  when  abroad,  into  national  knots,  and 
forming  exclusive  parties,  we  endeavor  by  a  free 
communication  of  speech  to  approximate  them. 

"  Indeed,  a  general  acquaintance  with  lan- 
guages is  here  in  some  degree  rendered  neces- 
sary;  since,  in  our  yearly  market -festivals, 
every  foreigner  wishes  to  converse  in  his  own 
tones  and  idiom  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  cheapen- 
ing and  purchasing,  to  proceed  with  all  possible 
convenience.  That  no  Babylonish  confusion  of 
tongues,  however,  no  corruption  of  speech,  may 
arise  from  this  practice,  we  employ  a  different 
language  month  by  month,  throughout  the  year: 
according  to  the  maxim,  that  in  learning  any- 
thing, its  first  principles  alone  should  be  taught 
by  constraint. 

"  We  look  upon  our  scholars,''  said  the  Over- 
seer, "as  so  many  swimmers,  who,  in  the  ele- 
ment which  threatened  to  swallow  them,  feel 
with  astonishment  that  they  are  lighter,  that  it 
bears  and  carries  them  forward :  and  so  it  is 
with  everything  that  man  undertakes. 

"  However,  if  any  one  of  our  young  men  show 
a  special  inclination  for  this  or  the  other  lan- 
guage, we  neglect  not,  in  the  midst  of  this 
tumultuous-looking  life,  which  nevertheless  of- 
fers very  many  quiet,  idly  solitary,  nay,  tedious 
hours,  to  provide  for  his  true  and  substantial 
instruction.  Our  riding  grammarians,  among 
whom  there  are  even  some  pedagogues,  you 
would  be  surprised  to  discover  among  these 
bearded  and  beardless  Centaurs.  Your  Felix 
has  turned  himself  to  Italian  ;  and  in  the  mono- 
tonous solitude  of  his  herdsman  life,  you  shall 
hear  him  send  forth  many  a  dainty  song  with 
proper  feeling  and  taste.  Practical  activity  and 
expertness  are  far  more  compatible  with  suf- 
ficient intellectual  culture,  than  is  generally 
supposed." 


310 


GOETHE. 


Each  of  these  districts  was  celebrating  its 
peculiar  festival ;  so  the  guest  was  now  con- 
ducted to  the  Instrumental  Music  department. 
This  tract,  skirted  by  the  level  country,  began 
from  its  very  border  to  exhibit  kind  and  beauti- 
fully changing  valleys,  little  trim  woods;  soft 
brooks,  by  the  side  of  which,  among  the  sward, 
here  and  there  a  mossy  crag  modestly  stood 
forth.  Scattered,  bush-encircled  dwellings  you 
might  see  on  the  hill-sides;  in  soft  hollows,  the 
houses  clustered  nearer  together.  Those  grace- 
fully separated  cottages  lay  so  far  apart,  that 
neither  tones  nor  mistones  could  be  heard  from 
one  to  the  other. 

They  now  approached  a  wide  space,  begirt 
with  buildings  and  shady  trees,  where  crowded, 
man  on  man,  all  seemed  on  the  stretch  of  ex- 
pectation and  attention.  Just  as  the  stranger 
entered,  there  was  sent  forth  from  all  the  in- 
struments a  grand  symphony,  the  full  rich  power 
and  tenderness  of  which  he  could  not  but  ad- 
mire. Opposite  the  spacious  main  orchestra, 
was  a  smaller  one,  which  failed  not  to  attract 
his  notice  :  here  stood  various  younger  and  elder 
scholars ;  each  held  his  instrument  in  readiness 
without  playing ;  these  were  they  who  as  yet 
could  not,  or  durst  not,  join  in  with  the  whole. 
It  was  interesting  to  observe  how  they  stood  as 
it  were  on  the  start ;  and  our  friend  was  in- 
formed that  such  a  festival  seldom  passed  over, 
without  some  one  or  other  of  them  suddenly 
developing  his  talent. 

As  among  the  instrumental  music,  singing 
was  now  introduced,  no  doubt  could  remain 
that  this  also  was  favored.  To  the  question, 
What  other  sort  of  culture  was  here  blended  in 
kind  union  with  the  chief  employment,  our 
wanderer  learned  in  reply,  that  it  was  Poetry, 
and  of  the  lyrical  kind.  In  this  matter,  it  ap- 
peared, their  main  concern  was,  that  both  arts 
should  be  developed  each  for  itself  and  from 
itself,  but  then  also  in  contrast  and  combination 
with  each  other.  The  scholars  were  first  in- 
structed in  each  according  to  its  own  limitations  ; 
then  taught  how  the  two  reciprocally  limit,  and 
again  reciprocally  free  each  other. 

To  poetical  rhythm,  the  musical  artist  opposes 
measure  of  tone  and  movement  of  tone.  But 
hei  •  the  mastery  of  Music  over  Poesy  soon 
sh<  ws  itself;  for  if  the  latter,  as  is  fit  and  ne- 
cessary, keep  her  quantities  never  so  steadily 
in  view,  still  for  the  musician  few  syllables  are 
decidedly  short  or  long;  at  his  pleasure  he  can 
overset  the  most  conscientious  procedure  of  the 
rhythmer,  nay,  change  prose  itself  into  song; 
from  which,  in  truth,  the  richest  possibilities 
present  themselves ;  and  the  poet  would  soon 
feel  himself  annihilated,  if  he  could  not,  on  his 
own  side,  by  lyrical  tenderness  and  boldness, 
inspire  the  musician  with  reverence;  and,  now 
in  the  softest  sequence,  now  by  the  most  abrupt 
transitions,  awaken  new  feelings  in  the  mind. 

The  singers  to  be  met  with  here  are  mostly 
poets  themselves.  Dancing  also  is  taught  in  its 
fundamental  principles;  that  so  all  these  ac- 


complishments may  regularly  spread  themselves 

into  every  district. 

The  guest,  on  being  led  across  the  next  bound- 
ary, at  once  perceived  an  altogether  different 
mode  of  building.  The  houses  were  no  longer 
scattered  into  separation,  no  longer  in  the  shape 
of  cottages :  they  stood  regularly  united,  beauti- 
ful in  their  exterior,  spacious,  convenient,  and 
elegant  within  ;  you  here  saw  an  unconfined, 
well-built,  stately  town,  corresponding  to  the 
scene  it  stood  in.  Here  the  Plastic  Arts,  and 
the  trades  akin  to  them,  have  their  home ;  and 
a  peculiar  silence  reigns  over  these  spaces. 

The  plastic  artist,  it  is  true,  must  still  figure 
himself  as  standing  in  relation  to  all  that  lives 
and  moves  among  men :  but  his  occupation  is 
solitary;  and  yet,  by  the  strangest  contradiction, 
there  is  perhaps  no  other  that  so  decidedly  re- 
quires a  living  accompaniment  and  society. 
Now  here,  in  that  circle,  is  each  in  silence  form- 
ing shapes  that  are  forever  to  engage  the  eyes 
of  men ;  a  holiday  stillness  reigns  over  the 
whole  scene ;  and  did  you  not  here  and  there 
catch  the  picking  of  stone-hewers,  and  the  mea- 
sured stroke  of  carpenters,  who  are  now  busily 
employed  in  finishing  a  lordly  edifice,  the  air 
were  unmoved  by  any  sound. 

Our  wanderer  was  struck,  moreover,  by  the 
earnestness,  the  singular  rigor  with  which  be- 
ginners, as  well  as  more  advanced  pupils,  were 
treated ;  it  seemed  as  if  no  one  by  his  own 
power  and  judgment  accomplished  anything, 
but  as  if  a  secret  spirit,  striving  towards  one 
single  great  aim,  pervaded  and  vivified  them 
all.  Nowhere  did  you  observe  a  scheme  or 
sketch ;  every  stroke  was  drawn  with  fore- 
thought. As  the  wanderer  inquired  of  his  guide 
the  reason  of  this  peculiar  procedure,  he  was 
told  :  That  Imagination  was  in  itself  a  vague, 
unstable  power,  which  the  whole  merit  of  the 
plastic  artist  consisted  in  more  and  more  deter- 
mining, fixing,  nay,  at  last,  exalting  to  visible 
presence. 

The  necessity  for  sure  principles  in  other  arts 
was  mentioned.  "  Would  the  musician,"  it  was 
said,  "  permit  his  scholar  to  dash  wildly  over 
the  strings,  nay,  to  invent  bars  and  intervals  for 
himself  at  his  own  good  pleasure?  Here  it  ;s 
palpable  that  nothing  can  be  left  to  the  capri:e 
of  the  learner:  the  element  he  is  to  work  in  is 
irrevocably  given  ;  the  implement  he  is  to  wield 
is  put  into  his  hands;  nay,  the  very  way  and 
manner  of  his  using  it,  I  mean  the  changing  of 
the  fingers,  he  finds  prescribed  to  him  ;  so  or- 
dered, that  the  one  part  of  his  hand  shall  give 
place  to  the  other,  and  each  prepare  the  proper 
path  for  its  follower:  by  such  determinate  co* 
operation  only  can  the  impossible  at  last  become 
possible. 

"But  what  chiefly  vindicates  the  practice  of 
strict  requisitions,  of  decided  laws,  is  that  ge- 
nius, that  native  talent,  is  precisely  the  readiest 
to  seize  them,  and  yield  them  willing  obedience. 
It  is  only  the  half- gifted  that  would  wish  to 
put  his  own  contracted  singularity  in  the  place 


GOETHE. 


317 


of  the  unconditioned  whole,  and  justify  his  false 
attempts  under  cover  of  an  unconstrainable  ori- 
ginality and  independence.  To  this  we  grant 
no  currency:  we  guard  our  scholars  from  all 
such  misconceptions,  whereby  a  large  portion 
of  life,  nay,  often  the  whole  of  life,  is  apt  to  be 
perplexed  and  disjointed. 

"  With  genius  we  love  most  to  be  concerned  ; 
for  this  is  animated  just  by  that  good  spirit  of 
quickly  recognising  what  is  profitable  for  it. 
Genius  understands  that  Art  is  called  Art  be- 
cause it  is  not  Nature.  Genius  bends  itself  to 
respect  even  towards  what  may  be  named  con- 
ventional :  for  what  is  this  but  agreeing,  as  the 
most  distinguished  men  have  agreed,  to  regard 
the  unalterable,  the  indispensable  as  the  best? 
And  does  not  such  submission  always  turn  to 
good  account? 

"  Here,  too,  as  in  all  our  departments,  to  the 
great  assistance  of  the  teachers,  our  three  Reve- 
rences and  their  signs,  with  some  changes  suit- 
able to  the  nature  of  the  main  employment, 
have  been  introduced  and  inculcated/' 

The  wanderer,  in  his  farther  survey,  was 
surprised  to  observe  that  the  Town  seemed  still 
extending;  street  unfolding  itself  from  street, 
and  so  offering  the  most  varied  prospects.  The 
exterior  of  the  edifices  corresponded  to  their 
destination;  they  were  dignified  and  stately, 
not  so  much  magnificent  as  beautiful.  To  the 
nobler  and  more  earnest  buildings  in  the  centre 
of  the  Town,  the  more  cheerful  were  harmoni- 
ously appended  ;  till  farther  out,  gay  decorated 
suburbs,  in  graceful  style,  stretched  forth  into 
the  country,  and  at  last  separated  into  garden- 
houses. 

The  stranger  could  not  fail  to  remark,  that  the 
dwellings  of  the  musicians  in  the  preceding  dis- 
trict were  by  no  means  to  be  compared,  in 
beauty  or  size,  with  the  present,  which  painters, 
statuaries,  and  architects  inhabited.  He  was 
told  that  this  arose  from  the  nature  of  the  thing. 
The  musician,  ever  shrouded  in  himself,  must 
cultivate  his  inmost  being,  that  so  he  may  turn 
it  outwards.  The  sense  of  the  eye  he  may  not 
flatter.  The  eye  easily  corrupts  the  judgment 
of  the  ear,  and  allures  the  spirit  from  the  inward 
to  the  outward.  Inversely,  again,  the  plastic 
artist  has  to  live  in  the  external  world ;  and  to 
manifest  his  inward  being,  as  it  were  uncon- 
sciously, in  and  upon  what  is  outward.  Plastic 
artists  should  dwell  like  kings  and  gods:  how 
else  are  they  to  build  and  decorate  for  kings  and 
gods?  They  must  at  last  so  raise  themselves 
above  the  common,  that  the  whole  mass  of  a 
people  may  feel  itself  ennobled  in  and  by  their 
works. 

Our  friend  then  begged  an  explanation  of 
another  paradox:  Why  at  this  time,  so  festive, 
so  enlivening,  so  tumultuously  excited,  in  the 
other  regions,  the  greatest  stillness  prevailed 
here,  and  all  labors  were  continued  ? 

"A  plastic  artist,"  it  was  answered,  "needs 
no  festival ;  for  him  the  whole  year  is  a  festival. 
When  he  has  accomplished  something  excellent, 


it  stands,  as  it  has  long  done  before  his  own  eye, 
now  at  last  before  the  eye  of  the  world:  in  his 
task  he  needed  no  repetition,  no  new  effort,  no 
fresh  success;  whereas  the  musician  constantly 
afflicts  himself  with  all  this;  and  to  him,  there- 
fore, the  most  splendid  festival,  in  the  most 
numerous  assemblage,  should  not  be  refused." 

"Yet,  at  such  a  season,"  replied  Wilhelm, 
"something  like  an  exhibition  might  be  desira- 
ble ;  in  which  it  would  be  pleasant  to  inspect 
and  judge  the  triennial  progress  of  your  best 
pupils." 

"  In  other  places,"  it  was  answered,  "  an  ex- 
hibition may  be  necessary;  with  us  it  is  not. 
Our  whole  being  and  nature  is  exhibition.  Look 
round  you  at  these  buildings  of  every  sort :  all 
erected  by  our  pupils ;  and  this  not  without 
plans,  a  hundred  times  talked  of  and  meditated  ; 
for  the  builder  must  not  grope  and  experiment; 
what  is  to  continue  standing,  must  stand  rightly, 
and  satisfy,  if  not  forever,  yet  at  least  for  a  long 
space  of  time.  If  we  cannot  help  committing 
errors,  we  must  build  none. 

"With  statuaries  we  proceed  more  laxly, 
most  so  of  all  with  painters  ;  to  both  we  give 
liberty  to  try  this  each  in  his  own  way.  It 
stands  in  their  power  to  select  in  the  interior 
or  exterior  compartments  of  edifices  in  public 
places,  some  space  which  they  may  incline  to 
decorate.  They  give  forth  their  ideas,  and  if 
these  are  in  some  degree  to  be  approved  of,  the 
completion  of  them  is  permitted,  and  this  in  two 
ways :  either  with  liberty,  sooner  or  later,  to 
remove  the  work,  should  it  come  to  displease 
the  artist ;  or,  with  the  condition  that  what  is 
once  set  up  shall  remain  unalterable  in  its 
place.  Most  part  choose  the  first  of  these  offers, 
retaining  in  their  own  hands  this  power  of  re- 
moval ;  and  in  the  performance,  they  constantly 
avail  themselves  of  the  best  advice.  The  second 
case  occurs  seldomer ;  and  we  then  observe 
that  the  artist  trusts  less  to  himself,  holds  long 
conferences  with  companions  and  critics,  and 
by  this  means  produces  works  really  estimable, 
and  deserving  to  endure." 

After  all  this,  our  Traveller  neglected  not  to 
ask  :  What  other  species  of  instruction  was  com- 
bined with  the  main  one  here  ?  and  received 
for  answer,  that  it  was  Poetry,  and  of  the  Epic 
sort. 

This  to  our  friend  must  have  seemed  a  little 
singular,  when  he  heard  farther  that  the  pupils 
were  not  allowed  to  read  or  hear  any  finished 
poems  by  ancient  or  modern  poets.  "We  merely 
impart  to  them,"  it  was  said,  "  a  series  of  my- 
thuses,  traditions,  and  legends,  in  the  most 
laconic  form.  And  now,  from  the  pictorial  or 
poetic  execution  of  these  subjects,  we  at  once 
discover  the  peculiar  productive  gift  of  the 
genius  devoted  to  the  one  or  the  other  art.  Both 
poet  and  painter  thus  labor  at  the  same  foun- 
tain ;  and  each  endeavors  to  draw  off  the  water 
to  his  own  advantage,  and  attain  his  own  re- 
quired objects  with  it;  in  which  he  succeeds 
much  better,  than  if  he  attempted  again  to 
27* 


318 


GOETHE. 


fashion  something  that  has  been  fashioned  al- 
ready.'' 

The  Traveller  himself  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  how  this  was  accomplished:  several 
painters  were  busy  in  a  room  ;  a  gay  young 
friend  was  relating  with  great  minuteness  a 
very  simple  story  ;  so  that  he  employed  almost 
as  many  words  as  the  others  did  pencil-strokes, 
to  complete  the  same  exhibition  and  round  it 
fully  off. 

He  was  told,  that  in  working  together  the 
friends  were  wont  to  carry  on  much  pleasant 
conversation;  and  that  in  this  way  several  im- 
provisatori  had  unfolded  their  gifts,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  exciting  great  enthusiasm  for  this 
twofold  mode  of  representation. 

Our  friend  now  reverted  his  inquiries  to  the 
subject  of  plastic  art.  "  You  have  no  exhibi- 
tion," said  he ;  "  and  therefore,  I  suppose,  give 
no  prize  either  S" 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  "  we  do  not ;  but  here, 
close  by,  we  can  show  you  something  which 
we  reckon  more  useful.'' 

They  entered  a  large  hall,  beautifully  lighted 
from  above  ;  a  wide  circle  of  busy  artists  first 
attracted  the  eye;  and  from  the  midst  of  these, 
rose  a  colossal  group  of  figures,  elevated  in  the 
centre  of  the  place.  Male  and  female  forms,  of 
gigantic  power,  in  violent  postures,  reminded 
one  of  that  lordly  fight  between  Heroic  youths 
and  Amazons,  wherein  hate  and  enmity  at  last 
issue  in  mutually  regretful  alliance.  This  strik- 
ingly intertwisted  piece  of  art  presented  an 
equally  favorable  aspect  from  every  point  of  its 
circuit.  In  a  wide  ring  round  it  were  many 
artists  sitting  and  standing,  each  occupied  in  his 
own  way ;  the  painter  at  his  easel,  the  drawer 
at  his  sketch-board;  some  were  modelling  it  in 
full,  others  in  bas-relief;  there  were  even  archi- 
tects engaged  in  planning  the  pedestal,  on  which 
a  similar  group,  when  wrought  in  marble,  was 
to  be  erected.  Each  individual  was  proceeding 
by  his  own  method  in  this  task  :  painters  and 
drawers  were  bringing  out  the  group  to  a  plain 
surface  ;  careful,  however,  not  to  destroy  its 
figures,  but  to  retain  as  much  of  it  as  possible. 
In  the  same  manner  were  works  in  bas-relief 
going  forward.  One  man  only  had  repeated  the 
whole  group  in  a  miniature  scale ;  and  in  cer- 
tain movements  and  arrangements  of  limbs,  he 
really  seemed  to  have  surpassed  his  model. 

And  now  it  came  out  that  this  man  was  the 
maker  of  the  model ;  who,  before  working  it  in 
marble,  had  here  submitted  his  performance 
not  to  a  critical,  but  to  a  practical  trial ;  and  by 
accurately  observing  whatever  any  of  his  fellow- 
artists  in  his  special  department  and  way  of 
thought  might  notice,  retain  or  alter  in  the 
group,  was  purposing,  in  subsequent  considera- 
tion, to  turn  all  this  to  his  own  profit;  so  that, 
when  at  length  the  grand  work  stood  finished 
in  marble,  though  undertaken,  planned,  and 
executed  by  one,  it  might  seem  to  belong  to  all. 

The  greatest  silence  reigned  throughout  this 
apartment  also ;  but  the  Superior  raised  his 


voice,  and  cried:  "Is  there  any  of  you,  then 
who  in  presence  of  this  stationary  work  can, 
with  gifted  words,  so  awaken  our  imagination, 
that  all  we  here  see  concreted,  shall  again  be- 
come fluid,  without  losing  its  character ;  and  so 
convince  us,  that  what  our  artist  has  here  laid 
hold  of,  was  indeed  the  worthiest?" 

Called  forth  on  all  sides  by  name,  a  fair 
youth  laid  down  his  work ;  and  as  he  stept  for- 
ward, began  a  quiet  speech,  seemingly  intended 
merely  to  describe  the  present  group  of  figures; 
but  ere  long  he  cast  himself  into  the  region  of 
poetry,  plunged  into  the  middle  of  the  action, 
and  ruled  this  element  like  a  master;  by  de- 
grees, his  representation  so  swelled  and  mounted 
by  lordly  words  and  gestures,  that  the  rigid 
group  seemed  actually  to  move  about  its  axis, 
and  the  number  of  its  figures  to  be  doubled  and 
trebled.  Wilhelm  stood  enraptured,  and  at  last 
exclaimed:  "Can  we  now  forbear  passing  over 
into  song  itself,  into  rhythmic  melody?" 

"  This  I  should  wish  to  hinder,"  said  the 
Overseer  ;  "  for  if  our  excellent  statuary  will  be 
candid,  he  will  confess  to  us  that  our  poet 
scarcely  pleases  him;  and  this  because  their 
arts  lie  in  the  most  opposite  regions :  on  the 
other  hand,  I  durst  bet,  that  here  and  there  a 
painter  has  not  failed  to  appropriate  some  living 
touches  from  the  speech. 

"A  soft  kindly  song,  however,  I  could  wish 
our  friend  to  hear :  there  is  one,  for  instance, 
which  you  sing  to  an  air  so  lovely  and  earnest; 
it  turns  on  Art  in  general,  and  I  myself  never 
listen  to  it  without  pleasure." 

After  a  pause,  in  which  they  beckoned  to 
each  other,  and  settled  their  arrangements  by 
signs,  the  following  heart  and  spirit  stirring  song 
resounded  in  stately  melody  from  all  sides : 

When  inventing,  when  selecting, 

Artist,  by  thyself  continue  long : 
When  some  good  thou  art  effecting, 

Haste  and  see  it  in  the  throng. 
Here  in  others  look,  discover 

What  thy  own  life's  course  has  been; 
And  thy  deeds  of  years  past  over 

In  thy  fellow  man  be  seen. 

The  devising,  the  uniting, 

What  and  how  the  forms  shall  be; 
One  thing  will  the  other  lighten, 

And  at  last  comes  joy  to  thee ! 
Wise  and  true  what  thou  impartest, 

Fairly  shaped,  and  softly  done : 
Thus  of  old  the  cunning  artist 

Artist-like  his  glory  won. 

As  all  Nature's  thousand  changes 

But  one  changeless  God  proclaim; 
So  in  Art's  wide  kingdoms  ranges 

One  sole  meaning  still  the  same : 
This  is  Truth,  eternal  Reason, 

Which  from  Beauty  takes  its  dress, 
And  serene  through  time  and  season, 

Stands  for  aye  in  loveliness. 

While  the  orator,  the  singer, 

Pour  their  hearts  in  rhyme  and  prose, 
'Neath  the  painter's  busy  finger, 

Shall  bloom  forth  Life's  cheerfu.  rose ; 
Girt  with  sisters ;  in  the  middle, 

And  with  Autumn's  fruitage  blent, 
That  of  life's  mysterious  riddle 

Some  short  glimpses  may  be  hent. 


GOETHE. 


319 


Thousandfold,  and  graceful,  show  thou, 

Form  from  forms  evolving  fair ; 
And  of  man's  bright  image  know  thou 

That  a  God  once  tarried  there : 
And  whate'er  your  tasks  or  prizes, 

Stand  as  brethren  one  and  all, 
WhUe,  like  song,  sweet  incense  rises 

From  the  altar  at  your  call. 


All  this  Wilhelm  could  not  but  let  pass, 
though  it  must  have  seemed  paradoxical  enough  ; 
and,  had  he  not  seen  it  with  his  eyes,  might 

I  even  have  appeared  impossible.  But  now, 
when  it  was  explained  and  pointed  out  to  him, 
openly  and  freely,  and  in  fair  sequence,  he 
scarcely  needed  to  put  any  farther  question  on 
the  subject.  However,  he  at  last  addressed  his 
conductor  as  follows :  "  I  see  here  a  most  pru- 
dent provision  made  for  much  that  is  desirable 
in  life :  but  tell  me  farther,  which  of  your 
regions  exhibits  a  similar  attention  to  Dramatic 
Poetry,  and  where  could  I  instruct  myself  in 

!  that  matter  ?  I  have  looked  round  over  all  your 
edifices,  and  observed  none  that  seemed  des- 
tined for  such  an  object." 

"  In  reply  to  this  question,  we  must  not  hide 
from  you,  that,  in  our  whole  Province,  there  is 

j   no  such  edifice  to  be  seen.    The  drama  pre- 

I    supposes  the  existence  of  an  idle  multitude,  per- 

I  haps  even  of  a  populace  ;  and  no  such  class 
finds  harbor  with  us ;  for  birds  of  that  feather, 
when  they  do  not  in  spleen  forsake  us  of  their 
own  accord,  we  soon  take  care  to  conduct  over 

I  the  marches.  Doubt  not,  however,  that  in  our 
Institution,  so  universal  in  its  character,  this 
point  was  carefully  meditated :  but  no  region 
could  be  found  for  the  purpose,  everywhere 
some  important  scruple  came  in  the  way.  In- 
deed, who  among  our  pupils  could  readily  de- 
termine, with  pretended  mirth,  or  hypocritical 
sorrow,  to  excite  in  the  rest  a  feeling  untrue  in 
itself,  and  alien  to  the  moment,  for  the  sake  of 
calling  forth  an  always  dubious  satisfaction'? 
Such  juggleries  we  reckoned  in  all  cases  dan- 
gerous, and  could  not  reconcile  with  our  earnest 

>  objects." 

"It  is  said,  however,"  answered  Wilhelm, 
"that  this  far-stretching  art  promotes  all  the  rest, 

i    of  whatever  sort." 

"Nowise,"  answered  the  other:  "it  employs 
the  rest,  but  spoils  them.  I  do  not  blame  a 
player  for  uniting  himself  with  a  painter;  but 
the  painter,  in  such  society,  is  lost.  Without 
any  conscience,  the  player  will  lay  hold  of 
whatever  art  or  life  presents  him,  and  use  it  for 
his  fugitive  objects,  indeed  with  no  small  profit: 
the  painter,  again,  who  could  wish  in  return  to 
extract  advantage  from  the  theatre,  will  con- 
stantly find  himself  a  loser  by  it ;  and  so  also 
in  the  like  case  will  the  musician.  The  com- 
bined Arts  appear  to  me  like  a  family  of  sisters, 
of  whom  the  greater  part  were  inclined  to  good 

j  economy,  but  one  was  light-headed,  and  desirous 
to  appropriate  and  squander  the  whole  goods 
and  chattels  of  the  household.  The  Theatre  is 
this  wasteful  sister :  it  has  an  ambiguous  origin, 


which  in  no  case,  whether  as  art  or  trade  or 
amusement,  it  can  wholly  conceal." 

Wilhelm  cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground  with  a 
deep  sigh  ;  for  all  that  he  had  enjoyed  or  suf- 
fered on  the  Stage  rose  at  once  before  his  mind  ; 
and  he  blessed  the  good  men  who  were  wise 
enough  to  spare  their  pupils  such  pain,  and,  out 
of  principle  and  conviction,  to  banish  such  errors 
from  their  sphere. 

His  attendant,  however,  did  not  leave  him 
long  in  these  meditations,  but  continued  :  "  As 
it  is  our  highest  and  holiest  principle  that  no 
talent,  no  capacity  be  misdirected,  we  cannot 
hide  from  ourselves  that  among  so  large  a  num- 
ber, here  and  there  a  mimical  gift  will  some- 
times decidedly  come  to  light ;  exhibiting  itself 
in  an  irresistible  desire  to  ape  the  characters, 
forms,  movements,  speech  of  others.  This  we 
certainly  do  not  encourage ;  but  we  observe  our 
pupil  strictly,  and  if  he  continue  faithful  to  his 
nature,  then  we  have  already  established  an  in- 
tercourse with  the  great  theatres  of  all  nations, 
and  so  thither  we  send  any  youth  of  tried  capa- 
bility, that,  as  the  duck  on  the  pond,  so  he  on 
the  boards,  may  be  forthwith  conducted,  full 
speed,  to  the  future  quack-quacking,  and  gibble- 
gabbling  of  his  life." 

Wilhelm  heard  this  with  patience,  but  only 
with  half-conviction,  perhaps  with  some  spleen  : 
for  so  strangely  is  man  tempered,  that  he  may 
be  persuaded  of  the  worthlessness  of  any  darl- 
ing object,  may  turn  away  from  it,  nay,  even 
execrate  it,  but  yet  will  not  see  it  treated  in  this 
way  by  others ;  and  perhaps  the  Spirit  of  Con- 
tradiction which  dwells  in  all  men,  never  rouses 
itself  more  vehemently  and  stoutly  than  in  such 
cases. 

And  the  Editor  of  these  sheets  may  himself 
confess,  that  he  lets  not  this  strange  passage 
through  his  hands  without  some  touch  of  anger. 
Has  not  he,  too,  in  many  senses,  expended  more 
life  and  faculty  than  was  right  on  the  Theatre  ? 
And  would  these  men  convince  him  that  this 
has  been  an  unpardonable  error,  a  fruitless 
toil? 

But  we  have  no  time  for  appending,  in 
splenetic  mood,  such  remembrances  and  after- 
feelings  to  the  narrative :  for  our  friend  now 
finds  himself  agreeably  surprised,  as  one  of  the 
Three,  and  this  a  particularly  prepossessing  one, 
again  comes  before  his  eyes.  Kind,  open  meek- 
ness, announcing  the  purest  peace  of  soul,  came 
in  its  refreshing  effluences  along  with  him. 
Trustfully  the  Wanderer  could  approach,  and 
feel  his  trust  returned. 

Here  he  now  learned  that  the  Chief  was  at 
present  in  the  Sanctuary,  instructing,  teaching, 
blessing  ;  while  the  Three  had  separated  to  visit 
all  the  Regions,  and  everywhere,  after  most 
thorough  information  obtained,  and  conferences 
with  the  subordinate  Overseers,  to  forward  what 
was  in  progress,  to  found  what  was  newly  plan- 
ned, and  thereby  faithfully  discharge  their  high 
duty. 

This  same  excellent  person  now  gave  him  a 


320 


GOETHE. 


more  comprehensive  view  of  their  internal 
situation  and  external  connections ;  explained 
to  him  the  mutual  influences  of  one  Region  on 
another ;  and  also  by  what  steps,  after  a  longer 
or  a  shorter  date,  a  pupil  could  be  transferred 
from  the  one  to  the  other.  All  this  harmonized 
completely  with  what  he  already  knew.  At 
the  same  time,  he  was  much  gratified  by  the 
description  given  of  his  son ;  and  their  farther 
plan  of  education  met  with  his  entire  approval. 

He  was  now,  by  the  Assistants  and  Overseer, 
invited  to  a  Miners'  Festival,  which  was  forth- 
with to  be  celebrated.  The  ascent  of  the  Moun- 
tains was  difficult;  and  Wilhelm  fancied  he  ob- 
served that  his  guide  walked  even  slower  to- 
wards evening,  as  if  the  darkness  had  not  been 
likely  to  obstruct  their  path  still  more.  But 
when  deep  night  came  round  them,  this  enigma 
was  solved  :  our  Wanderer  observed  little  flames 
come  glimmering  and  wavering  forth  from  many 
dells  and  chasms;  gradually  stretch  themselves 
into  lines,  and  roll  over  the  summits  of  the 
mountains.  Much  kindlier  than  when  a  vol- 
cano opens,  and  its  belching  roar  threatens 
whole  countries  with  destruction,  did  this  fair 
light  appear;  and  yet,  by  degrees,  it  glowed 
with  new  brightness;  grew  stronger,  broader, 
more  continuous ;  glittered  like  a  stream  of 
stars,  soft  and  lovely  indeed,  yet  spreading 
boldly  over  all  the  scene. 

After  the  attendant  had  a  little  while  enjoyed 
the  surprise  of  his  guest,  for  they  could  clearly 
enough  observe  each  other,  their  faces  and  forms 
as  well  as  their  path  being  illuminated  by  the 
light  from  the  distance  —  he  began:  "You  see 
here,  in  truth,  a  curious  spectacle :  these  lights, 
which,  day  and  night,  the  whole  year  over, 
gleam  and  work  under  ground,  forwarding  the 
acquisition  of  concealed  and  scarcely  attainable 
treasures ;  these  now  mount  and  well  forth 
from  their  abysses,  and  gladden  the  upper  night. 
Scarcely  could  one  anywhere  enjoy  so  brave  a 
review,  as  here,  where  this  most  useful  occupa- 
tion, which  in  its  subterranean  concealment  is 
dispersed  and  hidden  from  the  eye,  rises  before 
us  in  its  full  completeness,  and  bespeaks  a  great 
secret  combination." 

Amid  such  speeches  and  thoughts,  they  had 
reached  the  spot  where  these  fire-brooks  poured 
themselves  into  a  sea  of  flame,  surrounding  a 
well-lighted  insular  space.  The  Wanderer 
placed  himself  in  the  dazzling  circle,  within 
which,  glittering  lights  by  thousands  formed  an 
imposing  contrast  with  the  miners,  ranked  round 
it  like  a  dark  wall.  Forthwith  arose  the  gayest 
music,  accompanied  by  becoming  songs.  Hol- 
low masses  of  rock  came  forward  on  machinery, 
and  opened  a  resplendent  interior  to  the  eye  of 
the  delighted  spectator.  Mimetic  exhibitions, 
and  whatever  else  at  such  a  moment  can  gratify 
the  multitude,  combined  with  all  this  at  once  to 
excite  and  to  satisfy  a  cheerful  attention. 

But  with  what  astonishment  was  Wilhelm 
filled,  when,  on  being  introduced  to  the  Su- 
periors, he  observed  Friend  Jarno,  in  solemn 


stately  robes,  among  the  number !  "  Not  in 
vain,"  cried  Jarno,  "  have  I  changed  my  former 
name  with  the  more  expressive  title  of  Montan  : 
thou  findest  me  here  initiated  in  mountain  and 
cave  ;  and  now,  if  questioned,  I  could  disclose 
and  explain  to  thee  much  that  a  year  ago  was 
still  a  riddle  to  myself." 

As  Wilhelm,  in  order  to  reach  any  point  of 
the  line  marked  out  by  the  first  Arrow,  had  to 
proceed  obliquely  through  the  country,  he  found 
himself  necessitated  to  perform  the  journey  on 
foot,  leaving  his  luggage  to  be  carried  after  him. 
For  this  walk  of  his,  however,  he  was  richly 
rewarded;  meeting  at  every  step,  quite  unex- 
pectedly, with  loveliest  tracts  of  scenery.  They 
were  of  that  sort,  which  the  last  slope  of  a 
mountain  region  forms  in  its  meeting  with  the 
plain  country;  bushy  hills,  their  soft  declivities 
employed  in  domestic  use ;  all  level  spaces 
green  ;  nowhere  aught  steep,  unfruitful,  or  un- 
ploughed  to  be  noticed.  Ere  long  he  reached 
the  main  valley,  into  which  the  side -waters 
flowed  ;  and  this  too  was  carefully  cultivated, 
graceful  when  you  looked  over  it;  with  taper 
trees  marking  the  bends  of  the  river,  and  of  the 
brooks  which  poured  into  it.  On  looking  at  his 
map,  his  indicator,  he  observed  with  surprise 
that  the  line  drawn  for  him  cut  directly  through 
this  valley ;  so  that,  in  the  first  place,  he  was  at 
least  on  the  right  road. 

An  old  castle,  in  good  repair,  and  seemingly 
built  at  different  periods,  stood  forth  on  a  bushy 
hill ;  at  the  foot  of  which  a  gay  hamlet  stretched 
along,  with  its  large  inn  rising  prominent  among  j 
the  other  houses.  Hither  he  proceeded ;  and 
was  received  by  the  landlord  kindly  enough, 
yet  with  an  excuse  that  he  could  not  be  admit- 
ted, unless  by  the  permission  of  a  party  who 
had  hired  the  whole  establishment  for  a  time; 
on  which  account  he,  the  landlord,  was  under 
the  necessity  of  sending  all  his  guests  to  the 
older  inn,  which  lay  farther  up  the  hamlet. 
After  a  short  conference,  the  man  seemed  to 
bethink  himself,  and  said  :  "  Indeed  there  is  no 
one  of  them  at  home  even  now  ;  but  this  is  Sa- 
turday, and  the  Bailiff  will  not  fail  to  be  here 
soon  ;  he  comes  every  week  to  settle  the  ac-  i 
counts  of  the  last,  and  make  arrangements  for 
the  next.  Truly,  there  is  a  fair  order  reigns 
among  these  men,  and  a  pleasure  in  having  to 
do  with  them,  though  they  are  strict  enough; 
for  if  they  yield  one  no  great  profit,  it  is  sure 
and  constant."  He  then  desired  his  new  guest 
to  amuse  himself  in  the  large  upper  hall,  and 
await  what  farther  might  occur. 

Here  Wilhelm,  on  entering,  found  a  large 
clean  apartment;  except  for  benches  and  tables, 
altogether  empty.  So  much  the  more  was  he 
surprised  to  see  a  large  tablet  inserted  above 
one  of  the  doors,  with  these  words  marked  on 
it  in  golden  letters,  Ubi  homines  sunt  modi  sunt ; 
which  in  modern  tongue  may  signify,  that  where 
men  combine  in  society,  the  way  and  manner 


GOE 


in  which  they  like  to  be  and  to  continue  together 
is  directly  established.  This  motto  made  our 
Wanderer  think;  he  took  it  as  a  good  omen; 
finding  here,  expressed  and  confirmed,  a  prin- 
ciple which  he  had  often,  in  the  course  of  life, 
perceived  for  himself  to  be  furthersome  and 
reasonable.  He  had  not  waited  long,  when  the 
Bailiff  made  his  appearance;  who  being  fore- 
warned by  the  landlord,  after  a  short  conversa- 
tion, and  no  very  special  scrutiny,  admitted 
Wilhelm  on  the  following  terms  :  To  continue 
three  days ;  to  participate  quietly  in  whatever 
should  occur;  and  happen  what  might,  to  ask 
no  questions  about  the  reason,  and  at  taking 
leave,  to  ask  none  about  the  score.  All  this  our 
traveller  was  obliged  to  comply  with,  the  deputy 
not  being  allowed  to  yield  in  a  single  point. 

The  Bailiff  was  about  retiring,  when  a  sound 
of  vocal  music  rolled  up  the  stair:  two  pretty 
young  men  entered  singing;  and  these  the  Bail- 
iff, by  a  simple  sign,  gave  to  understand  that 
their  guest  was  accepted.  Without  interrupting 
their  song,  they  kindly  saluted  the  stranger,  and 
continued  their  duet  with  the  finest  grace,  show- 
ing clearly  enough  that  they  were  well  trained, 
and  complete  masters  of  their  art.  As  Wilhelm 
testified  the  most  attentive  interest,  they  paused 
and  inquired  :  If  in  his  own  pedestrian  wan- 
derings no  song  ever  occurred  to  him,  which 
he  went  along  singing  by  himself?  u  A  good 
voice,"  answered  Wilhelm,  "  Nature  has  in  truth 
denied  me  :  yet  I  often  feel  as  if  a  secret  Genius 
were  whispering  some  rhythmic  words  in  my 
ear;  so  that,  in  walking,  I  move  to  musical 
measure ;  fancying,  at  the  same  time,  that  I 
hear  low  tones,  accompanying  some  song,  which, 
in  one  way  or  another,  has  pleasantly  risen  be- 
fore me." 

"  If  you  recollect  such  a  song,  write  it  down 
for  us,"  said  they :  "  We  shall  see  if  we  have 
skill  to  accompany  your  singing  Demon."  He 
took  a  leaf  from  his  note-book,  and  handed  them 
the  following  lines  : 

From  the  mountains  to  the  champaign, 

By  the  glens  and  hills  along, 
Comes  a  rustling  and  a  tramping, 

Cornes  a  motion  as  of  song  : 
And  this  undetermined  roving 

Brings  delight,  and  brings  good  heed; 
And  thy  striving,  be 't  with  Loving, 

And  thy  living,  be 't  in  Deed  ! 

After  brief  study,  there  arose  at  once  a  gay 
marching  melody,  which,  in  its  repetition  and 
restriction  still  stepping  forward,  hurried  on  the 
hearer  with  it:  he  was  in  doubt  whether  this 
was  his  own  tune,  his  former  theme;  or  one 
now  for  the  first  time  so  fitted  to  the  words, 
that  no  other  movement  was  conceivable.  The 
singers  had  for  some  time  pleasantly  proceeded 
in  this  manner,  when  two  stout  young  fellows 
came  in,  whom,  by  their  accoutrements,  you 
directly  recognised  as  masons ;  two  others,  who 
followed  them,  being  as  evidently  carpenters. 
These  four,  softly  laying  down  their  tools,  list- 
ened to  the  music,  and  soon  struck  in  with  sure 
and  decided  voices ;  so  that  to  the  mind  it 
2a 


THE.  321 


seemed  as  .if  a  real  wayfaring  company  were 
stepping  along  over  hill  and  valley;  and  Wil- 
helm thought  he  had  never  heard  anything  so 
graceful,  so  enlivening  to  heart  and  mind.  This 
enjoyment,  however,  was  to  be  increased  yet 
farther,  and  raised  to  the  highest  pitch,  by  the 
entrance  of  a  gigantic  figure,  mounting  the  stair 
with  a  hard  firm  tread,  which,  with  all  his  ef- 
forts, he  could  scarcely  moderate.  A  heavy- 
laden  dorsel  he  directly  placed  in  the  corner; 
himself  he  seated  on  a  bench,  which  beginning 
to  creak  under  his  weight,  the  others  laughed, 
yet  without  going  wrong  in  their  music.  Wil- 
helm, however,  was  exceedingly  surprised,  when, 
with  a  huge  bass  voice,  this  Son  of  Anak  joined 
in  also.  The  hall  quivered;  and  it  was  to  be 
observed  that  in  his  part  he  altered  the  burden, 
and  sang  it  thus  : 

Life 's  no  resting,  but  a  moving, 

Let  thy  life  be  deed  on  deed  ! 

Farther,  you  could  very  soon  perceive  that  he 
was  drawing  down  the  time  to  a  slower  step, 
and  forcing  the  rest  to  follow  him.  Of  this, 
when  at  last  they  were  satisfied  and  had  con- 
cluded, they  accused  him ;  declaring  he  had 
tried  to  set  them  wrong. 

"  Not  at  all !"  cried  he  :  "  it  is  you  who  tried 
to  set  me  wrong;  to  put  me  out  of  my  own 
step,  which  must  be  measured  and  sure,  if  I  am 
to  walk  with  my  loading  up  hill  and  down  dale, 
and  yet,  in  the  end,  arrive  at  my  appointed 
hour,  to  satisfy  your  wants. 

One  after  the  other,  these  persons  now  passed 
into  an  adjoining  room  to  the  Bailiff;  and  Wil- 
helm easily  observed  that  they  were  occupied 
in  settling  accounts ;  a  point,  however,  as  to 
which  he  was  not  allowed  at  present  to  inquire 
farther.  Two  fair  lively  boys  in  the  mean- 
while entered,  and  began  covering  a  table  in 
all  speed,  moderately  furnishing  it  with  meat 
and  wine;  and  the  Bailiff,  coming  out,  invited 
them  all  to  sit  down  along  with  him.  The  boys 
waited;  yet  forgot  not  their  own  concern,  but 
enjoyed  their  share  in  a  standing  posture.  Wil- 
helm recollected  witnessing  similar  scenes 
during  his  abode  among  the  players ;  yet  the 
present  company  seemed  to  be  of  a  much  more 
serious  cast ;  constituted  not  out  of  sport,  for 
show,  but  with  a  view  to  important  concerns 
of  life. 

The  conversation  of  the  craftsmen  with  the 
Bailiff  added  strength  to  this  conviction.  These 
four  active  young  people,  it  appeared,  were 
busy  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  a  violent  con- 
flagration had  destroyed  the  fairest  village  in 
the  country ;  nor  did  Wilhelm  fail  to  learn  that 
the  worthy  Bailiff  was  employed  in  getting 
timber  and  other  building  materials  ;  all  which 
looked  the  more  enigmatical,  as  none  of  these 
persons  seemed  to  be  resident  here,  but  in  all 
other  points  announced  themselves  as  transitory 
strangers.  By  way  of  conclusion  to  the  meal, 
St.  Christopher,  such  was  the  name  they  gave 
the  giant,  brought  out,  for  good-night,  a  dainty 
glass  of  wine,  which  had  before  been  set  aside : 


322 


GOETHE. 


a  gay  choral  song  kept  the  party  still  some  time 
together,  after  they  were  out  of  sight ;  and  then 
Wilhelm  was  at  last  conducted  to  a  chamber  of 
the  loveliest  aspect  and  situation.  The  full 
moon,  enlightening  a  rich  plain,  was  already 
up  ;  and  in  the  bosom  of  our  Wanderer  it  awoke 
remembrances  of  similar  scenes.  The  spirits 
of  all  dear  friends  hovered  past  him  :  especially 
the  image  of  Lenardo  rose  in  him  so  vividly, 
that  he  might  have  fancied  the  man  himself 
was  standing  before  his  eyes.  All  this  had  pre- 
pared him  with  its  kind  influences  for  nightly 
rest;  when,  on  a  sudden,  there  arose  a  tone  of 
so  strange  a  nature,  that  it  almost  frightened 
him.  It  sounded  as  from  a  distance,  and  yet 
seemed  to  be  in  the  house  itself;  for  the  build- 
ing quivered  many  times,  and  the  floors  rever- 
berated when  the  sound  rose  to  its  highest  pitch. 
Wilhelm,  though  his  ear  was  usually  delicate  in 
discriminating  tones,  could  make  nothing  of  this: 
he  compared  it  to  the  droning  roar  of  a  huge 
organ-pipe,  which,  for  sheer  compass,  produces 
no  determinate  note.  Whether  this  nocturnal 
terror  passed  away  towards  morning,  or  Wil- 
helm by  degrees  became  accustomed  to  the 
sound,  and  no  longer  heeded  it,  is  difficult  to 
discover:  at  any  rate,  he  fell  asleep;  and  was 
in  due  time  pleasantly  awakened  by  the  rising 
sun. 

Scarcely  had  one  of  the  boys  who  were  in 
waiting  brought  him  breakfast,  when  a  figure 
entered,  whom  he  had  already  noticed  last 
night  at  supper,  without  clearly  ascertaining 
his  quality.  A  well-formed,  broad-shouldered, 
yet  nimble  man;  who  now,  by  the  implements 
which  he  spread  out,  announced  himself  as 
Barber,  and  forthwith  prepared  for  performing 
his  much-desired  office  on  Wilhelm.  For  the 
rest,  he  was  quite  silent:  and  with  a  light  hand 
he  went  through  his  task,  without  once  having 
opened  his  lips.  Wilhelm  therefore  began,  and 
said:  "Of  your  art  you  are  completely  master; 
and  I  know  not  that  I  have  ever  had  a  softer 
razor  on  my  cheeks:  at  the  same  time,  how- 
ever, you  appear  to  be  a  strict  observer  of  the 
laws  of  the  Society." 

Roguishly  smiling,  laying  his  finger  on  his 
lips,  the  taciturn  shaver  glided  through  the  door. 
"  By  my  sooth !"  cried  Wilhelm  after  him,  "  I 
think  you  must  be  old  Redcloak  ;  if  not  himself, 
at  least  a  descendant  of  his :  it  is  lucky  for  you 
that  you  ask  no  counter  service  of  me ;  your 
turn  would  have  been  but  sorrily  done." 

No  sooner  had  this  curious  personage  retired, 
than  the  well-known  Bailiff  came  in,  inviting 
onr  friend  to  dinner  for  this  day,  in  words 
which  sounded  pretty  strange:  the  Bond,  so 
said  the  speaker  expressly,  gave  the  stranger 
welcome;  requested  his  company  at  dinner; 
and  took  pleasure  in  the  hope  of  being  more 
closely  connected  with  him.  Inquiries  were 
then  made  as  to  the  guest's  health,  and  how  he 
was  contented  with  his  entertainment;  to  all 
which  he  could  only  answer  in  terms  of  satis- 
faction.   He  would,  in  truth,  have  liked  much 


to  ask  of  this  man,  as  previously  of  the  silent 
Barber,  some  information  touching  the  horrid 
sound,  which  throughout  the  night  bad,  if  not 
tormented,  at  least  discomposed  him :  but, 
mindful  of  his  engagement,  he  forbore  all  ques- 
tions ;  hoping  that,  without  importunity,  from 
the  good-will  of  the  Society,  or  in  some  other 
accidental  way,  he  might  be  informed  according 
to  his  wishes. 

Our  friend,  now  when  left  alone,  began  to 
reflect  on  the  strange  person  who  had  sent  him 
this  invitation,  and  knew  not  well  what  to 
make  of  the  matter.  To  designate  one  or  more 
superiors  by  a  neuter  noun,  seemed  to  him  a 
somewhat  precarious  mode  of  speech.  For  the 
rest,  there  was  such  a  stillness  all  round,  that 
he  could  not  recollect  of  ever  having  passed  a 
stiller  Sunday.  He  went  out  of  doors;  and. 
hearing  a  sound  of  bells,  walked  towards  the 
village.  Mass  was  just  over;  and  among  the 
villagers  and  country-people  crowding  out  of 
church,  he  observed  three  acquaintances  of  last 
night;  a  mason,  a  carpenter,  and  a  boy.  Farther 
on,  he  met  among  the  Protestant  worshippers 
the  other  corresponding  three.  How  the  rest 
managed  their  devotion  was  unknown  to  him: 
but  so  much  he  thought  himself  entitled  to  con- 
clude, that  in  this  Society  a  full  religious  tolera- 
tion was  practised. 

About  midday,  at  the  castle-gate,  he  was  met 
by  the  Bailiff ;  who  then  conducted  him  through 
various  halls  into  a  large  antechamber,  and 
there  desired  him  to  take  a  seat.  Many  persons 
passed  through  into  an  adjoining  hall.  Those 
already  known  were  to  be  seen  among  them  ; 
St.  Christopher  himself  went  by:  all  saluted  the 
Bailiff  and  the  stranger.  But  what  struck  our 
friend  most  in  this  affair  was,  that  the  whole 
party  seemed  to  consist  of  artisans ;  all  dressed 
in  the  usual  fashion,  though  extremely  neat  and 
clean  :  a  few  among  the  number  you  might  at 
most  perhaps  have  reckoned  of  the  clerk 
species. 

No  more  guests  now  making  their  appear- 
ance, the  Bailiff*  led  our  friend  through  the 
stately  door  into  a  spacious  hall.  Here  a  table 
of  immense  length  had  been  covered  ;  past  the 
lower  end  of  which  he  was  conducted,  towards 
the  head,  where  he  saw  three  persons  standing 
in  a  cross  direction.  But  what  was  his  astonish- 
ment when  he  approached,  and  Lenardo,  scarce- 
ly yet  recognised,  fell  upon  his  neck.  From  this 
surprise  he  had  not  recovered,  when  another 
person,  with  no  less  warmth  and  vivacity,  like- 
wise embraced  him;  announcing  himself  as  our 
strange  Friedrich,  Natalia's  brother.  The  rap- 
ture of  these  friends  diffused  itself  over  all  pre- 
sent; an  exclamation  of  joy  and  blessing  sounded 
along  the  whole  table.  But  in  a  moment,  the 
company  being  seated,  all  again  became  silent; 
and  the  repast,  served  up  with  a  certain  solem- 
nity, was  enjoyed  in  like  manner. 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony, 
Lenardo  gave  a  sign:  two  singers  rose;  and 
Wilhelm  was  exceedingly  surprised  to  hear  in 


GOETHE. 


323 


this  place  his  yesternight's  song;  which  we,  for 
the  sake  of  what  follows,  shall  beg  permission 
to  insert  once  more. 

From  the  mountains  to  the  champaign, 

By  the  glens  and  lulls  along, 
Comes  a  rustling  and  a  tramping, 

Comes  a  motion  as  of  song  : 
And  this  undetermined  roving 

Brings  delight,  and  brings  good  heed  ; 
And  thy  striving,  he't  with  Loving, 

And  thy  living,  be't  in  Deed ! 

Scarcely  had  this  duet,  accompanied  by  a 
chorus  of  agreeable  number,  approached  its 
conclusion,  when  two  other  singers,  on  the  op- 
posite side,  started  up  impetuously;  and,  with 
earnest  vehemence,  inverted  rather  than  con- 
tinued the  song;  to  Wilhelm's  astonishment, 
proceeding  thus  : 

For  the  tie  is  snapt  asunder, 

Trust  and  loving  hope  are  fled; 
Can  I  tell,  in  fear  and  wonder, 

With  what  dangers  now  bested, 
I,  cut  off  from  fnend  and  brother, 

Like  the  widow  in  her  wo, 
With  the  one  and  not  the  other, 

On  and  on,  my  way  must  go  ! 

The  chorus,  taking  up  this  strophe,  grew 
more  and  more  numerous,  more  and  more  voci- 
ferous; and  yet  the  voice  of  St.  Christopher, 
from  the  bottom  of  the  table,  could  still  be  dis- 
tinctly recognised  among  them.  The  lamenta- 
tion, in  the  end,  rose  almost  to  be  frightful :  a 
spirit  of  dispiritment,  combining  with  the  skil- 
ful execution  of  the  singers,  introduced  some- 
thing unnatural  into  the  whole,  so  that  it  pained 
our  friend,  and  almost  made  him  shudder.  In 
truth,  they  all  seemed  perfectly  of  one  mind ; 
and  as  if  lamenting  their  own  fate  on  the  eve 
of  a  separation.  The  strange  repetitions,  the 
frequent  resuscitation  of  a  fatiguing  song,  at 
length  became  dangerous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Bond  itself:  Lenardo  rose,  and  all  instantly  sat 
down,  abruptly  breaking  off  their  hymn.  The 
other,  with  friendly  words,  thus  began  : 

"  Indeed  I  cannot  blame  you  for  continually 
recalling  to  your  minds  the  destiny  which  stands 
before  us  all,  that  so,  at  any  hour,  you  may  be 
ready  for  it.  If  aged  and  life-weary  men  have 
called  to  their  neighbors  :  Think  of  dying!  we 
younger  and  life-loving  men  may  well  keep  en- 
couraging and  reminding  one  another  with  the 
cheerful  words:  Think  of  wandering!  Yet, 
withal,  of  a  thing  which  we  either  voluntarily 
undertake,  or  believe  ourselves  constrained  to, 
it  were  well  to  speak  with  cheerfulness  and 
moderation.  You  yourselves  know  best  what, 
in  our  situation,  is  fixed,  and  what  is  movable  : 
let  us  enjoy  the  former,  too,  in  sprightly  and  gay 
tones;  and  to  its  success  be  this  parting  cup 
now  drunk!"  He  emptied  his  glass,  and  sat 
down  :  the  four  singers  instantly  rose,  and  in 
flowing  connected  tones,  thus  began  : 

Keep  not  standing  fix'd  and  rooted, 

Briskly  venture,  briskly  roam, 
Head  and  hand,  where'er  thou  foot  it, 

And  stout  heart,  are  still  at  home. 


In  each  land  the  sun  does  visit, 

We  are  gay,  whate'er  betide : 
To  give  room  for  wand'ring  is  it 

That  the  world  was  made  so  wide. 

As  the  chorus  struck  in  with  its  repetition 
of  these  lines,  Lenardo  rose,  and  with  him  all 
the  rest.  His  nod  set  the  whole  company  into 
singing  movement;  those  at  the  lower  end 
marched  out,  St.  Christopher  at  their  head,  in 
pairs  through  the  hall;  and  the  uplifted  wan- 
derers' song  grew  clearer  and  freer,  the  farther 
they  proceeded  ;  producing  at  last  a  particularly 
good  effect,  when,  from  the  terraces  of  the  castle- 
garden,  you  looked  down  over  the  broad  valley, 
in  whose  fulness  and  beauty  you  might  well 
have  liked  to  lose  yourself.  While  the  multi- 
tude were  dispersing  this  way  and  that,  accord- 
ing to  their  pleasure,  Wilhelm  was  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  third  Superior.  This  was 
the  Amtmann  ;  by  whose  kind  influence  many 
favors  had  been  done  the  Society ;  in  particular, 
the  Castle  of  his  patron  the  Count,  situated 
among  several  families  of  rank,  had  been  given 
up  to  their  use,  so  long  as  they  might  think  fit 
to  tarry  here. 

Towards  evening,  while  the  friends  were  in 
a  far-seeing  grove,  there  came  a  portly  figure 
over  the  threshold,  whom  Wilhelm  at  once  re- 
cognised as  the  Barber  of  this  morning.  To  a 
low  mute  bow  of  the  man,  Lenardo  answered: 
"  You  now  come,  as  always,  at  the  right  season ; 
and  will  not  delay  to  entertain  us  with  your 
talent.  I  may  be  allowed,"  continued  he,  turn- 
ing towards  Wilhelm,  "  to  give  you  some  know- 
ledge of  our  Society,  the  Bond  of  which  I  may 
flatter  myself  that  I  am.  No  one  enters  our 
circle  unless  he  have  some  talents  to  show, 
which  may  contribute  to  the  use  or  enjoyment 
of  society  in  general.  This  man  is  an  excellent 
surgeon  ;  of  his  skill  as  a  beard-artist  you  your- 
self can  testify :  for  these  reasons,  he  is  no  less 
welcome  than  necessary  to  us.  Now,  as  his 
employment  usually  brings  with  it  a  great  and 
often  burdensome  garrulity,  he  has  engaged,  for 
the  sake  of  his  own  culture,  to  comply  with  a 
certain  condition ;  as,  indeed,  every  one  that 
means  to  live  with  us  must  agree  to  constrain 
himself  in  some  particular  point,  if  the  greater 
freedom  be  left  him  in  all  other  points.  Ac- 
cordingly, our  Barber  has  renounced  the  use  of 
his  tongue,  in  so  far  as  aught  common  or  casual 
is  to  be  expressed  by  it:  but  by  this  means, 
another  gift  of  speech  has  been  unfolded  in  him, 
which  acts  by  forethought,  cunningly  and  plea- 
surably  ;  I  mean  the  gift  of  narration. 

"His  life  is  rich  in  wonderful  experiences, 
which  he  used  to  split  in  pieces,  babbling  of 
them  at  wrong  times  ;  but  which  he  now,  con- 
strained by  silence,  repeats  and  arranges  in  his 
quiet  thought.  This  also  his  power  of  imagina- 
tion now  forwards,  lending  life  and  movement 
to  past  occurrences.  With  no  common  art  and 
skill,  he  can  relate  to  us  genuine  Antique  Tales, 
or  modern  stories  of  the  same  fabulous  cast; 
thereby,  at  the  right  hour  affording  us  a  most 


324 


GOETHE. 


pleasant  entertainment,  when  I  loose  his  tongue 
for  him;  which  I  now  do;  giving  him,  at  the 
eame  time,  this  praise,  that  in  the  considerable 
period  during  which  I  have  known  him,  he  has 
never  once  heen  guilty  of  a  repetition.  I  cannot 
but  hope,  that,  in  the  present  case,  for  love  and 
respect  to  our  clear  guest,  he  will  especially  dis- 
tinguish himself." 

A  sprightly  cheerfulness  spread  over  Red- 
cloak's  face ;  and  without  delay,  he  began 
speaking  as  follows. 

THE   NEW  MELTJSINA. 

"  Respected  gentlemen  !  Being  aware  that 
preliminary  speeches  and  introductions  are  not 
much  to  your  taste,  I  shall  without  farther  talk 
assure  you,  that  in  the  present  instance,  I  hope 
to  fulfil  your  commission  moderately  well. 
From  me  has  many  a  true  history  gone  forth 
already,  to  the  high  and  universal  satisfaction 
of  hearers  :  but,  to-day  I  may  assert,  that  I  have 
one  to  tell,  which  far  surpasses  the  former;  and 
which,  though  it  happened  to  me  several  years 
ago,  still  disquiets  me  in  recollecting  it,  nay, 
still  gives  hope  of  some  farther  development. 

"  By  way  of  introduction,  let  me  confess,  that 
I  have  not  always  so  arranged  my  scheme  of 
life  as  to  be  certain  of  the  next  period  in  it,  or 
even  of  the  next  day.  In  my  youth,  I  was  no 
first-rate  economist;  and  often  found  myself  in 
manifold  perplexity.  At  one  time,  I  undertook 
a  journey,  thinking  to  derive  good  profit  in  the 
course  of  it:  but  the  scale  I  went  upon  was  too 
liberal ;  and  after  having  commenced  my  travel 
with  Extra-post,  and  then  prosecuted  it  for  a 
time  in  the  Diligence,  I  at  last  found  myself 
obliged  to  front  the  end  of  it  on  foot. 

"  Like  a  gay  young  blade,  it  had  been  from 
of  old  my  custom,  on  entering  any  inn,  to  look 
round  for  the  landlady,  or  even  the  cook,  and 
wheedle  myself  into  favor  with  her;  whereby, 
for  most  part,  my  shot  was  somewhat  reduced. 

"  One  night  at  dusk,  as  I  was  entering  the 
Post-house  of  a  little  town,  and  purposing  to  set 
about  my  customary  operations,  there  came  a 
fair  double-seated  coach  with  four  horses,  rat- 
tling up  to  the  door  behind  me.  I  turned  round  ; 
and  observed  in  it  a  young  lady,  without  maid, 
without  servants.  I  hastened  to  open  the  car- 
riage for  her,  and  to  ask  if  I  could  help  her  in 
anything.  On  stepping  out,  a  fair  form  dis- 
played itself;  and  her  lovely  countenance,  if 
you  looked  at  it  narrowly,  was  adorned  with  a 
slight  shade  of  sorrow.  I  again  asked  if  there 
was  aught  I  could  do  for  her.  '0  yes!'  said 
she,  'if  you  will  lift  that  little  Box  carefully, 
which  you  will  find  standing  on  the  seat,  and 
bring  it  in  :  but  I  beg  very  much  of  you  to  carry 
it  with  all  steadiness,  and  not  to  move  or  shake 
it  in  the  least.'  I  took  out  the  Box  with  great 
care;  she  shut  the  coach-door:  we  walked  up 
stairs  together,  and  she  told  the  servants  that 
she  was  to  stay  here  for  the  night. 

"We  were  now  alone  in  the  chamber:  she 


desired  me  to  put  the  Box  on  the  table,  which 
was  standing  at  the  wall ;  and  as,  by  several 
of  her  movements,  I  observed  that  she  wished 
to  be  alone,  I  took  my  leave,  reverently  but 
warmly  kissing  her  hand. 

"  '  Order  supper  for  us  two,'  said  she  then : 
and  you  may  well  conceive  with  what  pleasure 
I  executed  the  commission  ;  scarcely  deigning, 
in  my  pride  of  heart,  to  cast  even  a  side-look  on 
landlady  and  menials.  With  impatience  I  ex- 
pected the  moment  that  was  to  lead  me  back 
to  her.  Supper  was  served :  we  took  our  seats 
opposite  each  other ;  I  refreshed  my  heart,  for 
the  first  time  during  a  considerable  while,  with 
a  good  meal ;  and  no  less  with  so  desirable  a 
sight  beside  me  ;  nay,  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
growing  fairer  and  fairer  every  moment. 

"Her  conversation  was  pleasant;  yet  she 
carefully  waived  whatever  had  reference  to  af- 
fection and  love.  The  cloth  was  removed  :  I 
still  lingered,  I  tried  all  sorts  of  manoeuvres  to 
get  near  her ;  but  in  vain  ;  she  kept  me  at  my 
distance,  by  a  certain  dignity  which  I  could  not 
withstand  ;  nay,  against  my  will,  I  had  to  part 
from  her  at  a  rather  early  hour. 

"  After  a  night  passed  in  waking  or  unrestfully 
dreaming,  I  rose  early;  inquired  whether  she 
had  ordered  horses;  and  learning  that  she  had 
not,  I  walked  into  the  garden,  saw  her  standing 
dressed  at  the  window,  and  hastened  up  to  her. 
Here,  as  she  looked  so  fair,  and  fairer  than  ever, 
love,  roguery,  and  audacity  all  at  once  started 
into  motion  within  me  :  I  rushed  towards  her, 
and  clasped  her  in  my  arms.  'Angelic,  irre- 
sistible being.'  cried  I,  'pardon  !  but  it  is  impos- 
sible— !'  With  incredible  dexterity  she  whisked 
herself  out  of  my  arms,  and  I  had  not  even  time 
to  imprint  a  kiss  on  her  cheek.  'Forbear  such 
outbreakings  of  a  sudden  foolish  passion,'  said 
she,  'if  you  would  not  scare  away  a  happiness 
which  lies  close  beside  you,  but  which  cannot 
be  laid  hold  of  till  after  some  trials.' 

"  '  Ask  of  me  what  thou  pleasest.  angelic  spi- 
rit'/ cried  I:  'but  do  not  drive  me  to  despair.' 
She  answered  with  a  smile:  'If  you  mean  to 
devote  yourself  to  my  service,  hear  the  terms. 
I  am  come  hither  to  visit  a  lady  of  my  friends, 
and  with  her  I  purpose  to  continue  for  a  time: 
in  the  meanwhile,  I  could  wish  that  my  carriage 
and  this  Box  were  taken  forward.  Will  you 
engage  with  it?  You  have  nothing  to  do.  but 
carefully  to  lift  the  Box  into  the  carriage  and 
out;  to  sit  down  beside  it.  and  punctually  take 
charge  that  it  receive  no  harm.  When  you 
1  enter  an  inn,  it  is  put  upon  a  table,  in  a  chamber 
by  itself,  in  which  you  must  neither  sit  nor 
sleep.  You  lock  the  chamber  -door  with  this 
key,  which  will  open  and  shut  any  lock,  and 
has  the  peculiar  property,  that  no  lock  shut  by 
it  can  be  opened  in  the  interim.' 

"I  looked  at  her;  I  felt  strangely  enough  at 
heart :  I  promised  to  do  all,  if  1  might  hope  to 
see  her  soon,  and  if  she  would  seal  this  hope  to 
me  with  a  kiss.  She  did  so;  and  from  that 
moment,  I  had  become  entirely  her  bondman. 


GOETHE. 


32a 


I  was  now  to  order  horses,  she  said.  We  set- 
tled the  way  I  was  to  take ;  the  places  where  I 
was  to  wait,  and  expect  her.  She  at  last  pressed 
a  purse  of  gold  into  my  hand,  and  I  pressed  my 
lips  on  the  fair  hand  that  gave  it  me.  She  seemed 
moved  at  parting ;  and  for  me,  I  no  longer  knew 
what  I  was  doing  or  was  to  do. 

"On  my  return  from  giving  my  orders,  I 
found  the  room-door  locked.  I  directly  tried 
my  master-key,  and  it  performed  its  duty  per- 
fectly. The  door  flew  up  :  I  found  the  chamber 
empty ;  only  the  Box  standing  on  the  table  where 
I  had  laid  it. 

"  The  carriage  drove  up  :  I  carried  the  Box 
carefully  down  with  me,  and  placed  it  by  my 
side.  The  hostess  asked :  '  Where  is  the  lady, 
then  V  A  child  answered  :  1  She  is  gone  into  the 
town.'  I  nodded  to  the  people  ;  and  rolled  off 
in  triumph  from  the  door,  which  I  had  last 
night  entered  with  dusty  gaiters.  That  in  my 
hours  of  leisure  I  diligently  meditated  on  this  ad- 
venture, counted  my  money,  laid  many  schemes, 
and  still  now  and  then  kept  glancing  at  the  Box, 
you  will  readily  imagine.  I  posted  right  for- 
ward; passed  several  stages  without  alighting; 
and  rested  not  till  I  had  reached  a  considerable 
town,  where  my  fair  one  had  appointed  me  to 
wait.  Her  commands  had  been  pointedly  obey- 
ed :  the  Box  always  carried  to  a  separate  room, 
and  two  wax  candles  lighted  beside  it,  for  such 
■■  also  had  been  her  order.  I  would  then  lock  the 
chamber  ;  establish  myself  in  my  own,  and  take 
such  comfort  as  the  place  afforded. 

"For  a  while  I  was  able  to  employ  myself 
with  thinking  of  her  ;  but  by  degrees  the  time 
began  to  hang  heavy  on  my  hands.  I  was  not 
used  to  live  without  companions :  these  I  soon 
found,  at  tables-d'hote,  in  coffee-houses,  and 
public  places,  altogether  to  my  wish.  In  such 
a  mode  of  living  my  money  began  to  melt  away ; 
and  one  night,  it  vanished  entirely  from  my 
purse,  in  a  fit  of  passionate  gaming,  which  I 
had  not  had  the  prudence  to  abandon.  Void  of 
money ;  with  the  appearance  of  a  rich  man,  ex^ 
pecting  a  heavy  bill  of  charges;  uncertain  whe- 
ther and  when  my  fair  one  would  again  make 
her  appearance,  I  felt  myself  in  the  deepest 
embarrassment.  Doubly  did  I  now  long  for 
her;  and  believe,  that,  without  her  and  her  gold, 
it  was  quite  impossible  for  me  to  live. 

"  After  supper,  which  I  had  relished  very 
little,  being  forced  for  this  time  to  consume  it  in 
solitude,  I  took  to  walking  violently  up  and  down 
my  room :  I  spoke  aloud  to  myself,  cursed  my 
folly  with  horrid  execrations,  threw  myself  on 
the  floor,  tore  my  hair,  and  indeed  behaved  in 
the  most  outrageous  fashion.    Suddenly,  in  the 
adjoining  chamber  where  the  Box  was,  I  heard 
j    a  slight  movement,  and  then  a  soft  knocking  at 
!    the  well-bolted  door,  which  entered  from  my 
J    apartment.    I  gather  myself,  grope  for  my  mas- 
j    ter-key;  but  the  door-leaves  fly  up  of  them- 
selves; and  in  the  splendor  of  those  burning 
wax-lights  enters  my  Beauty.    I  cast  myself  at 
|    her  feet,  kiss  hejr  robe,  her  hands;  she  raises 


me  ;  I  venture  not  to  clnsp  her,  scarcely  to  look 
at  her;  but  candidly  and  repentantly  confess  to 
her  my  fault.  '  It  is  pardonable,'  said  she ; 
'only  it  postpones  your  happiness  and  mine. 
You  must  now  make  another  tour  into  the  world, 
before  we  can  meet  again.  Here  is  more  money,' 
continued  she,  'sufficient  if  you  husband  it  with 
any  kind  of  reason.  But  as  wine  and  play  have 
brought  you  into  this  perplexity,  be  on  your 
guard  in  future  against  wine  and  women,  and 
let  me  hope  for  a  glad  meeting  when  the  time 
comes.' 

"She  retired  over  the  threshold;  the  door- 
leaves  flew  together :  I  knocked,  I  entreated  ; 
but  nothing  farther  stirred.  Next  morning  while 
presenting  his  bill,  the  waiter  smiled,  and  said: 
'So  we  have  found  out  at  last,  then,  why  you 
lock  your  door  in  so  artful  and  incomprehensible 
a  way,  that  no  master-key  can  open  it.  We  sup- 
posed you  must  have  much  money  and  precious 
ware  laid  up  by  you  ;  but  now  we  have  seen 
your  treasure  walking  down  stairs ;  and  in  good 
truth,  it  seemed  worthy  of  being  well  kept.' 

"To  this  I  answered  nothing;  but  paid  my 
reckoning,  and  mounted  with  my  Box  into  the 
carriage.  I  again  rolled  forth  into  the  world, 
with  the  firmest  resolution  to  be  heedful  in 
future  of  the  warning  given  me  by  my  fair  and 
mysterious  friend.  Scarcely,  however,  had  I 
once  more  reached  a  large  town,  when  forth- 
with I  got  acquainted  with  certain  interesting 
ladies,  from  whom  I  absolutely  could  not  tear 
myself  away.  They  seemed  inclined  to  make 
me  pay  dear  for  their  favor :  for  while  they 
still  kept  me  at  a  certain  distance,  they  led  me 
into  one  expense  after  the  other ;  and  I,  being 
anxious  only  to  promote  their  satisfaction,  once 
more  ceased  to  think  of  my  purse,  but  paid  and 
spent  straight  forward,  as  occasion  needed. 
But  how  great  was  my  astonishment  and  joy, 
when,  after  some  weeks,  I  observed  that  the 
fulness  of  my  store  was  not  in  the  least  dimin- 
ished, that  my  purse  was  still  as  round  and 
crammed  as  ever !  Wishing  to  obtain  more 
strict  knowledge  of  this  pretty  quality,  I  set 
myself  down  to  count ;  I  accurately  marked  the 
sum;  and  again  proceeded  in  my  joyous  life  as 
before.  We  had  no  want  of  excursions  by  land, 
and  excursions  by  water ;  of  dancing,  singing, 
and  other  recreations.  But  now  it  required 
small  attention  to  observe  that  the  purse  was 
actually  diminishing;  as  if  by  my  cursed  count- 
ing, I  had  robbed  it  of  the  property  of  being 
uncountable.  However,  this  gay  mode  of  ex- 
istence had  been  once  entered  on  ;  I  could  not 
draw  back ;  and  yet  my  ready  money  soon 
verged  to  a  close.  I  execrated  my  situation  ; 
upbraided  my  fair  friend,  for  having  so  led  me 
into  temptation;  took  it  as  an  offence  that  she 
did  not  again  show  herself  to  me  ;  renounced, 
in  my  spleen,  all  duties  towards  her;  and  re- 
solved to  break  open  the  Box,  and  see  if  per- 
adventure  any  help  might  be  found  there.  I 
was  just  about  proceeding  with  my  purpose; 
but  I  put  it  off"  till  night,  that  I  might  go  through 
28 


326 


GOETHE. 


the  business  with  full  composure;  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  I  hastened  off  to  a  banquet,  for 
which  this  was  the  appointed  hour.  Here 
again  we  got  into  a  high  key ;  the  wine  and 
trumpet-sounding  had  flushed  me  not  a  little, 
when  by  the  most  villanous  luck  it  chanced, 
that  during  the  dessert,  a  former  friend  of  my 
dearest  fair  one,  returning  from  a  journey,  en- 
tered unexpectedly,  placed  himself  beside  her, 
and,  without  much  ceremony,  set  about  assert- 
ing his  old  privileges.  Hence,  very  soon  arose 
ill-humor,  quarrelling,  and  battle:  we  plucked 
out  our  spits  ;  and  I  was  carried  home  half-dead 
of  several  wounds. 

"The  surgeon  had  bandaged  me  and  gone 
away:  it  was  far  in  the  night;  my  sick-nurse 
had  fallen  asleep  ;  the  door  of  the  side-room 
went  up  ;  my  fair  mysterious  friend  came  in, 
and  sat  down  by  me  on  the  bed.  She  asked 
how  I  was :  I  answered  not,  for  I  was  faint 
and  sullen.  She  continued  speaking  with  much 
sympathy:  she  rubbed  my  temples  with  a  cer- 
tain balsam,  whereby  I  felt  myself  rapidly  and 
decidedly  strengthened,  so  strengthened  that  I 
could  now  get  angry  and  upbraid  her.  In  a 
violent  speech  I  threw  all  the  blame  of  my 
misfortune  on  her;  on  the  passion  she  had  in- 
spired me  with  ;  on  her  appearing  and  vanish- 
ing, and  the  tedium,  the  longing  which  in  such 
a  case  I  could  not  but  feel.  I  waxed  more  and 
more  vehement,  as  if  a  fever  had  been  coming 
on  ;  and  I  swore  to  her  at  last,  that  if  she  would 
not  be  mine,  would  not  now  abide  with  me  and 
wed  me,  I  had  no  wish  to  live  any  longer;  to 
all  which  I  required  a  peremptory  answer.  As 
she  lingered  and  held  back  with  her  expla- 
nation, I  got  altogether  beside  myself,  and  tore 
off  my  double  and  triple  bandages,  in  the  firm- 
est resolution  to  bleed  to  death.  But  what  was 
my  amazement,  when  I  found  all  my  wounds 
healed,  my  skin  smooth  and  entire,  and  this 
fair  friend  in  my  arms! 

"Henceforth  we  were  the  happiest  pair  in 
the  world.  We  both  begged  pardon  of  each 
other,  without  either  of  us  rightly  knowing 
why.  She  now  promised  to  travel  on  along 
with  me :  and  soon  we  were  sitting  side  by 
side  in  the  carriage;  the  little  Box  lying  oppo- 
site us  on  the  other  seat.  Of  this  I  had  never 
spoken  to  her,  nor  did  I  now  think  of  speaking, 
though  it  lay  there  before  our  eyes;  and  both 
of  us,  by  tacit  agreement,  took  charge  of  it,  as 
circumstances  might  require ;  I,  however,  still 
carrying  it  to  and  from  the  carriage,  and  busy- 
ing myself,  as  formerly,  with  the  locking  of  the 
doors. 

"So  long  as  aught  remained  in  my  purse,  I 
had  continued  to  pay;  but  when  my  cash  went 
done,  I  signified  the  fact  to  her.  1  That  is  easily 
helped,'  said  she,  pointing  to  a  couple  of  little 
pouches  fixed  at  the  top,  to  the  side  of  the  car- 
riage. These  I  had  often  observed  before,  but 
never  turned  to  use.  She  put  her  hand  into  the 
one,  and  pulled  out  some  gold  pieces,  as  from 
the  other  some  coins  of  silver;  thereby  showing 


me  the  possibility  of  meeting  any  scale  of  ex- 
penditure, which  we  might  choose  to  adopt. 
And  thus  we  journeyed  on  from  town  to  town, 
from  land  to  land  ;  contented  with  each  other 
and  with  the  world :  and  I  fancied  not  that  she 
would  again  leave  me ;  the  less  so,  that  for 
some  time  she  had  evidently  been  as  loving 
wives  wish  to  be,  a  circumstance  by  which  our 
happiness  and  mutual  affection  was  increased 
still  farther.  But  one  morning,  alas!  she  could 
not  be  found  :  and  as  my  actual  residence,  with- 
out her  company,  became  displeasing,  I  again 
took  the  road  with  my  Box  ;  tried  the  virtue  of 
the  two  pouches,  and  found  it  still  unimpaired. 

"My  journey  proceeded  without  accident. 
But  if  I  had  hitherto  paid  little  heed  to  the 
mysteries  of  my  adventure,  expecting  a  natural 
solution  of  the  whole,  there  now  occurred  some- 
thing which  threw  me  into  astonishment,  into 
anxiety,  nay,  into  fear.  Being  wont,  in  my  im- 
patience for  change  of  place,  to  hurry  forward 
day  and  night,  it  was  often  my  hap  to  be  travel- 
ling in  the  dark ;  and  when  the  lamps,  by  any 
chance,  went  out,  to  be  left  in  utter  obscurity. 
Once  in  the  dead  of  such  a  night,  I  had  fallen 
asleep  ;  and  on  awakening,  I  observed  the  glim- 
mer of  a  light  on  the  covering  of  my  carriage. 
I  examined  this  more  strictly,  and  found  that  it 
was  issuing  from  the  Box  ;  in  which  there  seem- 
ed to  be  a  chink,  as  if  it  had  been  chapped  by 
the  warm  and  dry  weather  of  summer,  which 
was  now  come  on.  My  thoughts  of  jewels 
again  came  into  my  head ;  I  supposed  there 
must  be  some  carbuncle  lying  in  the  Box,  and 
this  point  I  forthwith  set  about  investigating.  I 
postured  myself  as  well  as  might  be,  so  that  my 
eye  was  in  immediate  contact  with  the  chink. 
But  how  great  was  my  surprise,  when  a  fair 
apartment,  well-lighted,  and  furnished  with 
much  taste  and  even  costliness,  met  my  inspec- 
tion, just  as  if  I  had  been  looking  down  through 
the  opening  of  a  dome  into  a  royal  saloon!  A 
fire  was  burning  in  the  grate;  and  before  it 
stood  an  arm-chair.  I  held  my  breath  and  con- 
tinued to  observe.  And  now  there  entered  from 
the  other  side  of  the  apartment  a  lady  with  a 
book  in  her  hand,  whom  I  at  once  recognised 
for  my  wife,  though  her  figure  was  contraotdj 
into  the  extreme  of  diminution.  She  sat  down 
in  the  chair  by  the  fire  to  read;  she  trimmed 
the  coals  with  the  most  dainty  pair  of  tongs; 
and  in  the  course  of  her  movements,  I  could 
clearly  perceive  that  this  fairest  little  creature 
was  also  in  the  family  way.  But  now  I  was 
obliged  to  shift  my  constrained  posture  a  little; 
and  the  next  moment,  when  1  bent  down  to 
look  in  again,  and  convince  myself  that  it  was 
no  dream,  the  light,  had  vanished,  and  my  eye 
rested  on  empty  darkness. 

"  How  amazed,  nay,  terrified  I  was,  you  may 
easily  conceive.  I  started  a  thousand  thoughts 
on  this  discovery,  and  in  truth  could  think  no- 
thing. In  the  midst  of  this,  I  fell  asleep  ;  and 
on  awakening,  I  fancied  that  it  must  have  been 
a  mere  dream :  yet  I  felt  myself  in  some  degree 


327 


estranged  from  my  fair  one ;  and  though  I 
watched  over  the  Box,  but  so  much  the  more 
carefully,  I  knew  not  whether  the  event  of  her 
reappearance  in  human  size  was  a  thing  which 
I  should  wish  or  dread. 

"After  some  time  she  did  in  fact  reappear: 
one  evening,  in  a  white  robe,  she  came  gliding 
in;  and  as  it  was  just  then  growing  dusky  in 
my  room,  she  seemed  to  me  taller  than  when  I 
had  seen  her  last:  and  I  remembered  having 
heard  that  all  beings  of  the  mermaid  and 
gnome  species  increased  in  stature  very  per- 
ceptibly at  the  fall  of  night.  She  flew,  as  usual, 
to  my  arms  ;  but  I  could  not  with  right  gladness 
press  her  to  my  obstructed  breast. 

w '  My  dearest,'  said  she,  1 1  now  feel  by  thy 
reception  of  me,  what,  alas,  I  already  knew  too 
well.  Thou  hast  seen  me  in  the  interim:  thou 
art  acquainted  with  the  state  in  which,  at  cer- 
tain times,  I  find  myself ;  thy  happiness  and 
mine  is  interrupted,  nay,  it  stands  on  the  brink 
of  being  annihilated  altogether.  I  must  leave 
thee;  and  I  know  not  whether  I  shall  ever  see 
thee  again.'  Her  presence,  the  grace  with 
which  she  spoke,  directly  banished  from  my 
memory  almost  every  trace  of  that  vision,  which 
indeed  had  already  hovered  before  me  as  little 
more  than  a  dream.  I  addressed  her  with  kind 
vivacity,  convinced  her  of  my  passion,  assured 
her  that  I  was  innocent,  that  my  discovery  was 
accidental:  in  short,  I  so  managed  it  that  she 
appeared  composed,  and  endeavored  to  corn- 
pose  me. 

'"Try  thyself  strictly,'  said  she,  'whether  this 
discovery  has  not  hurt  thy  love,  whether  thou 
canst  forget  that  I  live  in  two  forms  beside  thee, 
whether  the  diminution  of  my  being  will  not 
also  contract  thy  affection.' 

"  I  looked  at  her :  she  was  fairer  than  ever ; 
and  I  thought  within  myself:  Is  it  so  great  a 
misfortune,  after  all,  to  have  a  wife  who  from 
time  to  time  becomes  a  dwarf,  so  that  one  can 
carry  her  about  with  him  in  a  casket?  Were  it 
not  much  worse  if  she  became  a  giantess,  and 
put  her  husband  in  the  box  ?  My  gaiety  of  heart 
had  returned.  I  would  not  for  the  whole  world 
have  let  her  go.  '  Best  heart,'  said  I,  '  let  us  be 
and  continue  ever  as  we  have  been.  Could 
either  of  us  wish  to  be  better?  Enjoy  thy  con- 
veniency ;  and  I  promise  thee  to  guard  the  Box 
with  so  much  the  more  faithfulness.  Why 
should  the  prettiest  sight  I  have  ever  seen  in 
my  life  make  a  bad  impression  on  me  ?  How 
happy  would  lovers  be,  could  they  but  procure 
such  miniature  pictures !  And  after  all  it  was 
but  a  picture,  a  little  sleight-of-hand-deception. 
Thou  art  trying  and  teasing  me:  but  thou  shalt 
see  how  I  will  stand  it.' 

'"The  matter  is  more  serious  than  thou 
thinkest,'  said  the  fair  one:  'however,  I  am 
truly  glad  to  see  thee  take  it  so  lightly;  for 
much  good  may  still  be  awaiting  us  both.  I 
will  trust  in  thee;  and  for  my  own  part  do  my 
utmost:  only  promise  me  that  thou  wilt  never 
mention  this  discovery  by  way  of  reproach. 


Another  prayer  likewise  I  most  earnestly  make 
to  thee  :  Be  more  than  ever  on  thy  guard  against 
wine  and  anger.' 

"  I  promised  what  she  required  ;  I  could  have 
gone  on  promising  to  all  lengths;  but  she  her- 
self turned  aside  the  conversation ;  and  thence- 
forth all  proceeded  in  its  former  routine.  We 
had  no  inducement  to  alter  our  place  of  re- 
sidence :  the  town  was  large,  the  society  vari- 
ous ;  and  the  fine  season  gave  rise  to  many  an 
excursion,  and  garden-festival. 

"In  all  such  amusements  the  presence  of  my 
wife  was  welcome,  nay,  eagerly  desired,  by 
women  as  well  as  men.  A  kind  insinuating 
manner,  joined  with  a  certain  dignity  of  bearing 
secured  to  her  on  all  hands  praise  and  estima- 
tion. Besides,  she  could  play  beautifully  on  the 
lute,  accompanying  it  with  her  voice  ;  and  no 
social  night  could  be  perfect,  unless  crowned  by 
the  graces  of  this  talent. 

"I  will  be  free  to  confess  that  I  have  never 
got  much  good  of  music;  on  the  contrary,  it  has 
always  rather  had  a  disagreeable  effect  on  me. 
My  fair  one  soon  noticed  this,  and  accordingly, 
when  by  ourselves,  she  never  tried  to  entertain 
me  by  such  means  :  in  return,  however,  she 
appeared  to  indemnify  herself  while  in  society, 
where  indeed  she  always  found  a  crowd  of 
admirers. 

"  And  now,  why  should  I  deny  it,  our  late 
dialogue,  in  spite  of  my  best  intentions,  had  by 
no  means  sufficed  to  abolish  the  matter  within 
me :  on  the  contrary,  my  temper  of  mind  had 
by  degrees  got  into  the  strangest  tune,  almost 
without  my  being  conscious  of  it.  One  night, 
in  a  large  company,  this  hidden  grudge  broke 
loose,  and  by  its  consequences  produced  to  my- 
self the  greatest  damage. 

"  When  I  look  back  on  it  now,  I  in  fact  loved 
my  Beauty  far  less,  after  that  unlucky  discovery: 
I  was  also  growing  jealous  of  her  ;  a  whim  that 
had  never  struck  me  before.  This  night  at 
table,  I  found  myself  placed  very  much  to  my 
mind  beside  my  two  neighbours,  a  couple  of 
ladies,  who,  for  some  time,  had  appeared  to  me 
very  charming.  Amid  jesting  and  soft  small 
talk,  I  was  not  sparing  of  my  wine :  while,  on 
the  other  side,  a  pair  of  musical  dilletanti  had 
got  hold  of  my  wife,  and  at  last  contrived  to 
lead  the  company  into  singing  separately,  and 
by  way  of  chorus.  This  put  me  into  ill-humor. 
The  two  amateurs  appeared  to  me  impertinent; 
the  singing  vexed  me;  and  when,  as  my  turn 
came,  they  even  requested  a  solo-strophe  from 
me,  I  grew  truly  indignant,  I  emptied  my  glass, 
and  set  it  down  again  with  no  soft  movement. 

"The  grace  of  my  two  fair  neighbours  soon 
pacified  me,  indeed  ;  but  there  is  an  evil  na- 
ture in  wrath,  when  once  it  is  set  agoing.  It 
went  on  fermenting  within  me,  though  all  things 
were  of  a  kind  to  induce  joy  and  complaisance. 
On  the  contrary,  I  waxed  more  splenetic  than 
ever  when  a  lute  was  produced,  and  my  fair 
one  began  fingering  it  and  singing,  to  the  ad- 
miration of  all  the  rest.    Unhappily,  a  general 


328 


GOETHE. 


silence  was  requested.  So  then,  I  was  not  even 
to  talk  any  more ;  and  these  tones  were  going 
through  me  like  a  toothach.  Was  it  any  won- 
der that,  at  last,  the  smallest  spark  should  blow 
up  the  mine  ? 

"The  songstress  had  just  ended  a  song  amid 
the  loudest  applauses,  when  she  looked  over  to 
me;  and  this  truly  with  the  most  loving  face  in 
the  world.  Unluckily,  its  lovingness  could  not 
penetrate  so  far.  She  perceived  that  I  had  just 
gulped  down  a  cup  of  wine,  and  was  pouring 
out  a  fresh  one.  With  her  right  forefinger,  she 
beckoned  to  me  in  kind  threatening.  1  Consider 
that  it  is  wine !'  said  she,  not  louder  than  for 
myself  to  hear  it.  —  'Water  is  for  mermaids!' 
cried  I. — 'My  ladies,'  said  she  to  my  neighbours, 
'crown  the  cup  with  all  your  gracefulness,  that 
it  be  not  too  often  emptied.' — 'You  will  not  let 
yourself  be  tutored  ?'  whispered  one  of  them  in 
my  ear. — 'What  ails  the  Dwarf?'  cried  I,  with 
a  more  violent  gesture,  in  which  I  overset  the 
glass.  —  'Ah,  what  you  have  spilt!'  cried  the 
paragon  of  women  ;  at  the  same  time,  twanging 
her  strings,  as  if  to  lead  back  the  attention  of 
the  company  from  this  disturbance  to  herself. 
Her  attempt  succeeded  ;  the  more  completely 
as  she  rose  to  her  feet,  seemingly  that  she  might 
play  with  greater  convenience,  and  in  this  atti- 
tude continued  preluding. 

"At  sight  of  the  red  wine  running  over  the 
table-cloth,  I  returned  to  myself.  I  perceived 
the  great  fault  I  had  been  guilty  of;  and  it  cut 
me  through  the  very  heart.  Never  till  now  had 
music  spoken  to  me  :  the  first  verse  she  sang 
was  a  friendly  good-night  to  the  company,  here 
as  they  were,  as  they  might  still  feel  themselves 
together.  With  the  next  verse  they  became  as 
if  scattered  asunder  ;  each  felt  himself  solitary, 
separated,  no  one  could  fancy  that  he  was  pre- 
sent any  longer.  But  what  shall  I  say  of  the 
last  verse?  It  was  directed  to  me  alone;  the 
voice  of  injured  Love  bidding  farewell  to  Mo- 
roseness  and  Caprice. 

"In  silence  I  conducted  her  home;  forebod- 
ing no  good.  Scarcely,  however,  had  we  reached 
our  chamber,  when  she  began  to  show  herself 
exceedingly  kind  and  graceful,  nay,  even  ro- 
guish; she  made  me  the  happiest  of  all  men. 

"Next  morning,  in  high  spirits  and  full  of 
love,  I  said  to  her :  '  Thou  hast  so  often  sung, 
when  asked  in  company;  as,  for  example,  thy 
touching  farewell  song  last  night.  Come  now, 
for  my  sake,  and  sing  me  a  dainty  gay  welcome 
to  this  morning  hour,  that  we  may  feel  as  we 
were  meeting  for  the  first  time.' 

'"That  I  may  not  do,  my  friend,'  said  she 
seriously.  '  The  song  of  last  night  referred  to 
our  parting,  which  must  now  forthwith  take 
place  :  for  I  can  only  tell  thee,  the  violation  of 
thy  promise  and  oath  will  have  the  worst  con- 
sequences for  us  both ;  thou  hast  scoffed  away 
a  great  felicity,  and  I  too  must  renounce  my 
dearest  wishes.' 

"  As  I  now  pressed  and  entreated  her  to  ex- 
plain herself  more   clearly,   she   answered : 


'  That,  alas,  I  can  well  do ;  for,  at  all  events, 
my  continuance  with  thee  is  over.  Hear,  then, 
what  I  would  rather  have  concealed  to  the 
latest  times.  The  form,  under  which  thou 
sawest  me  in  the  Box,  is  my  natural  and  proper 
form  :  for  I  am  of  the  race  of  King  Eckwald, 
the  dread  Sovereign  of  the  Dwarfs,  concerning 
whom  authentic  History  has  recorded  so  much. 
Our  people  are  still  as  of  old  laborious  and  busy, 
and  therefore  easy  to  govern.  Thou  must  not 
fancy  that  the  Dwarfs  are  behindhand  in  their 
manufacturing  skill.  Swords  which  followed 
the  foe,  when  you  cast  them  after  him  ;  invisible 
and  mysteriously  binding  chains  ;  impenetrable 
shields,  and  such  like  ware,  in  old  times,  formed 
their  staple  produce.  But  now  they  chiefly  em- 
ploy themselves  with  articles  of  convenience 
and  ornament;  in  which  truly  they  surpass  all 
people  of  the  Earth.  I  may  well  say,  it  would 
astonish  thee  to  walk  through  our  workshops 
and  warehouses.  All  this  would  be  right  and 
good,  were  it  not  that  with  the  whole  nation  in 
general,  but  more  particularly  with  the  royal 
family,  there  is  one  peculiar  circumstance  con- 
nected.' 

She  paused  for  a  moment;  and  I  again  begged 
farther  light  on  these  wonderful  secrets;  which 
accordingly  she  forthwith  proceeded  to  grant. 

" '  It  is  well  known,'  said  she,  '  that  God,  so 
soon  as  he  had  created  the  world,  and  the  ground 
was  dry,  and  the  mountains  were  standing 
bright  and  glorious,  that  God,  I  say,  thereupon, 
in  the  very  first  place,  created  the  Dwarfs;  to 
the  end,  that  there  might  be  reasonable  beings 
also,  who,  in  their  passages  and  chasms,  might 
contemplate  and  adore  his  wonders  in  the  in- 
ward parts  of  the  Earth.  It  is  farther  well 
known,  that  this  little  race  by  degrees  became 
uplifted  in  heart,  and  attempted  to  acquire  the 
dominion  of  the  Earth  ;  for  which  reason  God 
then  created  the  Dragons,  in  order  to  drive  back 
the  Dwarfs  into  their  mountains.  Now,  as  the 
Dragons  themselves  were  wont  to  nestle  in  the 
large  caverns  and  clefts,  and  dwell  there  ;  and 
many  of  them,  too,  were  in  the  habit  of  spitting 
fire,  and  working  much  other  mischief,  the  poor 
little  Dwarfs  were  by  this  means  thrown  into 
exceeding  straits  and  distress,  so  that  not  know- 
ing what  in  the  world  to  do,  they  humbly  and 
fervently  turned  to  God,  and  called  to  him  in 
prayer,  that  he  would  vouchsafe  to  abolish  this 
unclean  Dragon  generation.  But  though  it  con- 
sisted not  with  his  wisdom  to  destroy  his  own 
creatures,  yet  the  heavy  sufferings  of  the  poor 
Dwarfs  so  moved  his  compassion,  that  anon  he 
created  the  Giants,  ordaining  them  to  fight  these 
Dragons,  and  if  not  root  them  out,  at  least  lessen 
their  numbers. 

"  '  Now,  no  sooner  had  the  Giants  got  mode- 
rately well  through  with  the  Dragons,  than  their 
hearts  also  began  to  wax  wanton ;  and,  in  their 
presumption,  they  practised  much  tyranny,  es- 
pecially on  the  good  little  Dwarfs,  who  then 
once  more  in  their  need  turned  to  the  Lord ; 
and  he,  by  the  power  of  his  hand,  created  the 


GOE 


329 


Knights,  who  were  to  make  war  on  the  Giants 
and  Dragons,  and  to  live  in  concord  with  the 
Dwarfs.  Hereby  was  the  work  of  creation  com- 
pleted on  this  side:  and  it  is  plain,  that  hence- 
forth Giants  and  Dragons,  as  well  as  Knights 
and  Dwarfs,  have  always  maintained  them- 
selves in  being.  From  this,  my  friend,  it  will 
be  clear  to  thee,  that  we  are  of  the  oldest  race 
on  the  Earth;  a  circumstance  which  does  us 
honor,  but,  at  the  same  time,  brings  great  disad- 
vantage along  with  it. 

"'For  as  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  that 
can  endure  forever,  but  all  that  has  once  been 
great,  must  become  little  and  fade,  it  is  our  lot, 
also,  that  ever  since  the  creation  of  the  world, 
we  have  been  waning  and  growing  smaller; 
especially  the  royal  family,  on  whom,  by  reason 
of  their  pure  blood,  this  destiny  presses  with  the 
heaviest  force.  To  remedy  this  evil,  our  wise 
teachers  have  many  years  ago  devised  the  ex- 
pedient of  sending  forth  a  Princess  of  the  royal 
house  from  time  to  time  into  the  world,  to  wed 
some  honorable  Knight,  that  so  the  Dwarf  pro- 
geny may  be  refected,  and  saved  from  entire 
decay.' 

"  Though  my  fair  one  related  these  things 
with  an  air  of  the  utmost  sincerity,  I  looked  at 
her  hesitatingly;  for  it  seemed  as  if  she  meant 
to  palm  some  fable  on  me.  As  to  her  own 
dainty  lineage,  I  had  not  the  smallest  doubt: 
but  that  she  should  have  laid  hold  of  me  in 
place  of  a  Knight,  occasioned  some  mistrust; 
seeing  I  knew  myself  too  well  to  suppose  that 
my  ancestors  had  come  into  the  world  by  an 
immediate  act  of  creation. 

"I  concealed  my  wonder  and  scepticism,  and 
asked  her  kindly  :  'But  tell  me,  my  dear  child, 
how  hast  thou  attained  this  large  and  stately 
shape?  For  I  know  few  women  that  in  rich- 
ness of  form  can  compare  with  thee.* — 1  Thou 
shalt  hear,'  replied  she.  'It  is  a  settled  maxim 
in  the  Council  of  the  Dwarf  Kings,  that  this  ex- 
traordinary step  be  forborne  as  long  as  it  possibly 
can  ;  which,  indeed,  I  cannot  but  say  is  quite 
natural  and  proper.  Perhaps  they  might  have 
lingered  still  longer,  had  not  my  brother,  born 
after  me,  come  into  the  world  so  exceedingly 
small,  that  the  nurses  actually  lost  him  out  of 
his  swaddling-clothes,  and  no  creature  yet  knows 
whither  he  is  gone.  On  this  occurrence,  unex- 
ampled in  the  annals  of  Dwarfdom,  the  Sages 
were  assembled ;  and  without  more  ado,  the 
resolution  was  taken,  and  I  sent  out  in  quest  of 
a  husband.' 

"'The  resolution!'  exclaimed  I:  'that  is  all 
extremely  well.  One  can  resolve,  one  can  take 
his  resolution :  but  to  give  a  Dwarf  this  hea- 
venly shape,  how  did  your  Sages  manage  that?' 

1  'It  had  been  provided  for  already,'  said  she, 
'by  our  ancestors.  In  the  royal  treasury,  lay  a 
monstrous  gold  ring.  I  speak  of  it  as  it  then 
appeared  to  me,  when  I  saw  it  in  my  childhood: 
for  it  was  this  same  ring,  which  I  have  here  on 
my  finger.    We  now  went  to  work  as  follows: 

"  '  I  was  informed  of  all  that  awaited  me ; 
2b 


and  instructed  what  I  had  to  do  and  to  forbear. 
A  splendid  palace,  after  the  pattern  of  my  fa- 
ther's favorite  summer  residence,  was  then  got 
ready:  a  main  edifice,  wings,  and  whatever 
else  you  could  think  of.  It  stood  at  the  entrance 
of  a  large  rock-cleft,  which  it  decorated  in  the 
handsomest  style.  On  the  appointed  day,  our 
court  moved  thither,  my  parents  also  and  my- 
self. The  army  paraded  ;  and  four-and-twenty 
priests,  not  without  difficulty,  carried  on  a  costly 
litter  the  mysterious  ring.  It  was  placed  on  the 
threshold  of  the  building,  just  within  the  spot 
where  you  entered.  Many  ceremonies  were 
observed  ;  and  after  a  pathetic  farewell,  I  pro- 
ceeded to  my  task.  I  stept  forward  to  the  ring ; 
laid  my  finger  on  it ;  and  that  instant,  began 
perceptibly  to  wax  in  stature.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I  had  reached  my  present  size  ;  and  then 
I  put  the  ring  on  my  finger.  But  now,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  doors,  windows,  gates 
flapped  to;  the  wings  drew  up  into  the  body 
of  the  edifice  ;  instead  of  a  palace,  stood  a  little 
Box  beside  me;  which  I  forthwith  lifted,  and 
carried  off  with  me;  not  without  a  pleasant 
feeling  in  being  so  tall  and  strong,  still,  indeed, 
a  dwarf  to  trees  and  mountains,  to  streams  and 
tracts  of  land ;  yet  a  giant  to  grass  and  herbs ; 
and  above  all,  to  ants,  from  whom  we  Dwarfs, 
not  being  always  on  the  best  terms  with  them, 
often  suffer  considerable  annoyance. 

"  '  How  it  fared  with  me  on  my  pilgrimage,  I 
might  tell  thee  at  great  length.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
I  tried  many;  but  no  one  save  thou  seemed 
worthy  of  being  honored  to  renovate  and  per 
petuate  the  line  of  the  glorious  Eckwald.' 

"  In  the  course  of  these  narrations,  my  head 
had  now  and  then  kept  wagging,  without  my- 
self having  absolutely  shaken  it.  I  put  several 
questions;  to  which  I  received  no  very  satisfac- 
tory answers;  on  the  contrary,  I  learned,  to  my 
great  affliction,  that  after  what  had  happened, 
she  must  needs  return  to  her  parents.  She  had 
hopes  still,  she  said,  of  getting  back  to  me :  but 
for  the  present,  it  was  indispensably  necessary 
to  present  herself  at  court ;  as  otherwise,  both 
for  her  and  me,  there  was  nothing  but  utter 
ruin.  The  purses  would  soon  cease  to  pay  ; 
and  who  knew  what  all  would  be  the  conse- 
quences ? 

"On  hearing  that  our  money  would  run  short, 
I  inquired  no  farther  into  consequences :  I 
shrugged  my  shoulders;  I  was  silent,  and  she 
seemed  to  understand  me. 

"We  now  packed  up,  and  got  into  our  car- 
riage ;  the  Box  standing  opposite  us ;  in  which, 
however,  I  could  still  see  no  symptoms  of  a  pa- 
lace. In  this  way  we  proceeded  several  stages. 
Post-money  and  drink-money  were  readily  and 
richly  paid  from  the  pouches  to  the  right  and 
left;  till  at  last  we  reached  a  mountainous  dis- 
trict; and  no  sooner  had  we  alighted  here,  than 
my  fair  one  walked  forward,  directing  me  to 
follow  her  with  the  Box.  She  led  me  by  rather 
steep  paths  to  a  narrow  plot  of  green  ground, 
through  which  a  clear  brook  now  gushed  in 
28* 


330  GOETHE. 


little  falls,  now  ran  in  quiet  windings.  She 
pointed  to  a  little  knoll ;  bade  me  set  the  Box 
down  there,  then  said  :  '  Farewell !  Thou  wilt 
easily  find  the  way  back;  remember  me;  I 
hope  to  see  thee  again.' 

"  At  this  moment,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  leave 
her.  She  was  just  now  in  one  of  her  fine  days, 
or  if  you  will,  her  fine  hours.  Alone  with  so 
fair  a  being,  on  the  green  sward,  among  grass 
and  flowers,  girt  in  by  rocks,  waters  murmuring 
round  you,  what  heart  could  have  remained  in- 
sensible !  I  came  forward  to  seize  her  hand,  to 
clasp  her  in  my  arms :  but  she  motioned  me 
back  ;  threatening  me,  though  still  kindly  enough, 
with  great  danger,  if  I  did  not  instantly  withdraw. 

'"Is  there  no  possibility,  then,'  exclaimed  I, 
'of  my  staying  with  thee,  of  thy  keeping  me 
beside  thee?'  These  words  I  uttered  with  such 
rueful  tones  and  gestures,  that  she  seemed 
touched  by  them,  and  after  some  thought,  con- 
fessed to  me  that  a  continuance  of  our  union 
was  not  entirely  impossible.  Who  happier 
than  I!  My  importunity,  which  increased  every 
moment,  compelled  her  at  last  to  come  out  with 
her  scheme,  and  inform  me  that  if  I  too  could 
resolve  on  becoming  as  little  as  I  had  once  seen 
her,  I  might  still  remain  with  her,  be  admitted 
to  her  house,  her  kingdom,  her  family.  The 
proposal  was  not  altogether  to  my  mind  ;  yet  at 
this  moment  I  positively  could  not  tear  myself 
away;  so,  having  already  for  a  good  while  been 
accustomed  to  the  marvellous,  and  being  at  all 
times  prone  to  bold  enterprises,  I  closed  with 
her  offer,  and  said  she  might  do  with  me  as  she 
pleased. 

"  I  was  thereupon  directed  to  hold  out  the 
little  finger  of  my  right  hand:  she  placed  her 
own  against  it;  then  with  her  left  hand,  she 
quite  softly  pulled  the  ring  from  her  finger,  and 
let  it  run  along  mine.  That  instant,  I  felt  a 
violent  twinge  on  my  finger :  the  ring  shrunk 
together,  and  tortured  me  horribly.  I  gave  a 
loud  cry,  and  caught  round  me  for  my  fair  one, 
but  she  had  disappeared.  What  state  of  mind 
I  was  in  during  this  moment,  I  find  no  words 
to  express ;  so  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  but 
that  I  very  soon,  in  my  miniature  size,  found 
myself  beside  rny  fair  one  in  a  wood  of  grass- 
stalks.  The  joy  of  meeting  after  this  short  yet 
most  strange  separation,  or,  if  you  will,  of  this 
re-union  without  separation,  exceeds  all  concep- 
tion. I  fell  on  her  neck;  she  replied  to  my 
caresses,  and  the  little  pair  was  as  happy  as  the 
large  one. 

"  With  some  difficulty,  we  now  mounted  a 
hill:  I  say  difficulty,  because  the  sward  had  be- 
come for  us  an  almost  impenetrable  forest.  Yet 
at  length  we  reached  a  bare  space;  and  how 
surprised  was  I  at  perceiving  there  a  large 
bolted  mass ;  which,  ere  long,  I  could  not  but 
recognise  for  the  Box,  in  the  same  state  as  when 
I  had  set  it  down. 

" '  Go  up  to  it,  my  friend,'  said  she,  1  and  do 
but  knock  with  the  ring:  thou  shalt  see  won- 
ders.'  I  went  up  accordingly,  and  no  sooner  had 


I  rapped,  than  I  did,  in  fact,  witness  the  great- 
est wonder.  Two  wings  came  jutting  out;  and 
at  the  same  time  there  fell,  like  scales  and 
chips,  various  pieces  this  way  and  that;  while 
doors,  windows,  colonnades,  and  all  that  be- 
longs to  a  complete  palace  at  once  came  into 
view. 

"  If  ever  you  have  seen  one  of  Rontchen's 
desks;  how,  at  one  pull,  a  multitude  of  springs 
and  latches  get  in  motion,  and  writing  board 
and  writing  materials,  letter  and  money  com- 
partments, all  at  once,  or  in  quick  succession, 
start  forward,  you  will  partly  conceive  how  this 
palace  unfolded  itself,  into  which  my  sweet 
attendant  now  introduced  me.  In  the  large 
saloon,  I  directly  recognised  the  fire-place  which 
I  had  formerly  seen  from  above,  and  the  chair 
in  which  she  had  then  been  sitting.  And  on 
looking  up,  I  actually  fancied  I  could  still  see 
something  of  the  chink  in  the  dome,  through 
which  I  had  peeped  in.  I  spare  you  the  de- 
scription of  the  rest:  in  a  word,  all  was  spa- 
cious, splendid,  and  tasteful.  Scarcely  had  I 
recovered  from  my  astonishment,  when  I  heard 
afar  off  a  sound  of  military  music.  My  better 
half  sprang  up ;  and  with  rapture  announced 
to  me  the  approach  of  His  Majesty  her  Father. 
We  stept  out  to  the  threshold,  and  here  beheld 
a  magnificent  procession  moving  towards  us, 
from  a  considerable  cleft  in  the  rock.  Soldiers, 
servants,  officers  of  state,  and  glittering  courtiers, 
followed  in  order.  At  last  you  observed  a 
golden  throng,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  King 
himself.  So  soon  as  the  whole  procession  had 
drawn  up  before  the  palace,  the  King,  with  his 
nearest  retinue,  stept  forward.  His  loving 
daughter  hastened  out  to  him,  pulling  me  along 
with  her.  We  threw  ourselves  at  his  feet;  he 
raised  me  very  graciously  ;  and  on  coining  to 
stand  before  him,  I  perceived,  that  in  this  little 
world  I  was  still  the  most  considerable  figure. 
We  proceeded  together  to  the  palace;  where 
His  Majesty,  in  presence  of  his  whole  court, 
was  pleased  to  welcome  me  with  a  well-studied 
oration,  in  which  he  expressed  his  surprise  at 
finding  us  here;  acknowledged  me  as  his  son- 
in-law,  and  appointed  the  nuptial  ceremony  to 
take  place  on  the  morrow. 

"  A  cold  sweat  went  over  me  as  I  heard  him 
speak  of  marriage :  for  I  dreaded  this  event 
more  than  music,  which  otherwise  appeared  to 
me  the  most  hateful  thing  on  Earth.  Your 
music-makers,  I  used  to  say,  enjoy  at  least  the 
conceit  of  being  in  unison  with  each  other,  and 
working  in  concord  :  for  when  they  have  tweak-  ' 
ed  and  tuned  long  enough,  grating  our  ears  with 
all  manner  of  screeches,  they  believe  in  their 
hearts  that  the  matter  is  now  adjusted,  and  one 
instrument  accurately  suited  to  the  other.  The 
band-master  himself  is  in  this  happy  delusion; 
and  so  they  set  forth  joyfully,  though  still  tear- 
ing our  nerves  to  pieces.  In  the  marriage-state, 
even  this  is  not  the  case:  for  although  it  is  but 
a  duet,  and  you  might  think  two  voices,  or  even 
two  instruments,  might  in  some  degree  be  at- 


GOETHE. 


331 


tuned  to  each  other,  yet  this  happens  very  sel- 
dom: for  while  the  man  gives  out  one  tone,  the 
wife  directly  takes  a  higher  one,  and  the  man 
again  a  higher ;  and  so  it  rises  from  the  cham- 
ber to  the  choral  pitch,  and  farther  and  farther, 
till  at  last  wind-instruments  themselves  cannot 
reach  it.  And  now,  as  harmonical  music  itself 
is  an  offence  to  me,  it  will  not  be  surprising 
that  disharmonical  should  be  a  thing  which  I 
cannot  endure. 

"  Of  the  festivities  in  which  the  day  was 
spent,  I  shall  and  can  say  nothing:  for  I  paid 
small  heed  to  any  of  them.  The  sumptuous 
victuals,  the  generous  wine,  the  royal  amuse- 
ments, I  could  not  relish.  I  kept  thinking  and 
considering  what  I  was  to  do.  Here,  however, 
there  was  but  little  to  be  considered.  I  deter- 
mined, once  for  all",  to  take  myself  away,  and 
hide  somewhere.  Accordingly,  I  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  chink  of  a  stone,  where  I  entrench- 
ed and  concealed  myself  as  well  as  might  be. 
My  first  care  after  this  was  to  get  the  unhappy 
ring  off  my  finger ;  an  enterprise,  however, 
which  would  by  no  means  prosper,  for  on  the 
contrary,  I  felt  that  every  pull  I  gave,  the  metal 
grew  straiter  and  cramped  me  with  violent 
pains,  which  again  abated  so  soon  as  I  desisted 
from  my  purpose. 

"Early  in  the  morning  I  awoke  (for  my  little 
person  had  slept,  and  very  soundly)  ;  and  was 
just  stepping  out  to  look  farther  about  me,  when 
I  felt  a  kind  of  rain  coming  on.  Through  the 
grass,  flowers,  and  leaves,  there  fell  as  it  were 
something  like  sand  and  grit  in  large  quantities ; 
but  what  was  my  horror  when  the  whole  of  it 
became  alive,  and  an  innumerable  host  of  Ants 
rushed  down  on  me!  No  sooner  did  they  ob- 
serve me,  than  they  made  an  attack  on  all 
sides;  and  though  I  defended  myself  stoutly 
and  gallantly  enough,  they  at  last  so  hemmed 
me  in,  so  nipped  and  pinched  me,  that  I  was 
glad  to  hear  them  calling  to  surrender.  I  sur- 
rendered instantly  and  wholly;  whereupon  an 
Ant  of  respectable  stature  approached  me  with 
courtesy,  nay,  with  reverence,  and  even  recom- 
mended itself  to  my  good  graces.  I  learned 
that  the  Ants  had  now  become  allies  of  my 
father-in-law,  and  by  him  been  called  out  in  the 
present  emergency,  and  commissioned  to  fetch 
me  back.  Here  then  was  little  I  in  the  hands 
of  creatures  still  less.  I  had  nothing  for  it  but 
looking  forward  to  the  marriage;  nay,  I  must 
now  thank  Heaven,  if  my  father-in-law  were 
not  wroth,  if  my  fair  one  had  not  taken  the 
sullens. 

"Let  me  skip  over  the  whole  train  of  cere- 
monies :  in  a  word,  we  were  wedded.  Gaily 
and  joyously  as  matters  went,  there  were,  never- 
theless, solitary  hours,  in  which  you  were  led 
astray  into  reflection ;  and  now  there  happened 
to  me  something  which  had  never  happened 
before:  what,  and  how,  ycu  shall  learn. 

"Everything  about  me  was  completely  adapt- 
ed to  my  present  form  and  wants ;  the  bottles 
and  glasses  were  in  a  fit  ratio  to  a  little  toper, 


nay,  if  you  will,  better  measure,  in  proportion, 
than  with  us.  In  my  tiny  palate,  the  dainty 
tidbits  tasted  excellently;  a  kiss  from  the  little 
mouth  of  my  spouse  was  still  the  most  charm- 
ing thing  in  nature;  and  1  will  not  deny  that 
novelty  made  all  these  circumstances  highly 
agreeable.  Unhappily,  however,  I  had  not  for- 
gotten my  former  situation.  I  felt  within  me  a 
scale  of  bygone  greatness;  and  it  rendered  me 
restless  and  cheerless.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
did  I  understand  what  the  philosophers  might 
mean  by  their  Ideal,  which  they  say  so  plagues 
the  mind  of  man.  I  had  an  Ideal  of  myself; 
and  often  in  dreams  I  appeared  as  a  giant.  In 
short,  my  wife,  my  ring,  my  dwarf  figure,  and 
so  many  other  bonds  and  restrictions,  made  me 
utterly  unhappy,  so  that  I  began  to  think  seri- 
ously about  obtaining  my  deliverance. 

"Being  persuaded  that  the  whole  magic  lay 
in  the  ring,  I  resolved  on  filing  this  asunder. 
From  the  court-jeweller,  accordingly,  I  borrow- 
ed some  files.  By  good  luck,  I  was  left-handed, 
as,  indeed,  throughout  my  whole  life,  I  had 
never  done  aught  in  the  right-handed  way.  I 
stood  tightly  to  the  work :  it  was  not  small :  for 
the  golden  hoop,  so  thin  as  it  appeared,  had 
grown  proportionably  thicker  in  contracting 
from  its  former  length.  All  vacant  hours  I 
privately  applied  to  this  task ;  and  at  last,  the 
metal  being  nearly  through,  I  was  provident 
enough  to  step  out  of  doors.  This  was  a  wise 
measure  :  for  all  at  once  the  golden  hoop  started 
sharply  from  my  finger,  and  my  frame  shot  aloft 
with  such  violence,  that  I  actually  fancied  I 
should  dash  against  the  sky;  and,  at  all  events, 
I  must  have  bolted  through  the  dome  of  our 
palace ;  nay,  perhaps,  in  my  new  awkward- 
ness, have  destroyed  this  summer-residence  al- 
together. 

"  Here  then  was  I  standing  again ;  in  truth, 
so  much  the  larger,  but  also,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
so  much  the  more  foolish  and  helpless.  On  re- 
covering from  my  stupefaction,  I  observed  the 
royal  strong-box  lying  near  me,  which  I  found 
to  be  moderately  heavy,  as  I  lifted  it,  and  car- 
ried it  down  the  foot-path  to  the  next  stage  ; 
where  I  directly  ordered  horses,  and  set  forth. 
By  the  road,  I  soon  made  trial  of  the  two  side- 
pouches.  Instead  of  money,  which  appeared 
to  be  run  out,  I  found  a  little  key:  it  belonged 
to  the  strong-box,  in  which  I  got  some  moderate 
compensation.  So  long  as  this  held  out,  I  made 
use  of  the  carriage:  by  and  by  I  sold  it,  and 
proceeded  by  the  Diligence.  The  strong-box, 
too,  I  at  length  cast  from  me,  having  no  hope 
of  its  ever  filling  again.  And  thus  in  the  end, 
though  after  a  considerable  circuit,  I  again  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen-hearth,  to  the  landlady 
and  the  cook,  where  you  were  first  introduced 
to  me." 

WHERE  IS  THE  TRAITOR? 

"No!  No!''  exclaimed  he,  violently  and 
hastily  rushing  into  the  chamber  allotted  him, 
and  setting  down  his  candle :  "No  !  it  is  impos- 


332 


GOETHE. 


sible!  But  whither  shall  I  turn  ?  For  the  first 
time  I  think  otherwise  than  he  ;  for  the  first 
time,  I  feel,  I  wish  otherwise.  O  father!  couldst 
thou  but  be  present  invisibly,  couldst  thou  but 
look  through  and  through  me,  thou  wouldst  see 
that  I  am  still  the  same,  still  thy  true,  obedient, 
affectionate  son.  Yet  to  say  No !  To  contradict 
my  father's  dearest,  long-cherished  wish!  How 
shall  I  disclose  it?  How  shall  I  express  it?  No, 
I  cannot  marry  Julia!  While  I  speak  of  it,  I 
shudder.  And  how  shall  I  appear  before  him, 
tell  him  this,  him  the  good,  kind  father?  He 
looks  at  ine  with  astonishment,  without  speak- 
ing: the  prudent,  clear-sighted,  gifted  man,  can 
find  no  words.  Wo  is  me !  Ah,  I  know  well 
to  whom  I  would  confide  this  pain,  this  per- 
plexity; who  it  is  I  would  choose  for  my  ad- 
vocate! Before  all  others,  thou,  Lucinda  !  And 
I  would  first  tell  thee  how  I  love  thee,  how  I 
give  myself  to  thee,  and  pressingly  entreat  thee 
to  speak  for  me ;  and  if  thou  canst  love  me 
again,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  to  speak  for  us 
both." 

To  explain  this  short  pithy  monologue  will 
require  some  details. 

Professor  N.  of  N.  had  an  only  boy  of  singular 
beauty,  whom,  till  the  child's  eighth  year,  he 
had  left  entirely  in  charge  of  his  wife.  This 
excellent  woman  had  directed  the  hours  and 
days  of  her  son,  in  living,  learning,  and  all  good 
behaviour.  She  died  ;  and  the  father  instantly 
felt,  that  to  prosecute  this  parental  tutelage  was 
impossible.  In  their  lifetime,  all  had  been  har- 
mony between  the  parents  :  they  had  labored 
for  a  common  aim,  had  determined  in  concert 
what  was  next  to  be  done  ;  and  the  mother  had 
not  wanted  skill  to  execute  wisely,  by  herself, 
what  the  two  had  planned  together.  Double 
and  treble  was  now  the  widower's  anxiety,  see- 
ing, as  he  could  not  but  daily  see,  that  for  the 
sons  of  professors,  even  in  universities,  it  was 
only  by  a  sort  of  miracle  that  a  happy  educa- 
tion could  be  expected. 

In  this  strait  he  applied  to  his  friend  the 
Oberamtmann  of  R.,  with  whom  he  had  already 
been  treating  of  plans  for  a  closer  alliance  be- 
tween their  families.  The  Oberamtmann  gave 
him  counsel  and  assistance:  so  the  son  was 
established  in  one  of  those  Institutions,  which 
still  flourish  in  Germany,  and  where  charge  is 
taken  of  the  whole  man,  and  body,  soul,  and 
spirit  are  trained  with  all  attention. 

The  son  was  thus  provided  for ;  the  father, 
however,  felt  himself  very  lonely:  robbed  of 
his  wife  ;  shut  out  from  the  cheerful  presence 
of  the  boy,  whom  he  had  seen,  without  effort  of 
his,  growing  up  in  such  desirable  culture.  But 
here  again  the  friendship  of  the  Oberamtmann 
served  him  in  good  stead  :  the  distance  of  their 
abodes  vanished  before  his  affection,  his  desire 
for  movement,  for  diversion  of  thought.  In  this 
hospitable  home  the  widowed  Man  of  Letters 
found,  in  a  family  circle  motherless  like  his 
own,  two  beautiful  little  daughters  growing  up 
in  diverse  loveliness;  a  state  of  things  which 


more  and  more  confirmed  the  fathers  in  their 
purpose,  in  their  hope,  of  one  day  seeing  their 
families  united  in  the  most  joyful  bonds. 

They  lived  under  the  sway  of  a  mild  good 
Prince :  the  meritorious  Oberamtmann  was  cer- 
tain of  his  post  during  life;  and  in  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  successor,  his  recommendation  was 
likely  to  go  far.  And  now,  according  to  the 
wise  family  arrangement,  sanctioned  also  by 
the  Minister,  Lucidor  was  to  train  himself  for 
the  important  office  of  his  future  father-in-law. 
This  in  consequence  he  did,  from  step  to  step. 
Nothing  was  neglected  in  communicating  to 
him  all  sorts  of  knowledge,  in  developing  in 
him  all  sorts  of  activity,  which  the  State  in  any 
case  requires:  practice  in  rigorous  judicial  law, 
and  also  in  the  laxer  sort,  where  prudence  and 
address  find  their  proper  field;  foresight  for 
daily  ways  and  means ;  not  excluding  higher 
and  more  comprehensive  views,  yet  all  tending 
towards  practical  life,  and  so  as  with  effect  and 
certainty  to  be  employed  in  its  concerns. 

With  such  purposes  had  Lucidor  spent  his 
school-years :  by  his  father  and  his  patron,  he 
was  now  warned  to  make  ready  for  the  uni- 
versity. In  all  departments  he  already  showed 
the  fairest  talents ;  and  to  Nature  he  was  farther 
indebted  for  the  singular  happiness  of  inclining, 
out  of  love  for  his  father,  out  of  respect  for  his 
friend,  to  turn  his  capabilities,  first  from  obe- 
dience, then  from  conviction,  on  that  very  object 
to  which  he  was  directed.  He  was  placed  in 
a  foreign  university,  and  here,  both  by  his  own 
account  in  his  letters,  and  by  the  testimony  of 
his  teachers  and  overseers,  he  continued  walk- 
ing in  the  path  that  led  towards  his  appointed 
goal.  It  was  only  objected  to  him,  that  in  cer- 
tain cases  he  had  been  too  impetuously  brave. 
The  father  shook  his  head  at  this ;  the  Ober- 
amtmann nodded.  Who  would  not  have  been 
proud  of  such  a  son  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  two  daughters,  Julia  and 
Lucinda,  were  waxing  in  stature  and  graces. 
Julia,  the  younger,  waggish,  lovely,  unstable, 
highly  entertaining;  the  other  difficult  to  pour- 
tray,  for,  in  her  sincerity  and  purity,  she  repre- 
sented all  that  we  prize  most  in  woman.  Visits 
were  paid  and  repaid ;  and,  in  the  Professor's 
house,  Julia  found  the  most  inexhaustible  amuse- 
ment. 

Geography,  which  he  failed  not  to  enliven  by 
Topography,  belonged  to  his  province ;  and  no 
sooner  did  Julia  cast  her  eyes  on  any  of  the 
volumes,  of  which  a  whole  series  from  Ho- 
mann's  warehouse  were  standing  there,  than 
the  cities  all  and  sundry  had  to  be  mustered, 
judged,  preferred,  or  rejected:  all  havens  espe- 
cially obtained  her  favor  ;  other  towns,  to  acquire 
even  a  slight  approval  from  her,  must  stand 
forth  well  supplied  with  steeples,  domes,  and 
minarets. 

Julia's  father  often  left  her  for  weeks  to  the 
care  of  his  tried  friend.  She  was  actually  ad- 
vancing in  knowledge  of  her  science;  and  al- 
ready the  inhabited  world,  in  its  main  features, 


GOETHE.  333 


in  its  chief  points  and  places,  stood  before  her 
with  some  accuracy  and  distinctness.  The 
garbs  of  foreign  nations  attracted  her  peculiar 
attention ;  and  often  when  her  foster-father 
asked  her  in  jest;  If  among  the  many  young 
handsome  men  who  were  passing  to  and  fro 
before  her  window,  there  was  not  some  one  or 
other  whom  she  liked?  she  would  answer: 
"Yes,  indeed,  if  he  do  but  look  odd  enough." 
And  as  our  young  students  are  seldom  behind- 
hand in  this  particular,  she  had  often  occasion 
to  take  notice  of  individuals  among  them  :  they 
brought  to  her  mind  the  costume  of  foreign  na- 
tions; however,  she  declared  in  the  end,  that 
if  she  was  to  bestow  her  undivided  attention  on 
any  one,  be  must  be  at  least  a  Greek,  equipped 
in  the  complete  fashion  of  his  country;  on 
which  account,  also,  she  longed  to  be  at  some 
Leipzig  Fair  where,  as  she  understood,  such 
persons  were  to  be  seen  walking  the  streets. 

After  his  dry  and  often  irksome  labors,  our 
Teacher  had  now  no  happier  moments,  than 
those  he  spent  in  mirthfully  instructing  her ; 
triumphing  withal,  in  secret,  that  a  being  so 
attractive,  ever  entertaining,  ever  entertained, 
was  in  the  end  to  be  his  own  daughter.  For 
the  rest,  the  two  fathers  had  mutually  agreed, 
that  no  hint  of  their  purpose  should  be  com- 
municated to  the  girls;  from  Lucidor,  also,  it 
was  kept  secret. 

Thus  had  years  passed  away,  as  indeed  they 
very  lightly  pass;  Lucidor  presented  himself 
completed,  having  stood  all  trials  to  the  joy 
even  of  the  superior  overseers,  who  wished 
nothing  more  heartily  than  being  able,  with  a 
good  conscience,  to  fulfil  the  hopes  of  old, 
worthy,  favored,  and  deserving  servants. 

And  so  the  business  had  at  length  by  quiet 
regular  steps  come  so  far,  that  Lucidor,  after 
having  demeaned  himself  in  subordinate  sta- 
tions to  universal  satisfaction,  was  now  to  be 
placed  in  a  very  advantageous  post,  suitable  to 
his  wishes  and  merits,  and  lying  just  midway 
between  the  University  and  the  Oberamtman- 
ship. 

The  father  now  spoke  with  his  son  about 
Julia,  of  whom  he  had  hitherto  only  hinted,  as 
about  his  bride  and  wife,  without  any  doubt  or 
condition;  congratulating  him  on  the  happiness 
of  having  appropriated  such  a  je  wel  to  himself. 
The  Professor  saw  in  fancy  his  daughter-in-law 
again  from  time  to  time  in  his  house ;  occupied 
with  charts,  plans,  and  views  of  cities:  the  son 
recalled  to  mind  the  gay  and  most  lovely  crea- 
ture, who,  in  times  of  childhood,  had,  by  her 
rogueries  as  by  her  kindliness,  always  delighted 
him.  Lucidor  was  now  to  ride  over  to  the 
Oberamimann's,  to  take  a  closer  view  of  the 
full-grown  fair  one ;  and,  for  a  few  weeks,  to 
surrender  himself  to  the  habitudes  and  fami- 
liarity of  her  household.  If  the  young  people, 
as  was  to  be  hoped,  should  speedily  agree,  the 
Professor  was  forthwith  to  appear,  that  so  a 
solemn  betrothment  might  forever  secure  the 
anticipated  happiness. 


Lucidor  arrives,  is  received  with  the  friend- 
liest welcome ;  a  chamber  is  allotted  him;  he 
arranges  himself  there,  and  appears.  And  now 
he  finds,  besides  the  members  of  the  family 
already  known  to  us,  a  grown-up  son  ;  misbred 
certainly,  yet  shrewd  and  good-natured;  so  that 
if  you  liked  to  take  him  as  the  Jesting  Counsel- 
lor of  the  party,  he  fitted  not  ill  with  the  rest. 
There  belonged,  moreover,  to  the  house,  a  very 
old,  but  healthy  and  gay -hearted  man;  quiet, 
wise,  discreet ;  completing  his  life,  as  it  were, 
and  here  and  there  requiring  a  little  help.  Di- 
rectly after  Lucidor,  too,  there  had  arrived  an- 
other stranger ;  no  longer  young,  of  an  impres- 
sive aspect,  dignified,  thoroughly  well-bred,  and, 
by  his  acquaintance  with  the  most  distant  quar- 
ters of  the  world,  extremely  entertaining.  He 
was  called  Antoni. 

Julia  received  her  announced  bridegroom  in 
fit  order,  yet  with  an  excess  rather  than  a  defect 
of  frankness:  Lucinda,  on  the  other  hand,  did 
the  honors  of  the  house,  as  her  sister  did  those 
of  herself.  So  passed  the  day  ;  peculiarly  agree- 
able to  all,  only  to  Lucidor  not:  he,  at  all  times 
silent,  had  been  forced,  that  he  might  avoid 
sinking  dumb  entirely,  to  employ  himself  in 
asking  questions ;  and  in  this  attitude,  no  one 
appears  to  advantage. 

Throughout  he  had  been  absent-minded  ;  for 
at  the  first  glance  he  had  felt,  not  aversion  or 
repugnance,  yet  estrangement,  towards  Julia  : 
Lucinda,  on  the  contrary,  attracted  him,  so  that 
he  trembled  every  time  she  looked  at  him  with 
her  full  pure  peaceful  eyes. 

Thus  hard  bested,  he  reached  his  chamber 
the  first  night,  and  gave  vent  to  his  heart  in  that 
soliloquy  with  which  we  began.  But  to  explain 
this  sufficiently,  to  show  how  the  violence  of 
such  an  emphatic  speech  agrees  with  what  we 
know  of  him  already,  another  little  statement 
will  be  necessary. 

Lucidor  was  of  a  deep  character ;  and  for 
most  part  had  something  else  in  his  mind,  than 
what  the  present  scene  required  :  hence  talk 
and  social  conversation  would  never  prosper 
rightly  with  him;  he  felt  this,  and  was  wont  to 
continue  silent,  except  when  the  topic  happened 
to  be  particular  on  some  department  which  he 
had  completely  studied,  and  of  which,  whatever 
he  needed  was  at  all  times  ready.  Besides  this, 
in  his  early  years  at  school,  and  later  at  the 
university,  he  had  been  deceived  in  friends,  and 
had  wasted  the  effusions  of  his  heart  unhappily; 
hence  every  communication  of  his  feelings 
seemed  to  him  a  doubtful  step,  and  doubting 
destroys  all  such  communication.  With  his 
father  he  was  used  to  speak  only  in  unison  ; 
therefore,  his  full  heart  poured  itself  out  in  mo- 
nologues, so  soon  as  he  was  by  himself. 

Next  morning  he  had  summoned  up  his  reso- 
lution ;  and  yet  he  almost  lost  heart  and  com- 
posure again,  when  Julia  met  him  with  still 
more  friendliness,  gaiety,  and  frankness,  than 
ever.  She  had  much  to  ask  ;  about  his  journeys 
by  land  and  journeys  by  water ;  how,  when  a 


334  GOETHE. 


student,  with  his  knapsack  on  his  back,  he  had 
roamed  and  climbed  through  Switzerland,  nay, 
crossed  the  Alps  themselves.  And  now  of  those 
fair  islands  on  the  great  Southern  Lake,  she  had 
much  to  say;  and  then  backwards,  the  Rhine 
must  be  accompanied  from  his  primary  origin; 
at  first,  through  most  undelicious  regions,  and 
so  downwards  through  many  an  alternation,  till 
at  length,  between  Maynz  and  Coblenz,  you 
find  it  still  worth  while  respectfully  to  dismiss 
the  old  River  from  his  last  confinement,  into  the 
wide  world,  into  the  sea. 

Lucidor,  in  the  course  of  this  recital,  felt  him- 
self much  lightened  in  heart;  he  narrated  will- 
ingly and  well,  so  that  Julia  at  last  exclaimed 
in  rapture:  "  It  is  thus  that  our  other  self. should 
be !"  At  which  phrase  Lucidor  again  felt 
startled  and  frightened ;  thinking  he  saw  in  it 
an  allusion  to  their  future  pilgrimage  in  common 
through  life. 

From  his  narrative  duty,  however,  he  was 
soon  relieved :  for  the  stranger,  Antoni,  very 
speedily  overshadowed  all  mountain  streams, 
and  rocky  banks,  and  rivers  whether  hemmed 
in  or  left  at  liberty.  Under  his  guidance  you 
now  went  forward  to  Genoa;  Livorno  lay  at  no 
great  distance ;  whatever  was  most  interesting 
in  the  country  you  took  with  you  as  fair  spoil ; 
Naples,  too,  was  a  place  you  should  see  before 
you  died ;  and  then,  in  truth,  remained  Constan- 
tinople, which  also  was  by  no  means  to  be 
neglected.  Antoni's  descriptions  of  the  wide 
world  carried  the  imagination  of  every  hearer 
along  with  him,  though  Antoni  himself  intro- 
duced little  fire  into  the  subject.  Julia,  quite 
enraptured,  was  still  nowise  satisfied :  she  longed 
for  Alexandria,  Cairo,  and,  above  all,  for  the 
Pyramids :  of  which,  by  the  lessons  of  her  in- 
tended father-in-law,  she  had  gained  some  mo- 
derate knowledge. 

Lucidor,  next  night  (he  had  scarcely  shut  his 
door;  the  candle  he  had  not  put  down)  ex- 
claimed :  "  Now,  bethink  thee,  then  ;  it  is  grow- 
ing serious !  Thou  hast  studied  and  meditated 
many  serious  things:  what  avails  thy  law-learn- 
ing, if  thou  canst  not  act  like  a  man  of  law  ? 
View  thyself  as  a  delegate,  forget  thy  own  feel- 
ings, and  do  what  it  would  behove  thee  to  do 
for  another.  It  thickens  and  closes  round  me 
horribly !  The  stranger  is  plainly  come  for  the 
sake  of  Lucinda ;  she  shows  him  the  fairest, 
noblest  social  and  hospitable  attentions:  that 
little  fool  would  run  through  the  world  with  any 
one  for  anything  or  nothing.  Besides,  she  is  a 
wag ;  her  interest  in  cities  and  countries  is  a 
farce,  by  which  she  keeps  us  in  silence.  But 
why  do  I  look  at  the  affair  so  perplexedly,  so 
narrowly?  Is  not  the  Oberamtmann  himself 
the  most  judicious,  the  clearest,  the  kindest  me- 
diator? Thou  wilt  tell  him  how  thou  feelest 
and  thinkest ;  and  he  will  think  with  thee,  if 
not  likewise  feel.  With  thy  father  he  has  all  in- 
fluence. And  is  not  the  one  as  well  as  the  other 
his  daughter1?  What  would  this  Antoni  the 
Traveller  with  Lucinda,  who  is  born  for  home, 


to  be  happy  and  to  make  happy?  Let  the  wa- 
vering quicksilver  fasten  itself  to  the  Wandering 
Jew :  that  will  be  a  right  match." 

Next  morning  Lucidor  came  down,  with  the 
firm  purpose  of  speaking  with  the  father ;  and 
waiting  on  him  expressly  to  that  end,  at  the 
hour  when  he  knew  him  to  be  disengaged. 
How  great  was  his  vexation,  his  perplexity,  on 
learning  that  the  Oberamtmann  had  been  called 
away  on  business,  and  was  not  expected  till  the 
day  after  the  morrow  !  Julia,  on  this  occasion, 
seemed  to  be  expressly  in  her  travelling  fit ;  she 
kept  by  the  world- wanderer,  and,  with  some 
sportive  hits  at  domestic  economy,  gave  up  Lu- 
cidor to  Lucinda.  If  our  friend,  viewing  this 
noble  maiden  from  a  certain  distance,  and  under 
one  general  impression,  had  already,  with  his 
whole  heart,  loved  her,  he  failed  not  now  in 
this  nearest  nearness  to  discover  with  double 
and  treble  vividness  in  detail,  all  that  had  be- 
fore as  a  whole  attracted  him. 

The  good  old  friend  of  the  family  now  brought 
himself  forward,  in  place  of  the  absent  father  : 
he  too  had  lived,  had  loved ;  and  was  now, 
after  many  hard  buffetings  and  bruises  of  life, 
resting  at  last,  refreshed  and  cheerful,  beside 
the  friend  of  his  youth.  He  enlivened  the  con- 
versation ;  and  especially  expatiated  on  per- 
plexities in  choice  of  wives;  relating  several 
remarkable  examples  of  explanations,  both  in 
time  and  too  late.  Lucinda  appeared  in  all  her 
splendor.  She  admitted  :  That  accident,  in  all 
departments  of  life,  and  so  likewise  in  the  busi- 
ness of  marriage,  often  produced  the  best  result; 
yet  that  it  was  finer  and  prouder  when  one 
could  say  he  owed  his  happiness  to  himself,  to 
the  silent  calm  conviction  of  his  heart,  to  a  noble 
purpose  and  a  quick  determination.  Tears  stood 
in  Lucidor's  eyes  as  he  applauded  this  senti- 
ment :  directly  afterwards,  the  two  ladies  went 
out.  The  old  president  liked  well  to  deal  in  i 
illustrative  histories;  and  so  the  conversation  I 
expanded  itself  into  details  of  pleasant  instances,  I 
which  however,  touched  our  hero  so  closely, 
that  none  but  a  youth  of  as  delicate  manners  as  ! 
his  could  have  refrained  from  breaking  out  with  j 
his  secret.  He  did  break  out,  so  soon  as  he  was 
by  himself. 

"I  have  constrained  myself!''  exclaimed  he: 
"  with  such  perplexities  I  will  not  vex  my  good 
father :  I  have  forborne  to  speak  :  for  I  see  in 
this  worthy  old  man  the  substitute  of  both  fa- 
thers. To  him  will  I  speak ;  to  him  disclose 
the  whole:  he  will  surely  bring  it  about;  he 
has  already  almost  spoken  what  I  wish.  Will 
he  censure  in  the  individual  case  what  he 
praises  in  general?  To-morrow  I  visit  him:  I 
must  give  vent  to  this  oppression." 

At  breakfast,  the  old  man  was  not  present : 
last  night  he  had  spoken,  it  appeared,  too  much  ; 
had  sat  too  long,  and  likewise  drunk  a  drop  or 
two  of  wine  beyond  his  custom.  Much  was 
said  in  his  praise ;  many  anecdotes  were  re- 
lated ;  and  precisely  of  such  sayings  and  do- 
ings as  brought  Lucidor  to  despair  for  not  hav- 


GOETHE. 


335 


ing  forthwith  applied  to  him.  This  unpleasant 
feeling  was  but  aggravated,  when  he  learned 
that  in  such  attacks  of  disorder  the  good  old 
man  would  often  not  make  his  re-appearance 
for  a  week. 

For  social  converse,  a  country  residence  has 
!  many  advantages;  especially  when  the  owners 
of  it  have,  for  a  course  of  years,  been  induced, 
as  thinking  and  feeling  persons,  to  improve  the 
natural  capabilities  of  their  environs.  Such 
had  been  the  good  fortune  of  this  spot.  The 
Oberamtmann,  at  first  unwedded,  then  in  a 
long  happy  marriage,  himself  a  man  of  fortune, 
and  occupying  a  lucrative  post,  had,  according 
to  his  own  judgment  and  perception,  according 
to  the  taste  of  his  wife,  nay,  at  last  according  to 
the  wishes  and  whims  of  his  children,  laid  out 
and  forwarded  many  larger  and  smaller  deco- 
rations ;  which  by  degrees  being  skilfully  con- 
nected with  plantations  and  paths,  afforded  to 
the  promenader  a  very  beautiful,  continually 
varying,  characteristic  series  of  scenes.  A  pil- 
grimage through  these,  our  young  hosts  now 
proposed  to  their  guest;  as  in  general  we  take 
pleasure  in  showing  our  improvements  to  a 
stranger,  that  so  what  has  become  habitual  in 
our  eyes,  may  appear  with  the  charm  of  novelty 
in  his,  and  leave  with  him,  in  permanent  re- 
membrance, its  first  favorable  impression. 

The  nearest,  as  well  as  the  most  distant  part 
of  the  grounds,  was  peculiarly  appropriate  for 
modest  decorations,  and  altogether  rural  indivi- 
dualities. Fertile  hills  alternated  with  well- 
watered  meadows ;  so  that  the  whole  was 
visible  from  time  to  time,  without  being  flat; 
and  if  the  land  seemed  chiefly  devoted  to  pur- 
poses of  utility,  the  graceful,  the  attractive,  was 
by  no  means  excluded. 

To  the  dwelling  and  office-houses  were  united 
various  gardens,  orchards,  and  green  spaces ; 
out  of  which  you  imperceptibly  passed  into  a 
little  wood,  with  a  broad,  clear  carriage-road 
winding  up  and  down  through  the  midst  of  it. 
Here,  in  a  central  spot,  on  the  most  considerable 
elevation,  there  had  been  a  Hall  erected,  with 
side-chambers  entering  from  it.  On  coming 
through  the  main-door,  you  saw  in  a  large 
mirror  the  most  favorable  prospect  which  the 
country  afforded ;  and  were  sure  to  turn  round 
that  instant,  to  recover  yourself  on  the  reality 
from  the  effect  of  this  its  unexpected  image  : 
for  the  approach  was  artfully  enough  contrived, 
and  all  that  could  excite  surprise  was  carefully 
hid  till  the  last  moment.  No  one  entered  but 
felt  himself  pleasurably  tempted  to  turn  from 
the  mirror  to  Nature,  and  from  Nature  to  the 
mirror. 

Once  in  motion  in  this  fairest,  brightest,  long- 
est day,  our  party  made  a  spiritual  campaign 
of  it,  over  and  through  the  whole.  Here  the 
daughiers  pointed  out  the  evening  seat  of  their 
good  mother,  where  a  stately  box-tree  had  kept 
clear  space  all  round  it.  A  little  farther  on, 
Lucinda  s  place  of  morning-prayer  was  half- 
I   roguishly  exhibited  by  Julia:  close  to  a  little 


brook,  between  poplars  and  alders,  with  mea- 
dows sloping  down  from  it,  and  fields  stretch- 
ing upwards.  It  was  indescribably  pretty.  You 
thought  you  had  seen  such  a  spot  everywhere, 
but  nowhere  so  impressive,  and  so  perfect  in 
its  simplicity.  In  return  for  this,  the  young 
master,  also  half  against  Julia's  will,  pointed 
out  the  tiny  groves,  and  child's  gardens,  which, 
close  by  a  snug-lying  mill,  were  now  scarcely 
discernible  :  they  dated  from  a  time  when  Julia, 
perhaps  in  her  tenth  year,  had  taken  it  into  her 
head  to  become  a  milleress;  intending,  after  the 
decease  of  the  two  old  occupants,  to  assume  the 
management  herself,  and  choose  some  brave 
millman  for  her  husband. 

"  That  was  at  a  time,''  cried  Julia,  "  when  I 
knew  nothing  of  towns  lying  on  rivers,  or  even 
on  the  sea;  nothing  of  Genoa,  of  Naples,  and 
the  like.  Your  worthy  father,  Lucidor,  has  con- 
verted me  ;  of  late  I  come  seldom  hither."  She 
sat  down  with  a  roguish  air,  on  a  little  bench, 
that  was  now  scarcely  large  enough  for  her; 
under  an  elder-bough,  which  had  bent  deeply 
towards  the  ground:  "Fie  on  this  cowering!" 
cried  she  ;  then  started  up,  and  ran  off  with  her 
gay  brother. 

The  remaining  pair  kept  up  a  rational  con- 
versation ;  and  in  these  cases,  reason  approaches 
close  to  the  borders  of  feeling.  Wandering  over 
changeful,  simple  natural  objects,  to  contemplate 
at  leisure  how  cunning  scheming  man  contrives 
to  gain  some  profit  from  them  ;  how  his  percep- 
tion of  what  is  laid  before  him,  combining  with 
the  feeling  of  his  wants,  does  wonders,  first  in 
rendering  the  world  inhabitable,  then  in  peo- 
pling it,  and  at  last  in  overpeopling  it:  all  this 
could  here  be  talked  of  in  detail.  Lucinda  gave 
account  of  everything ;  and,  modest  as  she  was, 
she  could  not  hide  that  these  pleasant  and  con- 
venient combinations  of  distant  parts  by  roads, 
had  been  her  work,  under  the  proposal,  direc- 
tion, or  favor  of  her  revered  mother. 

But  as  the  longest  day  at  last  bends  down  to 
evening,  our  party  were  at  last  forced  to  think 
of  returning ;  and  while  devising  some  pleasant 
circuit,  the  merry  brother  proposed  that  they 
should  take  the  short  road,  though  it  command- 
ed no  fine  prospects,  and  was  even  in  some 
places  more  difficult  to  get  over.  "For,"  cried 
he,  "you  have  preached  all  day  about  your  de- 
corations and  reparations,  and  how  you  have 
improved  and  beautified  the  scene  for  pictorial 
eyes  and  feeling  hearts:  let  me  also  have  my 
turn." 

Accordingly,  they  now  set  forth  over  ploughed 
grounds,  by  coarse  paths,  nay,  sometimes  pick- 
ing their  way  by  stepping-stones  in  boggy 
places ;  till  at  last  they  perceived,  at  some 
distance,  a  pile  of  machinery  towering  up  in 
manifold  combination.  More  closely  examined, 
it  turned  out  to  be  a  large  apparatus  for  sport 
and  games,  arranged  not  without  judgment,  and 
in  a  certain  popular  spirit.  Here,  fixed  at  suit- 
able distances,  stood  a  large  swing-wheel,  on 
which  the  ascending  and  the  descending  riders 


336 


GOETHE. 


might  still  sit  horizontally,  and  at  their  ease; 
other  see-saws,  swing-ropes,  leaping-poles,  howl- 
ing and  nine-pins  courses,  and  whatever  can  be 
fancied  for  variedly  and  equally  employing  and 
diverting  a  crowd  of  people  gathered  on  a  large 
common.  "  This,"  cried  he,  "is  my  invention, 
my  decoration  !  And  though  my  father  found 
the  money,  and  a  shrewd  fellow  the  brain  ne- 
cessary for  it,  yet  without  me,  whom  you  often 
call  a  person  of  no  judgment,  money  and  brain 
would  not  have  come  together." 

In  this  cheerful  mood,  the  whole  four  reached 
home  by  sunset.  Antoni  also  joined  them  ;  but 
the  little  Julia,  not  yet  satisfied  with  this  unrest- 
ing travel,  ordered  her  coach,  and  set  forth  on  a 
visit  to  a  lady  of  her  friends,  in  utter  despair  at 
not  having  seen  her  for  two  days.  The  party 
left  behind  began  to  feel  embarrassed  before 
they  were  aware;  it  was  even  mentioned  in 
words  that  the  father's  absence  distressed  diem. 
The  conversation  was  about  to  stagnate,  when 
all  at  once  the  madcap  sprang  from  his  seat, 
and  in  a  few  moments  returned  with  a  book, 
proposing  to  read  to  the  company.  Lucinda 
forbore  not  to  inquire  how  this  notion  had  oc- 
curred to  him,  now  for  the  first  time  in  a  twelve- 
month. "Everything  occurs  to  me,"  said  he, 
M  at  the  proper  season :  this  is  more  than  you 
can  say  for  yourself."  He  read  them  a  series 
of  genuine  Antique  Tales ;  such  as  lead  man 
away  from  himself,  flattering  his  wishes,  and 
making  him  forget  all  those  restrictions,  between 
which,  even  in  the  happiest  moments,  we  are 
still  hemmed  in. 

"  What  shall  I  do  now  !"  cried  Lucidor,  when 
at  last  he  saw  himself  alone.  "  The  hour  presses 
on:  in  Antoni  I  have  no  trust;  he  is  an  utter 
stranger,  I  know  not  who  he  is,  how  he  comes 
to  be  here,  nor  what  he  wants ;  Lucinda  seems 
to  be  his  object;  and  if  so,  what  can  I  expect 
of  him?  Nothing  remains  for  me  but  applying 
to  Lucinda  herself:  she  must  know  of  it,  she 
before  all  others.  This  was  my  first  feeling : 
why  do  we  stray  into  sidepaths  and  subter- 
fuges ?  My  first  thought  shall  be  my  last,  and  I 
hope  to  reach  my  aim." 

On  Saturday  morning,  Lucidor,  dressed  at  an 
early  hour,  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  his 
chamber;  thinking  and  conning  over  his  pro- 
jected address  to  Lucinda,  when  he  heard  a 
sort  of  jestful  contention  before  his  door,  and  the 
door  itself  directly  afterwards  went  up.  The 
mad  younker  was  shoving  in  a  boy  before  him, 
writh  coffee  and  baked  ware  for  the  guest;  he 
himself  carried  cold  meats  and  wine.  "  Go 
thou  foremost,"  cried  the  younker:  "for  the 
guest  must  be  first  served  ;  I  am  used  to  serve 
myself.  My  friend,  to-day  I  am  entering  some- 
what early  and  tumultuously :  but  let  us  take 
our  breakfast  in  peace  ;  then  we  shall  see  what 
is  to  be  done;  for  of  our  company  there  is  no- 
thing to  be  hoped.  The  little  one  is  not  yet 
back  from  her  friend  ;  they  two  have  to  pour 
out  their  hearts  together  every  fortnight,  other- 
wise the  poor  dear  hearts  would  burst.  On 


Saturdays,  Lucinda  is  good  for  nothing;  she 
balances  her  household  accounts  for  my  father; 
she  would  have  had  me  taking  share  in  the  con- 
cern, but  Heaven  forbid  !    When  I  know  the  I 
price  of  anything,  no  morsel  of  it  can  I  relish.  : 
Guests  are  expected  to-morrow ;  the  old  man  . 
has  not  yet  got  refitted  ;  Antoni  is  gone  to  hunt,  1 
we  will  do  the  same." 

Guns,  pouches,  and  dogs  were  ready,  as  our 
pair  stept  down  into  the  court;  and  now  they 
set  forth  over  field  and  hill,  shooting  at  best 
some  leveret  or  so,  and  perhaps  here  and  there 
a  poor  indifferent  undeserving  bird.  Meanwhile 
they  kept  talking  of  domestic  affairs,  of  the 
household  and  company  at  present  assembled 
in  it.  Antoni  was  mentioned,  and  Lucidor  failed 
not  to  inquire  more  narrowly  about  him.  The 
gay  younker,  with  some  self-complaisance,  as- 
serted, that  strange  as  the  man  was,  and  much 
mystery  as  he  made  about  himself,  he,  the  gay 
younker,  had  already  seen  through  him  and 
through  him.  "Without  doubt,"  continued  he, 
"Antoni  is  the  son  of  a  rich  mercantile  family, 
whose  large  partnership  concern  fell  to  ruin  at  ; 
the  very  time  when  he,  in  the  full  vigor  of 
youth,  was  preparing  to  take  a  cheerful  and 
active  hand  in  their  great  undertakings,  and 
withal  to  share  in  their  abundant  profits. 
Dashed  down  from  the  summit  of  his  hopes,  he 
gathered  himself  together,  and  undertook  to 
perform  for  strangers  what  he  was  no  longer  in 
a  case  to  perform  for  his  relatives.  And  so  he 
travelled  through  the  world  ;  became  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  it  and  its  mutual  traffickings ; 
in  the  meanwhile,  not  forgetting  his  own  ad- 
vantage. Unwearied  diligence  and  tried  fidelity 
obtained  and  secured  for  him  unbounded  con- 
fidence from  many.  Thus  in  all  places  he  ac- 
quired connections  and  friends ;  nay,  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  his  fortune  is  as  widely  scattered 
abroad  as  his  acquaintance ;  and  accordingly 
his  presence  is  from  time  to  time  required  in  all 
quarters  of  the  world." 

These  things  the  merry  younker  told  in  a  j 
more   circumstantial  and  simple  style,  intro- 
ducing many  farcical  observations,  as  if  he 
meant  to  spin  out  his  story  to  full  length. 

"  How  long,  for  instance,"  cried  he,  "  has  this 
Antoni  been  connected  with  my  father  !  They 
think  I  see  nothing,  because  I  trouble  myself 
about  nothing ;  but  for  this  very  reason,  I  see  it 
better,  as  I  take  no  interest  in  it.  To  my  father 
he  has  intrusted  large  sums,  who  again  has  de- 
posited them  securely  and  to  advantage.  It 
was  but  last  night  that  he  gave  our  old  dietetic 
friend  a  casket  of  jewels;  a  finer,  simpler,  cost- 
lier piece  of  ware,  I  never  cast  my  eyes  on, 
though  I  saw  this  only  with  a  single  glance,  for 
they  make  a  secret  of  it.  Most  probably  it  is  to 
be  consigned  to  the  bride  for  her  pleasure,  satis- 
faction, and  future  security.  Antoni  has  set  his 
heart  on  Lucinda!  Yet  when  I  see  them  to- 
gether, I  cannot  think  it  a  well-assorted  match. 
The  hop-skip  would  have  suited  him  better ;  I 
believe,  too,  she  would  take  him  sooner  than 


GOETHE. 


337 


the  elder  would.  Many  a  time,  I  see  her  look- 
ing over  to  the  old  curmudgeon,  so  gay  and 
sympathetic,  as  if  she  could  find  in  her  heart  to 
spring  into  the  coach  with  him,  and  fly  off  at 
full  gallop."  Lucidor  collected  himself:  he 
knew  not  what  to  answer ;  all  that  he  heard 
obtained  his  internal  approbation.  The  younker 
proceeded:  "All  along  the  girl  has  had  a  per- 
verted liking  for  old  people :  I  believe,  of  a 
truth,  she  would  have  skipped  away  and  wed- 
ded your  father,  as  briskly  as  she  would  his 
son." 

Lucidor  followed  his  companion,  over  stock 
and  stone,  as  it  pleased  the  gay  youth  to  lead 
him  :  both  forgot  the  chase,  which  at  any  rate 
could  not  be  productive.  They  called  at  a 
farm-house,  where,  being  hospitably  received, 
the  one  friend  entertained  himself  with  eating, 
drinking,  and  tattling  :  the  other  again  plunged 
into  meditations,  and  projects  for  turning  this 
new  discovery  to  his  own  profit. 

From  all  these  narrations  and  disclosures, 
Lucidor  had  acquired  so  much  confidence  in 
Antoni,  that  immediately  on  their  return  he 
asked  for  him,  and  hastened  into  the  garden, 
where  he  was  said  to  be.  In  vain  !  No  soul 
was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  At  last  he  entered 
the  door  of  the  great  Hall  ;  and  strange  enough, 
the  setting  sun,  reflected  from  the  mirror,  so 
dazzled  him,  that  he  could  not  recognise  the 
two  persons,  who  were  sitting  on  the  sofa; 
though  he  saw  distinctly  that  it  was  a  lady  and 
a  man,  which  latter  was  that  instant  warmly 
kissing  the  hand  of  his  companion.  How  great, 
accordingly,  was  Lucidor's  astonishment,  when, 
on  recovering  his  clearness  of  vision,  he  beheld 
Antoni  sitting  by  Lucinda !  He  was  like  to  sink 
through  the  ground :  he  stood,  however,  as  if 
rooted  to  the  spot ;  till  Lucinda,  in  the  kindest, 
most  unembarrassed  manner,  shifted  a  little  to 
a  side,  and  invited  him  to  take  a  seat  on  her 
right  hand.  Unconsciously  he  obeyed  her,  and 
while  she  addressed  him,  inquiring  after  his 
present  day's  history,  asking  pardon  for  her  ab- 
sence on  domestic  engagements,  he  could  scarce- 
ly hear  her  voice.  Antoni  rose,  and  took  his 
leave  :  Lucinda,  resting  herself  from  her  toil,  as 
the  others  were  doing,  invited  Lucidor  to  a 
short  stroll.  Walking  by  her  side,  he  was  silent 
and  embarrassed  ;  she,  too,  seemed  ill  at  ease : 
and  had  he  been  in  the  slightest  degree  self- 
collected,  her  deep-drawn  breathing  must  have 
disclosed  to  him  that  she  had  heartfelt  sighs  to 
suppress.  She  at  last  took  her  leave,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  house :  he  on  the  other  hand 
turned  round,  at  first  slowly,  then  at  a  violent 
pace,  to  the  open  country.  The  park  was  too 
narrow  for  him;  he  hastened  through  the  fields, 
listening  only  to  the  voice  of  his  heart,  and 
without  eyes  for  the  beauties  of  this  loveliest 
evening.  When  he  found  himself  alone,  and 
his  feelings  were  relieving  their  violence  in  a 
shower  of  tears,  he  exclaimed  : 

"Already  in  my  life,  but  never  with  such 
fierceness,  have  I  felt  the  agony  which  now 
2s 


makes  me  altogether  wretched  :  to  see  the  long- 
wished-for  happiness  at  length  reach  me ;  hand- 
in-hand  and  arm-in-arm  unite  with  me ;  and  at 
the  same  moment  announce  its  eternal  depar- 
ture! I  was  sitting  by  her,  I  was  walking  by 
her;  her  fluttering  garment  touched  me,  and  I 
have  lost  her!  Reckon  it  not  over,  torture  not 
thy  heart  with  it;  be  silent,  and  determine!" 

He  laid  a  prohibition  on  his  lips;  he  held  his 
peace,  and  planned  and  meditated,  stepping 
over  field  and  meadow  and  bush,  not  always 
by  the  smoothest  paths.  Late  at  night,  on  re- 
turning to  his  chamber,  he  gave  voice  to  his 
thoughts  for  a  moment,  and  cried  :  "  To-mor- 
row morning  I  am  gone ;  another  such  day  I 
will  not  front." 

And  so,  without  undressing,  he  threw  him- 
self on  the  bed.  Happy,  healthy  season  of 
youth !  He  was  already  asleep ;  the  fatiguing 
motion  of  the  day  had  earned  for  him  the 
sweetest  rest.  Out  of  bright  morning  dreams, 
however,  the  earliest  sun  awoke  him  :  this  was 
the  longest  day  in  the  year ;  and  for  him  it 
threatened  to  be  too  long.  If  the  grace  of  the 
peaceful  evening  star  had  passed  over  him  un- 
noticed, he  felt  the  awakening  beauty  of  the 
morning  only  to  despair.  The  world  was  lying 
here  as  glorious  as  ever;  to  his  eyes  it  was  still 
so ;  but  his  soul  contradicted  it ;  all  this  be- 
longed to  him  no  longer,  he  had  lost  Lucinda. 

His  travelling-bag  was  soon  packed;  this  he 
was  to  leave  behind  him  :  he  left  no  letter  with 
it;  a  verbal  message  in  excuse  of  absence  from 
dinner,  perhaps  also  from  supper,  might  be  left 
with  the  groom,  whom  at  any  rate  he  must 
awaken.  The  groom,  however,  was  awake 
already :  Lucidor  found  him  in  the  yard,  walk- 
ing with  large  strides  before  the  stable-door. 
"  You  do  not  mean  to  ride'?"  cried  the  usually 
good-natured  man,  with  a  tone  of  some  spleen. 
"  To  you  I  may  say  it ;  but  young  master  is 
growing  worse  and  worse.  There  was  he 
driving  about  far  and  near  yesterday ;  you 
might  have  thought  he  would  thank  God  for  a 
Sunday  to  rest  in.  And  see,  if  he  does  not 
come  this  morning  before  daybreak,  rummages 
about  in  the  stable,  and  while  I  am  getting  up, 
saddles  and  bridles  your  horse,  flings  himself 
on  it,  and  cries  :  'Do  but  consider  the  good  work 
I  am  doing !  This  beast  keeps  jogging  on  at  a 
staid  juridical  trot,  I  must  see  and  rouse  him 
into  a  smart  life-gallop.'  He  said  something 
just  so,  and  other  strange  speeches  besides." 

Lucidor  was  doubly  and  trebly  vexed  :  he 
liked  the  horse,  as  corresponding  to  his  own 
character,  his  own  mode  of  life  :  it  grieved  him 
to  figure  his  good  sensible  beast  in  the  hands 
of  a  madcap.  His  plan,  too,  was  overturned ; 
his  purpose  of  flying  to  a  college  friend,  with 
whom  he  had  lived  in  cheerful  cordial  union, 
and  in  this  crisis  seeking  refuge  beside  him. 
His  old  confidence  had  been  awakened,  the  in- 
tervening miles  were  not  counted ;  he  had 
fancied  himself  already  at  the  side  of  his  true- 
hearted  and  judicious  friend,  finding  counsel 
29 


338 


GOETHE. 


and  assuagement  from  bis  words  and  looks. 
This  prospect  was  now  cut  off:  yet  not  entirely, 
if  he  could  venture  with  the  fresh  pedestrian 
limbs,  which  still  stood  at  his  command,  to  set 
forth  towards  the  goal. 

First  of  all,  accordingly,  he  struck  through 
the  park;  making  for  the  open  country,  and  the 
road  which  was  to  lead  him  to  his  friend.  Of 
his  direction  he  was  not  quite  certain,  when 
looking  to  the  left,  his  eye  fell  upon  the  Hermi- 
tage, which  had  hitherto  been  kept  secret  from 
him ;  a  strange  edifice,  rising  with  grotesque 
joinery  through  bush  and  tree  :  and  here,  to  his 
extreme  astonishment,  he  observed  the  good  old 
man,  who  for  some  days  had  been  considered 
sick,  standing  in  the  gallery  under  the  Chinese 
roof,  and  looking  blithely  through  the  soft  morn- 
ing. The  friendliest  salutation,  the  most  pres- 
sing entreaties  to  come  up,  Lucidor  resisted 
with  excuses  and  gestures  of  haste.  Nothing 
but  sympathy  with  the  good  old  man,  who,  has- 
tening down  with  infirm  step,  seemed  every 
moment  in  danger  of  falling  to  the  bottom,  could 
induce  him  to  turn  thither,  and  then  suffer  him- 
self to  be  conducted  up.  With  surprise  he 
entered  the  pretty  little  hall :  it  had  only  three 
windows,  turned  towards  the  park ;  a  most 
graceful  prospect :  the  other  sides  were  deco- 
rated, or  rather  covered,  with  hundreds  of  por- 
traits, copperplate,  or  painted,  which  were  fixed 
in  a  certain  order  to  the  wall,  and  separated  by 
colored  borders  and  interstices. 

"  I  favor  you,  my  friend,  more  than  I  do  every 
one;  this  is  the  sanctuary  in  which  I  peacefully 
spend  my  last  days.  Here  I  recover  myself 
from  all  the  mistakes,  which  society  tempts  me 
to  commit :  here  my  dietetic  errors  are  correct- 
ed, and  my  old  being  is  again  restored  to  equi- 
librium." 

Lucidor  looked  over  the  place ;  and  being 
well  read  in  history,  he  easily  observed  that 
an  historical  taste  had  presided  in  its  arrange- 
ment. 

"  Above,  there,  in  the  frieze,"  said  the  eld 
virtuoso,  "you  will  find  the  names  of  distin- 
guished men  in  the  primitive  ages;  then  those 
of  later  antiquity ;  yet  still  only  their  names, 
for  how  they  looked  would  now  be  difficult  to 
discover.  But  here,  in  the  main  field,  comes 
my  own  life  into  play:  here  are  the  men  whose 
names  I  used  to  hear  mentioned  in  my  boyhood. 
For  some  fifty  years  or  so,  the  name  of  a  dis- 
tinguished man  continues  in  the  remembrance 
of  the  people;  then  it  vanishes,  or  becomes 
fabulous.  Though  of  German  parentage,  I  was 
born  in  Holland ;  and  for  me,  William  of  Orange, 
Stadtholder.  and  King  of  England,  is  the  patri- 
arch of  all  common  great  men  and  heroes. 

"Now,  close  by  Wiiliam,  you  observe  Louis 
XIV.  as  the  person  who — "  How  gladly  would 
Lucidor  have  cut  short  the  good  old  man,  had 
it  but  been  permitted  him,  as  it  is  to  us  the  nar- 
rators :  for  the  whole  late  and  latest  history  of 
the  world  seemed  impending;  as  from  the  por- 
traits of  Frederick  the  Great  and  his  generals, 


towards  which  he  was  glancing,  was  but  too 
clearly  to  be  gathered. 

And  though  the  kindly  young  man  could  not 
but  respect  his  old  friend's  lively  sympathy  in 
these  things,  or  deny  that  some  individual  fea- 
tures and  views  in  this  exhibitory  discourse 
might  be  interesting;  yet  at  college  he  had  heard 
the  late  and  latest  history  of  Europe  already: 
and  what  a  man  has  once  heard,  he  fancies 
himself  to  know  forever.  Lucidor's  thoughts 
were  wandering  far  away;  he  heard  not,  he 
scarcely  saw  ;  and  was  just  on  the  point,  in  spite 
of  all  politeness,  of  flinging  himself  out,  and 
tumbling  down  the  long  fatal  stair,  when  a  loud 
clapping  of  hands  was  heard  from  below. 

While  Lucidor  restrained  his  movement,  tijk 
old  man  looked  over  through  the  window,  and 
a  well-known  voice  resounded  from  beneath: 
"  Come  down,  for  Heaven's  sake,  out  of  your 
historic  picture  gallery,  old  gentleman !  Con- 
clude your  fasts  and  humiliations,  and  help  me 
to  appease  our  young  friend,  when  he  learns  it 
Lucidor's  horse  I  have  ridden  somewhat  hard; 
it  has  lost  a  shoe,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the 
beast  behind  me.  What  will  he  say?  He  is 
too  absurd,  when  one  behaves  absurdly." 

"Come  up!"  said  the  old  man,  and  turned  in 
to  Lucidor:  "Now,  what  say  you?"  Lucidor 
was  silent,  and  the  wild  blade  entered.  The 
discussion  of  the  business  lasted  long:  at  length 
it  was  determined  to  despatch  the  groom  forth- 
with, that  he  might  seek  the  horse  and  take 
charge  of  it. 

Leaving  the  old  man,  the  two  younkers  hast- 
ened to  the  house ;  Lucidor,  not  quite  unwill- 
ingly, submitting  to  this  arrangement.  Come 
of  it  what  might,  within  these  walls  the  sole 
wish  of  his  heart  was  included.  In  such  des- 
perate cases,  we  are,  at  any  rate,  cut  off  from 
the  assistance  of  our  free  will ;  and  we  feel 
ourselves  relieved  for  a  moment,  when,  from 
any  quarter,  direction  and  constraint  takes  hold 
of  us.  Yet,  on  entering  his  chamber,  he  found 
himself  in  the  strangest  mood;  like  a  man  who, 
having  just  left  an  apartment  of  an  inn,  is  forced 
to  return  to  it,  by  the  breaking  of  an  axle. 

The  gay  younker  fell  upon  the  travelling-bag, 
unpacking  it  all  in  due  order;  especially  select- 
ing every  article  of  holiday  apparel,  which, 
though  only  on  the  travelling  scale,  was  to  be 
found  there.  He  forced  Lucidor  to  put  on  fresh 
shoes  and  stockings ;  he  dressed  for  him  his 
clustering  brown  locks,  and  decked  him  at  all 
points  with  his  best  skill.  Then  stepping  back, 
and  surveying  our  friend  and  his  own  handi- 
work, from  head  to  foot,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Now, 
then,  my  good  fellow,  you  do  look  like  a  man 
that  has  some  pretensions  to  pretty  damsels; 
and  serious  enough,  moreover,  to  spy  about  you 
for  a  bride.  Wait  one  moment !  You  shall  see 
how  I  too  can  produce  myself,  when  the  hour 
strikes.  This  knack  I  learned  from  your  mili- 
tary officers ;  the  girls  are  always  glancing  at 
them  ;  so  I  likewise  have  enrolled  myself  among 
a  certain  Soldiery;  and  now  they  look  at  me 


GOETHE. 


339 


too,  and  look  again,  and  no  soul  of  them  knows 
what  to  make  of  it.  And  so,  from  this  looking 
and  relooking,  from  this  surprise  and  attention, 
a  pretty  enough  result  now  and  then  arises ; 
which,  though  it  were  not  lasting,  is  worth  en- 
joying for  the  moment. 

"But,  come  along,  my  friend,  and  do  the  like 
service  for  me !  When  you  have  seen  me  case 
myself  by  piecemeal  in  my  equipment,  you  will 
not  say  that  wit  and  invention  have  been  de- 
nied me."  He  now  led  his  friend  through 
several  long  spacious  passages  of  the  old  castle. 
"I  have  quite  nestled  myself  here,"  cried  he. 
"Though  I  care  not  for  hiding,  I  like  to  be 
alone ;  you  can  do  no  good  with  other  people." 

They  were  passing  by  the  office-rooms,  just 
as  a  servant  came  out  with  a  patriarchal  writ- 
ing-apparatus, black,  massive,  and  complete; 
paper,  too,  was  not  forgotten. 

"I  know  what  is  to  be  blotted  here  again," 
cried  the  younker:  "go  thy  ways,  and  leave 
me  the  key.  Take  a  look  of  the  place,  Lucidor ; 
it  will  amuse  you  till  I  am  dressed.  To  a  friend 
of  justice,  such  a  spot  is  not  odious,  as  to  a  tamer 
of  horses."  And  with  this,  he  pushed  Lucidor 
into  the  hall  of  judgment. 

Lucidor  felt  himself  directly  in  a  well-known 
and  friendly  element;  he  thought  of  the  days 
when  he,  fixed  down  to  business,  had  sat  at 
such  a  table ;  and  listening  and  writing,  had 
trained  himself  to  his  art.  Nor  did  he  fail  to 
observe,  that  in  this  case  an  old  stately  domestic 
Chapel  had,  under  the  change  of  religious  ideas, 
been  converted  to  the  service  of  Themis.  In 
the  repositories,  he  found  some  titles  and  acts 
already  familiar  to  him  :  in  these  very  matters 
he  had  co-operated,  while  laboring  in  the  Capi- 
tal. Opening  a  bundle  of  papers,  there  came 
into  his  hands  a  rescript,  which  he  himself  had 
dictated  ;  another,  of  which  he  had  been  the 
originator.   Hand-writing  and  paper,  signet  and 

j  president's  signature,  everything  recalled  to  him 
that  season  of  juridical  effort,  of  youthful  hope. 

,  And  here,  when  he  looked  round,  and  saw  the 
Oberamtmann's  chair,  appointed  and  intended 
for  himself;  so  fair  a  place,  so  dignified  a  circle 
of  activity,  which  he  was  now  like  to  cast  away, 
and  utterly  lose,  all  this  oppressed  him  doubly 
and  trebly,  as  the  form  of  Lucinda  seemed  to 
retire  from  him  at  the  same  time. 

He  turned  to  go  out  into  the  open  air,  but 
found  himself  a  prisoner.   His  gay  friend,  heed- 

«  lessly  or  roguishly,  had  left  the  door  locked. 

I  Lucidor,  however,  did  not  long  continue  in  this 

'  durance  ;  for  the  other  returned  ;  apologised  for 
his  oversight,  and  really  called  forth  good  humor 
by  his  singular  appearance.  A  certain  audacity 

'  of  color  and  cut  in  his  clothes  was  softened  by 

•  natural  taste,  as  even  to  tattooed  Indians  we 
refuse  not  a  certain  approbation.  "To-day," 

,  cried  he,  "the  tedium  of  bygone  days  shall  be 
made  good  to  us.  Worthy  friends,  merry  friends 
are  come;  pretty  girls,  roguish  and  fond;  and 
my  father,  to  boot ;  and  wonder  on  wonder ! 
your  father  too.    This  will  be  a  festival,  truly; 


they  are  all  assembled  for  breakfast  in  the  par- 
lor." 

With  Lucidor,  at  this  piece  of  information,  it 
was  as  if  he  were  looking  into  deep  fog;  all  the 
figures,  known  and  unknown,  which  the  words 
announced  to  him,  assumed  a  spectral  aspect: 
yet  his  resolution,  and  the  consciousness  of  a 
pure  heart,  sustained  him  ;  and,  in  a  few  se- 
conds, he  felt  himself  prepared  for  everything. 
He  followed  his  hastening  friend  with  a  steady 
step,  firmly  determined  to  await  the  issue,  be  it 
what  it  might,  and  explain  his  own  purposes, 
come  what  come  might. 

And  yet,  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  hall,  he 
was  struck  with  some  alarm.  In  a  large  half 
circle,  ranged  round  by  the  windows,  he  imme- 
diately descried  his  father  with  the  Oberamt- 
mann,  both  splendidly  attired.  The  two  sisters, 
Antoni,  and  others  known  and  unknown,  he 
hurried  over  with  a  glance,  which  was  threat- 
ening to  grow  dim.  Half  wavering,  he  ap- 
proached his  father;  who  bade  him  welcome 
with  the  utmost  kindness,  yet  in  a  certain  style 
of  formality  which  scarcely  invited  any  trustful 
application.  Standing  before  so  many  persons, 
he  looked  round  to  find  a  place  among  them  for 
the  moment :  he  might  have  arranged  himself 
beside  Lucinda ;  but  Julia,  contrary  to  the  rigor 
of  etiquette,  made  room  for  him,  so  that  he  was 
forced  to  step  to  her  side.  Antoni  continued 
by  Lucinda. 

At  this  important  moment,  Lucidor  again  felt 
as  if  he  were  a  delegate;  and,  steeled  by  his 
whole  juridical  science,  he  called  up  in  his  own 
favor  the  fine  maxim  :  That  we  should  transact 
affairs  delegated  to  us  by  a  stranger,  as  if  they 
were  our  own ;  why  not  our  own,  therefore,  in 
the  same  spirit?  Well  practised  in  official  ora- 
tions, he  speedily  ran  over  what  he  had  to  say. 
But  the  company,  ranged  in  a  formal  semicircle, 
seemed  to  outflank  him.  The  purport  of  his 
speech  he  knew  well ;  the  beginning  of  it  he 
could  not  find.  At  this  crisis,  he  observed  on  a 
table,  in  the  corner,  the  large  ink -glass,  and 
several  clerks  sitting  round  it :  the  Oberamtmann 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  solicit  attention  for  a 
speech;  Lucidor  wished  to  anticipate  him  ;  and, 
at  that  very  moment,  Julia  pressed  his  hand. 
This  threw  him  out  of  all  self-possession;  con- 
vinced him  that  all  was  decided,  all  lost  for 
him. 

With  the  whole  of  these  negotiations,  these 
family  alliances,  with  social  conventions  and 
rules  of  good  manners,  he  had  now  nothing  more 
to  do:  he  snatched  his  hand  from  Julia  s,  and 
vanished  so  rapidly  from  the  room,  that  the 
company  lost  him  unawares,  and  he  out  of  doors 
could  not  find  himself  again. 

Shrinking  from  the  light  of  day,  which  shone 
down  upon  him  in  its  highest  splendor ;  avoid- 
ing the  eyes  of  men  ;  dreading  search  and  pur- 
suit, he  hurried  forwards,  and  reached  the  large 
garden-hall.  Here  his  knees  were  like  to  fail 
him  ;  he  rushed  in,  and  threw  himself,  utterly 
I  comfortless,  upon  the  sofa  beneath  the  mirror. 


340 


GOETHE. 


1 


Amid  the  polished  arrangements  of  society,  to 
be  caught  in  such  unspeakable  perplexity!  It 
dashed  to  and  fro  like  waves  about  him  and 
within  him.  His  past  existence  was  struggling 
with  his  present:  it  was  a  frightful  moment. 

And  so  he  lay  for  a  time,  with  his  face  hid 
in  the  cushion,  on  which  last  night  Lucinda's 
arm  had  rested.  Altogether  sunk  in  his  sor- 
row, he  had  heard  no  footsteps  approach ;  feel- 
ing some  one  touch  him,  he  started  up,  and  per- 
ceived Lucinda  standing  by  his  side. 

Fancying  they  had  sent  her  to  bring  him 
back,  had  commissioned  her  to  lead  him  with 
fit  sisterly  words  into  the  assemblage  to  front 
his  hated  doom,  he  exclaimed:  "You  they 
should  not  have  sent,  Lucinda :  for  it  was  you 
that  drove  me  away.  I  will  not  return.  Give 
me,  if  you  are  capable  of  any  pity,  procure  me 
convenience  and  means  of  flight.  For,  that  you 
yourself  may  testify  how  impossible  it  was  to 
bring  me  back,  listen  to  the  explanation  of  my 
conduct,  which  to  you  and  all  of  them  must 
seem  insane.  Hear  now  the  oath  which  I  have 
sworn  in  my  soul,  and  which  I  incessantly  re- 
peat in  words :  with  you  only  did  I  wish  to 
live:  with  you  to  enjoy,  to  employ  my  days, 
from  youth  to  old  age,  in  true  honorable  union. 
And  let  this  be  as  firm  and  sure  as  aught  ever 
sworn  before  the  altar  ;  this  which  I  now  swear, 
now  when  I  leave  you,  the  most  pitiable  of  all 
men." 

He  made  a  movement  to  glide  past  her,  as 
she  stood  close  before  him  ;  but  she  caught  him 
softly  in  her  arms.  "What  is  this!"  exclaim- 
ed he. 

"Lucidor!"  cried  she,  "not  pitiable  as  you 
think  :  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours ;  I  hold  you  in 
my  arms;  delay  not  to  throw  your  arms  about 
me.  Your  father  has  agreed  to  all;  Antoni 
marries  my  sister." 

In  astonishment  he  recoiled  from  her  :  "  Can 
it  be?"  Lucinda  smiled  and  nodded;  he  drew 
back  from  her  arms.  "  Let  me  view  once  more, 
at  a  distance,  what  is  to  be  mine  so  nearly,  so 
inseparably."  He  grasped  her  hands:  "Lu- 
cinda, are  you  mine  ?" 

She  answered :  "  Well,  then,  yes,"  the  sweet- 
est tears  in  the  truest  eyes;  he  clasped  her  to 
his  breast,  and  threw  his  head  behind  hers;  he 
hung  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner  on  the  cliffs 
of  the  coast ;  the  ground  still  shook  under  him. 
And  now  his  enraptured  eye,  again  opening, 
lighted  on  the  mirror.  He  saw  her  there  in  his 
arms,  himself  clasped  in  hers;  he  looked  down, 
and  again  to  the  image.  Such  emotions  accom- 
pany man  throughout  his  life.  In  the  mirror, 
also,  he  beheld  the  landscape,  which  last  night 
had  appeared  to  him  so  baleful  and  ominous, 
now  lying  fairer  and  brighter  than  ever;  and 
himself  in  such  a  posture,  on  such  a  back- 
ground! Abundant  recompense  for  all  sorrows! 

"We  are  not  alone,"  said  Lucinda;  and 
scarcely  had  he  recovered  from  his  rapture, 
when,  all  decked  and  garlanded,  a  company  of 
girls  and  boys  came  forward,  carrying  wreaths 


of  flowers,  and  crowding  the  entrance  of  the 
Hall.  "This  is  not  the  way,"  cried  Lucinda: 
"  how  prettily  it  was  arranged,  and  now  it  is  all 
running  into  tumult!"  A  gay  march  sounded 
from  a  distance  ;  and  the  company  were  seen 
coming  on  by  the  large  road  in  stately  proces- 
sion. Lucidor  hesitated  to  advance  towards 
them ;  only  on  her  arm  did  he  seem  certain  of 
his  steps.  She  stayed  beside  him,  expecting 
from  moment  to  moment  the  solemn  scene  of 
meeting,  of  thanks  for  pardon  already  given. 

But  by  the  capricious  gods  it  was  otherwise 
determined.  The  gay  clanging  sound  of  a  pos- 
tilion's horn,  from  the  opposite  side,  seemed  to 
throw  the  whole  ceremony  into  rout.  "  Who 
can  be  coming?"  cried  Lucinda.  The  thought 
of  a  strange  presence  was  frightful  to  Lucidor; 
and  the  carriage  seemed  entirely  unknown  to 
him.  A  double-seated,  new,  spick-and-span 
new  travelling  chaise!  It  rolled  up  to  the  Hail. 
A  well-dressed,  handsome  boy  sprang  down; 
opened  the  door;  but  no  one  dismounted;  the 
chaise  was  empty.  The  boy  stept  into  it ;  with 
a  dexterous  touch  or  two  he  threw  back  the 
tilts ;  and  there,  in  a  twinkling,  stood  the 
daintiest  vehicle  in  readiness  for  the  gayest 
drive,  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole  party,  who 
were  now  advancing  to  the  spot.  Antoni,  out- 
hastening  the  rest,  led  Julia  to  the  carriage. 
"Try  if  this  machine,"  said  he,  "will  please 
you ;  if  you  can  sit  in  it,  and  over  the  smoothest 
roads,  roll  through  the  world  beside  me:  I  will 
lead  you  by  no  other  but  the  smoothest ;  and 
when  a  strait  comes,  we  shall  know  how  to 
help  ourselves.  Over  the  mountains,  sumpters 
shall  carry  us,  and  our  coach  also." 

"You  are  a  dear  creature!"  cried  Julia.  The 
boy  came  forward  ;  and,  with  the  quickness  of 
a  conjurer,  exhibited  all  the  conveniences,  little 
advantages,  comforts,  and  celerities  of  the  whole 
light  edifice. 

"  On  Earth  I  have  no  thanks,"  cried  Julia ; 
"but  from  this  little  moving  Heaven,  from  this 
cloud,  into  which  you  raise  me,  I  will  heartily 
thank  you."  She  had  already  bounded  in, 
throwing  him  kind  looks  and  a  kiss  of  the  hand. 
"  For  the  present  you  come  not  hither  ;  but  there 
is  another  whom  I  mean  to  take  along  with  me 
in  this  proof  excursion  ;  he  himself  has  still  a 
proof  to  undergo."  She  called  to  Lucidor;  who, 
just  then  occupied  in  mute  conversation  with 
his  father  and  father-in-law,  willingly  took 
refuge  in  the  light  vehicle  ;  feeling  an  irresist- 
ible necessity  to  dissipate  his  thoughts  in  some 
way  or  other,  though  it  were  but  for  a  moment. 
He  placed  himself  beside  her;  she  directed  the 
postilion  where  he  was  to  drive.  Instantly 
they  darted  off,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  dust ; 
and  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  the  amazed 
spectators. 

Julia  fixed  herself  in  the  corner,  as  firmly 
and  commodiously  as  she  could  wish.  "Now 
do  you  shift  into  that  one  too,  good  brother ;  so 
that  we  may  look  each  other  rightly  in  the 

face." 


GOETHE. 


341 


Lucidor.  You  feel  my  confusion,  my  embar- 
rassment: I  am  still  as  if  in  a  dream  ;  help  me 
out  of  it. 

Julia.  Look  at  these  gay  peasants,  how  kindly 
they  salute  us !  You  have  never  seen  the  Upper 
Hamlet  yet,  since  you  came  hither.  All  good 
substantial  people  there,  and  all  thoroughly  de- 
voted to  me.    No  one  of  them  so  rich  that  you 

,  cannot,  by  a  time,  do  a  little  kind  service  to 
him.  This  road,  which  we  whirl  along  so 
smoothly,  is  my  father's  doing;  another  of  his 
benefits  to  the  community. 

Lucidor.  I  believe  it,  and  willingly  admit  it: 
but  what  have  these  external  things  to  do  with 
the  perplexity  of  my  internal  feelings? 

Julia.  Patience  a  little !  I  will  show  you  the 
riches  of  this  world  and  the  glory  thereof.  Here 
now  we  are  at  the  top !  Do  but  look  how  clear 
the  level  country  lies  all  round  us  leaning 
against  the  mountains!  All  these  villages  are 
much,  much  indebted  to  my  father ;  to  mother 
and  daughters  too.  The  grounds  of  yon  little 
hamlet  are  the  border. 

Lucidor.  Surely  you  are  in  a  very  strange 
mood  :  you  do  not  seem  to  be  saying  what  you 
meant  to  say. 

Julia.  But  now  look  down  to  the  left;  how 
beautifully  all  this  unfolds  itself!  The  Church, 
with  its  high  lindens ;  the  Amthaus,  with  its 
poplars,  behind  the  village  knoll !  Here,  too,  are 

!  the  garden  and  the  park. 
The  postilion  drove  faster. 
Julia.  The  Hall  up  yonder  you  know :  it 
looks  almost  as  well  here,  as  this  scene  does 
from  it.  Here,  at  the  tree,  we  shall  stop  a  mo- 
ment: now  in  this  very  spot  our  image  is  re- 
flected in  the  large  mirror ;  there  they  see  us 

j  full  well,  but  we  cannot  see  ourselves. —  Go 

,  along,  postilion  ! — There,  some  little  while  ago, 
two  people,  I  believe,  were  reflected  at  a 
shorter  distance ;  and,  if  I  am  not  exceedingly 
mistaken,  to  their  great  mutual  satisfaction. 

Lucidor,  in  ill  humor,  answered  nothing  :  they 
went  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  driving  very 
hard.  "Here,"  said  Julia,  "the  bad  road  be- 
gins: a  service  left  for  you  to  do,  some  day. 
Before  we  go  lou^r,  look  down  once  more.  My 
mother's  boxtree  rises  with  its  royal  summit 

•  over  all  the  rest.  Thou  wilt  drive,"  continued 
she  to  the  postilion,  "down  this  rough  road ;  we 
shall  take  the  foot-path  through  the  dale,  and  so 
be  sooner  at  the  other  side  than  thou."  In  dis- 
mounting, she  cried  :  "  Well,  now,  you  will  con- 
fess, the  Wandering  Jew,  this  restless  Antoni 
the  Traveller,  can  arrange  his  pilgrimages  pret- 
tily enough  for  himself  and  his  companions :  it 
is  a  very  beautiful  and  commodious  carriage." 

And  with  this  she  tripped  away  down  hill: 
Lucidor  followed  her,  in  deep  thought ;  she 
was  sitting  on  a  pleasant  seat ;  it  was  Lucinda's 
little  spot.    She  invited  him  to  sit  by  her. 

Julia.  So  now  we  are  sitting  here,  and  one  is 
nothing  to  the  other.  Thus  it  was  destined  to 
be.  The  little  Quicksilver  would  not  suit  you. 
Love  it  you  could  not,  it  was  hateful  to  you. 


Lucidor's  astonishment  increased. 

Julia.  But  Lucinda,  indeed  !  She  is  the  para- 
gon of  all  perfections  ;  and  the  pretty  sister  was 
once  for  all  cast  out.  I  see  it,  the  question 
hovers  on  your  lips :  who  has  told  us  all  so  ac- 
curately ? 

Lucidor.  There  is  treachery  in  it! 

Julia.  Yes,  truly !  There  has  been  a  Traitor 
at  work  in  the  matter. 

Lucidor.  Name  him. 

Julia.  He  is  soon  unmasked  :  You  !  You  have 
the  praiseworthy  or  blameworthy  custom  of 
talking  to  yourself:  and  now,  in  the  name  of 
all,  I  must  confess  that  in  turn  we  have  over- 
heard you. 

Lucidor  (starting  up).  A  sorry  piece  of  hospi- 
tality, to  lay  snares  for  a  stranger  in  this  way! 

Julia.  By  no  means !  We  thought  not  of 
watching  you,  more  than  any  other.  But,  you 
know,  your  bed  stands  in  the  recess  of  the  wall ; 
on  the  opposite  side  is  another  alcove,  common- 
ly employed  for  laying  up  household  articles. 
Hither,  some  days  before,  we  had  shifted  our 
old  man's  bed  ;  being  anxious  about  him  in  his 
remote  Hermitage :  and  here,  the  first  night, 
you  started  some  such  passionate  soliloquy, 
which  he  next  morning  took  his  opportunity  of 
rehearsing. 

Lucidor  had  not  the  heart  to  interrupt  her. 
He  withdrew. 

Julia  (rising  and  following  him).  What  a 
service  this  discovery  did  us  all !  For  I  will 
confess,  if  you  were  not  positively  disagreeable, 
the  situation  which  awaited  me  was  not  by  any 
means  to  my  mind.  To  be  Frau  Oberamt- 
mannin,  what  a  dreadful  state!  To  have  a 
brave  gallant  husband,  who  is  to  pass  judgment 
on  the  people  ;  and,  for  sheer  judgment,  cannot 
get  to  justice  !  Who  can  please  neither  high  nor 
low ;  and,  what  is  worst,  not  even  himself!  I 
know  what  my  poor  mother  suffered  from  the 
incorruptibility,  the  inflexibility  of  my  father. 
At  last,  indeed,  but  not  till  her  death,  a  certain 
meekness  took  possession  of  him :  he  seemed  to 
suit  himself  to  the  world,  to  make  a  truce  with 
those  evils  which,  till  then,  he  had  vainly 
striven  to  conquer. 

Lucidor  (stopping  short;  extremely  discon- 
tented with  the  incident;  vexed  at  this  light 
mode  of  treating  it).  For  the  sport  of  an  evening 
this  might  pass ;  but  to  practise  such  a  disgrac- 
ing mystification,  day  and  night,  against  an  un- 
suspicious stranger,  is  not  pardonable. 

Julia.  We  are  all  equally  deep  in  the  crime; 
we  all  hearkened  you :  yet  I  alone  pay  the 
penalty  of  eavesdropping. 

Lucidor.  All!  So  much  the  more  unpardon- 
able! And  how  could  you  look  at  me,  through- 
out the  day,  without  blushing,  whom  at  night 
you  were  so  contemptuously  overreaching'?  But 
I  see  clearly  with  a  glance,  that  your  arrange- 
ments by  day  were  planned  to  make  mockery 
of  me.  A  fine  family !  And  where  was  your 
father's  love  of  justice  all  this  while!  —  And 
Lucinda !  — 

29* 


342 


GOETHE. 


Julia.  And  Lucinda  !  What  a  tone  was  that ! 
You  meant  to  say,  did  not  you,  How  deeply  it 
grieved  your  heart  to  think  ill  of  Lucinda,  to 
rank  her  in  a  class  with  the  rest  of  us  ? 

Lucidor.  I  cannot  understand  Lucinda. 

Julia.  In  other  words  this  pure  noble  soul, 
this  peacefully  composed  nature,  benevolence, 
goodness  itself,  this  woman  as  she  should  be, 
unites  with  a  light-minded  company,  with  a 
freakish  sister,  a  spoiled  brother,  and  certain 
mysterious  persons!  That  is  incomprehensible! 

Lucidor.  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  incomprehensible. 

Julia.  Comprehend  it  then  !  Lucinda,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  had  her  hands  bound.  Could  you 
have  seen  her  perplexity,  how  fain  she  would 
have  told  you  all,  how  often  she  was  on  the 
very  eve  of  doing  it,  you  would  now  love  her 
doubly  and  trebly,  if  indeed  true  love  were  not 
always  tenfold  and  hundredfold  of  itself.  I  can 
assure  you,  moreover,  that  all  of  us  at  length 
thought  the  joke  too  long. 

Lucidor.  Why  did  you  not  end  it  then  ? 

Julia.  That,  too,  I  must  explain.  No  sooner 
had  my  father  got  intelligence  of  your  first  mo- 
nologue, and  seen,  as  was  easy  to  do,  that  none 
of  his  children  would  object  to  such  an  ex- 
change, than  he  determined  on  visiting  your 
father.  The  importance  of  the  business  gave 
him  much  anxiety.  A  father  alone  can  feel 
the  respect  which  is  due  to  a  father.  "  He 
must  be  informed  of  it  in  the  first  place,"  said 
mine,  "  that  he  may  not  in  the  end,  when  we 
are  all  agreed,  be  reduced  to  give  a  forced  and 
displeased  consent.  I  know  him  well :  I  know 
how  any  thought,  any  wish,  any  purpose  cleaves 
to  him  ;  and  I  have  my  own  fears  about  the 
issue.  Julia,  his  maps  and  pictures,  he  has 
long  viewed  as  one  thing ;  he  has  it  in  his  eye 
to  transport  all  this  hither,  when  the  young  pair 
are  once  settled  here,  and  his  old  pupil  cannot 
change  her  abode  so  readily;  on  us  he  is  to 
bestow  his  holidays ;  and  who  knows  what 
other  kind  friendly  things  he  has  projected?  He 
must  forthwith  be  informed  what  a  trick  Na- 
ture has  played  us,  while  yet  nothing  is  declared, 
nothing  is  determined."  And  with  this,  he 
exacted  from  us  all  the  most  solemn  promise 
that  we  should  observe  you,  and  come  what 
might,  retain  you  here  till  his  return.  How  this 
return  has  been  protracted  ;  what  art,  toil,  and 
perseverance  it  has  cost  to  gain  your  father's 
consent,  he  himself  will  inform  you.  In  short, 
the  business  is  adjusted  ;  Lucinda  is  yours. 

And  thus  had  the  two  promenaders,  sharply 
removing  from  their  first  resting-place,  then 
pausing  by  the  way,  then  speaking,  and  walk- 
ing slowly  through  the  green  fields,  at  last 
reached  the  height,  where  another  well-levelled 
road  received  them.  The  carriage  came  whirl- 
ing up :  Julia  in  the  meanwhile  turned  her 
friend's  attention  to  a  strange  sight.  The  whole 
machinery,  of  which  her  gay  brother  had  brag- 
ged so  much,  was  now  alive  and  in  motion;  the 
wheels  were  already  heaving  up  and  down  a 
multitude  of  people  ;  the  seesaws  were  flying ; 


maypoles  had  their  climbers ;  and  many  a  bold 
artful  swing  and  spring  over  the  heads  of  an 
innumerable  multitude  you  might  see  ventured. 
The  younker  had  set  all  agoing,  that  so  the 
guests,  after  dinner,  might  have  a  gay  spectacle 
awaiting  them.  "Thou  wilt  drive  through  the 
Nether  Hamlet,"  cried  Julia;  "the  people  wish 
me  well,  and  they  shall  see  how  well  I  am 
off." 

The  Hamlet  was  empty:  the  young  people 
had  all  run  to  the  swings  and  seesaws ;  old 
men  and  women,  roused  by  the  driver's  horn, 
appeared  at  doors  and  windows ;  every  one 
gave  salutations  and  blessings,  exclaiming :  "  0 
what  a  lovely  pair  !" 

Julia.  There,  do  you  hear  ?  We  should  have 
suited  well  enough  together  after  all ;  you  may 
rue  it  yet. 

Lucidor.  But  now,  dear  sister  ! 

Julia.  Ha !  Now  dear,  when  you  are  rid 
of  me  1 

Lucidor.  One  single  word !  On  you  rests  a 
heavy  accusation  :  what  did  you  mean  by  that 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  when  you  knew  and  felt 
my  dreadful  situation'?  A  thing  so  radically 
wicked  I  have  never  met  with  in  my  life  be- 
fore. 

Julia.  Thank  Heaven,  we  are  now  quits; 
now  all  is  pardoned.  I  had  no  mind  for  you} 
that  is  certain  ;  but  that  you  had  utterly  and  ab- 
solutely no  mind  for  me,  this  was  a  thing  which 
no  young  woman  could  forgive ;  and  the  squeeze 
of  the  hand,  observe  you,  was  for  the  rogue.  I 
do  confess,  it  was  almost  too  roguish  ;  and  I 
forgive  myself,  because  I  forgive  you ;  and  so 
let  all  be  forgotten  and  forgiven!  Here  is  my 
hand. 

He  took  it ;  she  cried  :  "  Here  we  are  again ! 
In  our  park  again ;  and  so  in  a  trice,  we  whirl 
through  the  wide  world,  and  back  too;  we 
shall  meet  again." 

They  had  reached  the  garden-hall ;  it  seemed 
empty;  the  company,  tired  of  waiting,  had  gone 
out  to  walk.  Antoni,  however,  and  Lucinda 
came  forth.  Julia  stepping  from  the  carriage 
flew  to  her  friend;  she  thanked  him  in  a  cordial 
embrace,  and  restrained  not  the  most  joyful 
tears.  The  brave  man's  cheeks  reddened,  his 
features  looked  forth  unfolded  ;  his  eye  glanced 
moist;  and  a  fair  imposing  youth  shone  through 
the  veil. 

And  so  both  pairs  moved  off  to  join  the  com- 
pany, with  feelings  which  the  finest  dream 
could  not  have  given  them. 

******* 

"Thus,  my  friends,"  said  Lenardo,  after  a 
short  preamble,  "  if  we  survey  the  most  popu- 
lous provinces  and  kingdoms  of  the  firm  Earth, 
we  observe  on  all  sides  that  wherever  an  avail- 
able soil  appears,  it  is  cultivated,  planted,  shaped, 
beautified  ;  and  in  the  same  proportion,  coveted, 
taken  into  possession,  fortified  and  defended. 
Hereby  we  bring  home  to  our  conceptions  the 
high  worth  of  property  in  land ;  and  are  obliged 


GOETHE.  343 


to  consider  it  as  the  first  and  best  acquirement 
that  can  be  allotted  to  man.  And  if  on  closer 
inspection  we  find  parental  and  filial  love,  the 
union  of  countrymen  and  townsmen,  and  there- 
fore the  universal  feeling  of  patriotism,  founded 
immediately  on  this  same  interest  in  the  soil, 
we  cannot  but  regard  that  seizing  and  retaining 
of  Space,  in  the  great  or  the  small  scale,  as  a 
thing  still  more  important  and  venerable.  Yes, 
Nature  herself  has  so  ordered  it!  A  man  born 
on  the  glebe  comes  by  habit  to  belong  to  it ;  the 
two  grow  together,  and  the  fairest  ties  are  spun 
from  their  union.  Who  is  there  then  that  would 
spitefully  disturb  this  foundation-stone  of  all 
existence ;  that  would  blindly  deny  the  worth 
and  dignity  of  such  precious  and  peculiar  gifts 
of  Heaven? 

"  And  yet  we  may  assert,  that  if  what  man 
possesses  is  of  great  worth,  what  he  does  and 
accomplishes  must  be  of  still  greater.  In  a  wide 
view  of  things,  therefore,  we  must  look  on  pro- 
perty in  land  as  one  small  part  of  the  possessions 
that  have  been  given  us.  Of  these  the  greatest 
and  the  most  precious  part  consists  especially 
in  what  is  movable,  and  in  what  is  gained  by  a 
moving  life. 

"Towards  this  quarter,  we  younger  men  are 
peculiarly  constrained  to  turn ;  for  though  we 
had  inherited  from  our  fathers  the  desire  of 
abiding  and  continuing,  we  find  ourselves  called 
by  a  thousand  causes  nowise  to  shut  our  eyes 
against  a  wider  outlook  and  survey.  Let  us 
hasten,  then,  to  the  shore  of  the  Ocean,  and  con- 
vince ourselves  what  boundless  spaces  are  still 
lying  open  to  activity ;  and  confess  that,  by  the 
bare  thought  of  this,  we  are  roused  to  new  vigor. 

"Yet  not  to  lose  ourselves  in  these  vast  ex- 
panses, let  us  direct  our  attention  to  the  long 
and  large  surface  of  so  many  countries  and 
kingdoms,  combined  together  on  the  face  of  the 
Earth.  Here  we  behold  great  tracts  of  land 
tenanted  by  Nomades ;  whose  towns  are  mov- 
able, whose  life-supporting  household  goods  can 
be  transferred  from  place  to  place.  We  see 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  deserts,  on  wide  green 
pasturages,  lying  as  it  were  at  anchor  in  their 
desired  haven.  Such  movement,  such  wander- 
ing, becomes  a  habit  with  them,  a  necessity ;  in 
the  end  they  grow  to  regard  the  surface  of  the 
world  as  if  it  were  not  bulwarked  by  mountains, 
were  not  cut  asunder  by  streams.  Have  we 
not  seen  the  North-east  flow  towards  the  South- 
west, one  people  driving  another  before  it,  and 
lordship  and  property  altogether  changed? 

"  From  over-populous  countries,  a  similar  ca- 
lamity may  again,  in  the  great  circle  of  vicissi- 
tudes, occur  more  than  once.  What  we  have 
to  dread  from  foreigners,  it  may  be  difficult  to 
say ;  but  it  is  curious  enough,  that  by  our  own 
over-population,  we  ourselves  are  thronging  one 
another  in  our  own  domains,  and  without  wait- 
ing to  be  driven,  are  driving  one  another  forth, 
passing  sentence  of  banishment  each  against  his 
fellow. 

"  Here  now  is  the  place  and  season  for  giving 


scope  in  our  bosoms,  without  spleen  or  anger, 
to  a  love  of  movement;  for  unfettering  that  im- 
patient wish  which  excites  us  to  change  our 
abode.  Yet,  whatever  we  may  purpose  and 
intend,  let  it  be  accomplished  not  from  passion, 
or  from  any  other  influence  of  force,  but  f  rom  a 
conviction  corresponding  to  the  wisest  judgment 
and  deliberation. 

"  It  has  been  said,  and  over  again  said :  Where 
I  am  well,  is  my  country !  But  this  consolatory 
saw  were  better  worded :  Where  I  am  useful, 
is  my  country!  At  home,  you  may  be  useless, 
and  the  fact  not  instantly  observed ;  abroad  in 
the  world,  the  useless  man  is  speedily  convicted. 
And  now,  if  I  say :  Let  each  endeavor  every- 
where to  be  of  use  to  himself  and  others,  this  is 
not  a  precept,  or  a  counsel,  but  the  utterance  of 
life  itself. 

"  Cast  a  glance  over  the  terrestrial  ball,  and 
for  the  present  leave  the  ocean  out  of  sight ;  let 
not  its  hurrying  fleets  distract  your  thoughts  : 
but  fix  your  eye  on  the  firm  earth,  and  be  amazed 
to  see  how  it  is  overflowed  with  a  swarming 
ant  tribe,  jostling  and  crossing,  and  running  to 
and  fro  forever  !  So  was  it  ordained  of  the  Lord 
himself,  when,  obstructing  the  Tower  of  Babel, 
he  scattered  the  human  race  abroad  into  all  the 
world.  Let  us  praise  his  name  on  this  account, 
for  the  blessing  has  extended  to  all  generations. 

"  Observe  now,  and  cheerfully,  how  the  young, 
on  every  side,  instantly  get  into  movement.  As 
instruction  is  not  offered  them  within  doors,  and 
knocks  not  at  their  gates,  they  hasten  forthwith 
to  those  countries  and  cities  whither  the  call  of 
science  and  wisdom  allures  them.  Here,  no 
sooner  have  they  gained  a  rapid  and  scanty 
training,  than  they  feel  themselves  impelled  to 
look  round  in  the  world,  whether  here  and  there 
some  profitable  experience,  applicable  to  their 
objects,  may  not  be  met  with  and  appropriated. 
Let  these  try  their  fortune  !  We  turn  from  them 
to  those  completed  and  distinguished  men,  those 
noble  inquirers  into  Nature,  who  wittingly  en- 
counter every  difficulty,  every  peril,  that  to  the 
world  they  may  lay  the  world  open,  and,  through 
the  most  Impassable,  pave  easy  roads. 

"But  observe  also,  on  beaten  highways,  how 
dust  on  dust,  in  long  cloudy  trains,  mounts  up, 
betokening  the  track  of  commodious  top-laden 
carriages,  in  which  the  rich,  the  noble,  and  so 
many  others,  are  whirled  along ;  whose  varying 
purposes  and  dispositions  Yorick  has  most  dain- 
tily explained  to  us. 

"  These  the  stout  craftsman,  on  foot,  may 
cheerily  gaze  after ;  for  whom  his  country  has 
made  it  a  duty  to  appropriate  foreign  skill,  and 
not  till  this  has  been  accomplished,  to  revisit  his 
paternal  hearth.  In  still  greater  numbers,  do 
traffickers  and  dealers  meet  us  on  our  road  :  the 
little  trader  must  not  neglect,  from  time  to  time, 
to  forsake  his  shop  that  he  may  visit  fairs  and 
markets,  may  approach  the  great  merchant,  and 
increase  his  own  small  profit,  by  example  and 
participation  of  the  boundless.  But  yet  more 
restlessly  do  we  descry  cruizing  on  horseback, 


344 


GOETHE. 


singly,  on  all  high  and  bye  ways,  that  multitude 
of  persons  whose  business  it  is,  in  lawful  wise, 
to  make  forcible  pretension  to  our  purses.  Sam- 
ples of  all  sorts,  prize-catalogues,  invitations  to 
purchase,  pursue  us  into  town-houses  and  coun- 
try-houses, and  wherever  we  may  seek  refuge: 
diligently  they  assault  us  and  surprise  us  ;  them- 
selves offering  the  opportunity,  which  it  would 
have  entered  no  man's  mind  to  seek.  And  what 
shall  I  say  of  that  People  which,  before  all  others, 
arrogates  to  itself  the  blessing  of  perpetual  wan- 
dering, and  by  its  movable  activity  contrives  to 
overreach  the  resting,  and  to  overstep  the  walk- 
ing ?  Of  them  we  must  say  neither  ill  nor  good ; 
no  good,  because  our  League  stands  on  its  guard 
against  them ;  no  ill,  because  the  wanderer, 
mindful  of  reciprocal  advantage,  is  bound  to 
treat  with  friendliness  whomsoever  he  may 
meet. 

u  But  now,  above  all,  we  must  mention  with 
peculiar  affection,  the  whole  race  of  artists  ;  for 
they,  too,  are  thoroughly  involved  in  this  uni- 
versal movement.  Does  not  the  painter  wan- 
der, with  pallet  and  easel,  from  face  to  face  ; 
and  are  not  his  kindred  laborers  summoned, 
now  this  way,  now  that,  because  in  all  places 
there  is  something  to  be  built  and  to  be  fashion- 
ed ?  More  briskly,  however,  paces  the  musician 
on  his  way ;  for  he  peculiarly  it  is,  that  for  a 
new  ear  has  provided  new  surprise,  for  a  fresh 
mind  fresh  astonishment.  Players,  too,  though 
they  now  despise  the  cart  of  Thespis,  still  rove 
about  in  little  choirs;  and  their  moving  world, 
wherever  they  appear,  is  speedily  enough  built 
up.  So  likewise,  individually,  renouncing  se- 
rious profitable  engagements,  these  men  delight 
to  change  place  with  place,  according  as  rising 
talents,  combined  with  rising  wants,  furnish 
pretext  and  occasion.  For  this  success  they 
commonly  prepare  themselves,  by  leaving  no 
important  stage  in  their  native  land  untrodden. 

"  Nor  let  us  forget  to  cast  a  glance  over  the 
professorial  class :  these,  too,  you  find  in  con- 
tinual motion,  occupying  and  forsaking  one  chair 
after  the  other,  to  scatter  richly  abroad,  on  every 
side  the  seeds  of  a  hasty  culture.  More  assidu- 
ous, however,  and  of  wider  aim,  are  those  pious 
60uls  who  disperse  themselves  through  all  quar- 
ters of  the  world,  to  bring  salvation  to  their 
brethren.  Others,  on  the  contrary,  are  pilgrim- 
ing  to  seek  salvation  for  themselves  :  they  march 
in  hosts  to  consecrated,  wonder-working  places, 
there  to  ask  and  receive  what  was  denied  their 
souls  at  home. 

"And  if  all  these  sorts  of  men  surprise  us 
less  by  their  wandering,  as  for  most  part,  with- 
out wandering,  the  business  of  their  life  were 
impossible,  of  those  again  who  dedicate  their 
diligence  to  the  soil,  we  should  certainly  expect 
that  they,  at  least,  were  fixed.  By  no  means ! 
Even  without  possession,  occupation  is  con- 
ceivable ;  and  we  behold  the  eager  farmer  for- 
saking the  ground  which  for  years  has  yielded 
him  profit  and  enjoyment:  impatiently  he 
searches  after  similar  or  greater  profit,  be  it  far 


or  near.  Nay,  the  owner  himself  will  abandon 
his  new-grubbed  clearage  so  soon  as,  by  his  cul- 
tivation, he  has  rendered  it  commodious  for  a 
less  enterprising  husbandman:  once  more  he 
presses  into  the  wilderness;  again  makes  space 
for  himself  in  the  forests  ;  in  recompense  of  that 
first  toiling,  a  double  and  treble  space ;  on 
which  also,  it  may  be,  he  thinks  not  to  con- 
tinue. 

"There  we  shall  leave  him,  bickering  with 
bears  and  other  monsters ;  and  turn  back  into 
the  polished  world,  where  we  find  the  state  of 
things  no  whit  more  stationary.  Do  but  view  i 
any  great  and  regulated  kingdom  :  the  ablest 
man  is  also  the  man  who  moves  the  oftenest; 
at  the  beck  of  his  prince,  at  the  order  of  Irii 
minister,  the  Serviceable  is  transferred  from 
place  to  place.  To  him  also  our  precept  will 
apply:  Everywhere  endeavor  to  be  useful, 
everywhere  you  are  at  home.  Yet  if  we  ob- 
serve important  statesmen  leaving,  though  re- 
luctantly, their  high  stations,  we  have  reason  to 
deplore  their  fate:  for  we  can  neither  recog- 
nise them  as  emigrators  nor  as  migrators:  not 
as  emigrators,  because  they  forego  a  covetable 
situation  without  any  prospect  of  a  better  even 
seeming  to  open  ;  not  as  migrators,  because  to 
be  useful  in  other  places  is  a  fortune  seldom 
granted  them. 

"For  the  soldier,  again,  a  life  of  peculiar 
wandering  is  appointed  ;  even  in  peace,  now 
this,  now  that  post  is  intrusted  to  him ;  to  fight, 
at  hand  or  afar  off  for  his  native  country,  he 
must  keep  himself  perpetually  in  motion  or 
readiness  to  move ;  and  not  for  immediate  de- 
fence alone,  but  also  to  fulfil  the  remote  pur- 
poses of  nations  and  rulers,  he  turns  his  steps 
towards  all  quarters  of  the  world  ;  and  to  few 
of  his  craft  is  it  given  to  find  any  resting-place. 
And  as,  in  the  soldier,  courage  is  his  first  and 
highest  quality,  so  this  must  always  be  con- 
sidered as  united  with  fidelity;  and  accord- 
ingly we  find  certain  nations,  famous  for  trust- 
worthiness, called  forth  from  their  home,  and 
serving  spiritual  or  temporal  regents  as  body- 
guards. 

"Another  class  of  persons  indispensable  to 
governments,  and  also  of  extreme  mobility,  we 
see  in  those  negotiators,  who,  despatched  from 
court  to  court,  beleaguer  princes  and  ministers, 
and  overnet  the  whole  inhabited  world  with 
their  invisible  threads.  Of  these  men  also,  no 
one  is  certain  of  his  place  for  a  moment.  In 
peace,  the  ablest  of  them  are  sent  from  country 
to  country;  in  war,  they  march  behind  the 
army  when  victorious,  prepare  the  way  for  it 
when  fugitive ;  and  thus  are  they  appointed 
still  to  be  changing  place  for  place;  on  which 
account,  indeed,  they  at  all  times  carry  with 
them  a  stock  of  farewell  cards. 

"If  hitherto  at  every  step  we  have  contrived 
to  do  ourselves  some  honor,  declaring  as  we 
have  done  the  most  distinguished  portion  of 
active  men  to  be  our  mates  and  fellows  in 
destiny,  there  now  remains  for  you,  my  beloved 


GOETHE. 


345 


friends,  by  way  of  termination,  a  glory  higher 
than  all  the  rest,  seeing  you  find  yourselves 
united  in  brotherhood  with  princes,  kings,  and 
emperors.  Think  first,  with  blessings  and 
reverence,  of  the  imperial  wanderer  Hadrian, 
who  on  foot,  at  the  head  of  his  army,  paced 
out  the  circle  of  the  world  which  was  subject 
to  him,  and  thus  in  very  deed  took  possession 
of  it.  Think  then  with  horror  of  the  Conqueror, 
that  armed  Wanderer,  against  whom  no  resist- 
ance availed,  no  wall  or  bulwark  could  shelter 
harmless  nations.  In  fine,  accompany  with 
honest  sympathy  those  hapless  exiled  princes, 
who,  descending  from  the  summit  of  the  height, 
cannot  even  be  received  into  the  modest  guild 
of  active  wanderers. 

"And  now  while  we  call  forth  and  illustrate 
all  this  to  one  another,  no  narrow  despondency, 
no  passionate  perversion  can  rule  over  us.  The 
time  is  past  when  people  rushed  forth  at  ran- 
dom into  the  wide  world :  by  the  labors  of 
scientific  travellers  describing  wisely  and  copy- 
ing like  artists,  we  have  become  sufficiently  ac- 
quainted with  the  Earth,  to  know  moderately 
well  what  is  to  be  looked  for  everywhere. 

"Yet  for  obtaining  perfect  information  an  in- 
dividual will  not  suffice.  Our  Society  is  found- 
ed on  the  principle  that  each  in  his  degree,  for 
his  purposes,  be  thoroughly  informed.  Has  any 
one  of  us  some  country  in  his  eye,  towards 
which  his  wishes  are  tending,  we  endeavor  to 
make  clear  to  him,  in  special  detail,  what  was 
hovering  before  his  imagination  as  a  whole  :  to 
afford  each  other  a  survey  of  the  inhabited  and 
inhabitable  world,  is  a  most  pleasant  and  most 
profitable  kind  of  conversation. 

"Under  this  aspect,  we  can  look  upon  our- 
selves as  members  of  a  Union  belonging  to  the 
world.  Simple  and  grand  is  the  thought ;  easy 
is  its  execution  by  understanding  and  strength. 
Unity  is  all-powerful ;  no  division,  therefore,  no 
contention  among  us  !  Let  a  man  learn,  we  say, 
to  figure  himself  as  without  permanent  external 
relation;  let  him  seek  consistency  and  sequence 
not  in  circumstances  but  in  himself;  there  will 
he  find  it;  there  let  him  cherish  and  nourish  it. 
He  who  devotes  himself  to  the  most  needful 
will  in  all  cases  advance  to  his  purpose  with 
greatest  certainty :  others  again,  aiming  at  the 
higher,  the  more  delicate,  require  greater  pru- 
dence even  in  the  choice  of  their  path.  But  let 
a  man  be  attempting  or  treating  what  he  will, 
he  is  not,  as  an  individual,  sufficient  for  him- 
self; and  to  an  honest  mind,  society  remains  the 
highest  want.  All  serviceable  persons  ought 
to  be  related  with  each  other,  as  the  building 
proprietor  looks  out  for  an  architect,  and  the 
architect  for  masons  and  carpenters. 

"How  and  on  what  principle  this  Union  of 
ours  has  been  fixed  and  founded,  is  known  to 
all.  There  is  no  man  among  us,  who  at  any 
moment  could  not  to  proper  purpose  employ  his 
faculty  of  action ;  who  is  not  assured  that  in  all 
places,  whither  chance,  inclination,  or  even  pas- 
sion may  conduct  him,  he  will  be  received,  em- 
2t 


ployed,  assisted  ;  nay,  in  adverse  accidents,  as 
far  as  possible,  refitted  and  indemnified. 

"Two  duties  we  have  most  rigorously  under- 
taken :  first,  to  honor  every  species  of  religious 
worship,  for  all  of  them  are  comprehended 
more  or  less  directly  in  the  Creed  :  secondly,  in 
like  manner  to  respect  all  forms  of  government; 
and  since  every  one  of  them  induces  and  pro- 
motes a  calculated  activity,  to  labor  according 
to  the  wish  and  will  of  constituted  authorities, 
in  whatever  place  it  may  be  our  lot  to  sojourn, 
and  for  whatever  time.  Finally,  we  reckon  it 
our  duty,  without  pedantry  or  rigor,  to  practise 
and  forward  decorum  of  manners  and  morals, 
as  required  by  that  Reverence  for  ourselves, 
which  arises  from  the  Three  Reverences ; 
whereto  we  universally  profess  our  adherence ; 
having  all  had  the  joy  and  good  fortune,  some 
of  us  from  youth  upwards,  to  be  initiated  like- 
wise in  the  higher  general  Wisdom  taught  in 
certain  cases  by  those  venerable  men.  All  this, 
in  the  solemn  hour  of  parting,  we  have  thought 
good  once  more  to  recount,  to  unfold,  to  hear 
and  acknowledge,  as  also  to  seal  with  a  trustful 
Farewell.  « 

Keep  not  standing  fix'd  and  rooted, 
Briskly  venture,  briskly  roam  ! 

Head  and  hand,  where'er  thou  foot  it, 
And  stout  heart  are  still  at  home. 

In  each  land  the  sun  does  visit, 
We  are  gay  whate'er  betide ; 

To  give  space  for  wand'ring  is  it 
That  the  world  was  made  so  wide." 


NOVELLE. 

FRASER'S  MAGAZINE,  16  32.* 

The  spacious  courts  of  the  Prince's  Castle 
were  still  veiled  in  thick  mists  of  an  autumnal 
morning;  through  which  veil,  meanwhile,  as  it 
melted  into  clearness,  you  could  more  or  less 
discern  the  whole  Hunter-company,  on  horse- 
back and  on  foot,  all  busily  astir.  The  hasty 
occupations  of  the  nearest  were  distinguishable  : 
there  was  lengthening,  shortening  of  stirrup-lea- 
thers ;  there  was  handing  of  rifles  and  shot- 
pouches,  there  was  putting  of  game-bags  to 
rights  ;  while  the  hounds,  impatient  in  their 
leashes,  threatened  to  drag  their  keepers  off 
with  them.  Here  and  there,  too,  a  horse  showed 
spirit  more  than  enough  ;  driven  on  by  its  fiery 
nature,  or  excited  by  the  spur  of  its  rider,  who 
even  now  in  the  half-dusk  could  not  repress  a 
certain  self-complacent  wish  to  exhibit  himself. 
All  waited  however  on  the  Prince,  who,  taking 
leave  of  his  young  consort,  was  now  delaying 
too  long. 

United  a  short  while  ago,  they  already  felt 
the  happiness  of  consentaneous  dispositions ; 
both  were  of  active  vivid  character;  each  will- 
ingly participated  in  the  tastes  and  endeavors 
of  the  other.  The  Prince's  father  had  already, 
in  his  time,  discerned  and  improved  the  season 


*  Translated  by  Thomas  Carlyle. 


346 


GOETHE. 


when  it  became  evident  that  all  members  of 
the  commonwealth  should  pass  their  days  in 
equal  industry;  should  all,  in  equal  working 
and  producing,  each  in  his  kind,  first  earn  and 
then  enjoy. 

How  well  this  had  prospered  was  visible  in 
these  very  days,  when  the  head-market  was  a 
holding,  which  you  might  well  enough  have 
named  a  fair.  The  Prince  yester-even  had  led 
his  Princess  on  horseback  through  the  tumult 
of  the  heaped-up  wares;  and  pointed  out  to  her 
how  on  this  spot  the  Mountain  region  met  the 
Plain  country  in  profitable  barter :  he  could 
here,  with  the  objects  before  him,  awaken  her 
attention  to  the  various  industry  of  his  Land. 

If  the  Prince  at  this  time  occupied  himself 
and  his  servants  almost  exclusively  with  these 
pressing  concerns,  and  in  particular  worked  in- 
cessantly with  his  Finance-minister,  yet  would 
the  Huntmaster  too  have  his  right;  on  whose 
pleading,  the  temptation  could  not  be  resisted 
to  undertake,  in  this  choice  autumn  weather,  a 
Hunt  that  had  already  been  postponed ;  and  so 
for  the  household  itself,  and  for  the  many  stran- 
ger visitants,  prepare  a  peculiar  and  singular 
festivity. 

The  Princess  staid  behind  with  reluctance : 
but  it  was  proposed  to  push  far  into  the  Moun- 
tains, and  stir  up  the  peaceable  inhabitants  of 
the  forests  there  with  an  unexpected  invasion. 

At  parting,  her  lord  failed  not  to  propose  a 
ride  for  her,  with  Friedrich,  the  Prince-Uncle, 
as  escort:  "I  will  leave  thee,"  said  he,  "our 
Honoiio  too,  as  Equerry  and  Page,  who  will 
manage  all."  In  pursuance  of  which  words, 
he,  in  descending,  gave  to  a  handsome  young 
man  the  needful  injunctions  ;  and  soon  thereafter 
disappeared  with  guests  and  train. 

The  Princess,  who  had  waved  her  handker- 
chief to  her  husband  while  still  down  in  the 
court,  now  retired  to  the  back  apartments,  which 
commanded  a  free  prospect  towards  the  Moun- 
tains; and  so  much  the  lovelier,  as  the  Castle 
itself  stood  on  a  sort  of  elevation,  and  thus,  be- 
hind as  well  as  before,  afforded  manifold  mag- 
nificent views.  She  found  the  fine  telescope 
still  in  the  position  where  they  had  left  it  yes- 
ter-even, when  amusing  themselves  over  bush 
and  hill  and  forest-summit,  with  the  lofty  ruins 
of  the  primeval  Stammburg,  or  Family  Tower; 
which  in  the  clearness  of  evening  stood  out 
noteworthy,  as  at  that  hour  with  its  great  light- 
and-shade  masses,  the  best  aspect  of  so  venera- 
ble a  memorial  of  old  time  was  to  be  had.  This 
morning  too,  with  the  approximating  glasses, 
might  be  beautifully  seen  the  autumnal  tinge 
of  the  trees,  many  in  kind  and  number,  which 
had  struggled  up  through  the  masonry  unhin- 
dered and  undisturbed  during  long  years.  The 
fair  dame,  however,  directed  the  tube  somewhat 
lower,  to  a  waste  stony  flat,  over  which  the 
Hunting-train  was  to  pass :  she  waited  the  mo- 
ment with  patience,  and  was  not  disappointed : 
for  with  the  clearness  and  magnifying  power 
of  the  instrument  her  glancing  eyes  plainly  dis- 


tinguished the  Prince  and  the  Head-Equerry; 
nay,  she  forbore  not  again  to  wave  her  hand- 
kerchief, as  some  momentary  pause  and  looking- 
back  was  fancied  perhaps,  rather  than  observed. 

Prince-Uncle,  Friedrich  by  name,  now  with 
announcement,  entered,  attended  by  his  Painter, 
who  carried  a  large  portfolio  under  his  arm. 
"  Dear  Cousin,"  said  the  hale  old  gentleman, 
"we  here  present  you  with  the  Views  of  the 
Stammburg,  taken  on  various  sides  to  show  how 
the  mighty  Pile,  warred  on  and  warring,  hag 
from  old  times  fronted  the  year  and  its  weather; 
how  here  and  there  its  wall  had  to  yield,  here 
and  there  rush  down  into  waste  ruins.  How- 
ever, we  have  now  done  much  to  make  the 
wild  mass  accessible  ;  for  more  there  wants  not 
to  set  every  traveller,  every  visitor,  into  asto- 
nishment, into  admiration." 

As  the  Prince  now  exhibited  the  separate 
leaves,  he  continued:  "Here  where,  advancing 
up  the  hollow-way,  through  the  outer  ring-walls, 
you  reach  the  Fortress  proper,  rises  against  us  a 
rock,  the  firmest  of  the  whole  mountain;  on 
this  there  stands  a  tower  built,  yet  when  Nature 
leaves  off,  and  Art  and  Handicraft  begin,  no  one 
can  distinguish.  Farther  you  perceive  side- 
wards walls  abutting  on  it,  and  donjons  terrace- 
wise  stretching  down.  But  I  speak  wrong,  for 
to  the  eye  it  is  but  a  wood  that  encircles  that 
old  summit;  these  hundred  and  fifty  years  no 
axe  has  sounded  there,  and  the  massiest  stems 
have  on  all  sides  sprung  up :  wherever  you 
press  inwards  to  the  walls,  the  smooth  maple, 
the  rough  oak,  the  taper  pine,  with  trunk  and 
roots  oppose  you  ;  round  these  we  have  to  wind, 
and  pick  our  footsteps  with  skill.  Do  but  look 
how  artfully  our  Master  has  brought  the  cha- 
racter of  it  on  paper  :  how  the  roots  and  stems, 
the  species  of  each  distinguishable,  twist  them- 
selves among  the  masonry,  and  the  huge  boughs 
come  looping  through  the  holes.  It  is  a  wilder- 
ness like  no  other;  an  accidentally  unique  lo- 
cality, where  ancient  traces  of  long- vanished 
power  of  Man,  and  the  ever-living,  ever-working 
power  of  Nature  show  themselves  in  the  most 
earnest  conflict.' 

Exhibiting  another  leaf,  he  went  on :  "  What 
say  you  now  to  the  Castle-court,  which,  become 
inaccessible  by  the  falling  in  of  the  old  gate- 
tower,  had  for  immemorial  time  been  trodden 
by  no  foot?  We  sought  to  get  at  it  by  a  side; 
have  pierced  through  walls,  blasted  vaults  asun- 
der, and  so  provided  a  convenient  but  secret 
way.  Inside  it  needed  no  clearance ;  here 
stretches  a  flat  rock-summit,  smoothed  by  nature ; 
but  yet  strong  trees  have  in  spots  found  luck 
and  opportunity  for  rooting  themselves  there; 
they  have  softly  but  decidedly  grown  up,  and 
now  stretch  out  their  boughs  into  the  galleries 
where  the  knights  once  walked  to  and  fro ;  nay, 
through  the  doors  and  windows  into  the  vaulted 
halls;  out  of  which  we  would  not  drive  them  \ 
they  have  even  got  the  mastery,  and  may  keep 
it.  Sweeping  away  deep  strata  of  leaves,  we 
have  found  the  notablest  place  all  smoothed, 


GOETHE. 


347 


the  like  of  which  were  perhaps  not  to  be  met 
with  in  the  world. 

"After  all  this,  however,  it  is  still  to  be  re- 
marked, and  on  the  spot  itself  well  worth  ex- 
amining, how  on  the  steps  that  lead  up  to  the 
main  tower,  a  maple  has  struck  root  and  fa- 
shioned itself  to  a  stout  tree,  so  that  you  can 
hardly  with  difficulty  press  by  it,  to  mount  the 
battlements  and  gaze  over  the  unbounded  pros- 
pect. Yet  here,  too,  you  linger  pleased  in  the 
shade ;  for  that  tree  is  it  which  high  over  the 
whole  wondrously  lifts  itself  into  the  air. 

«  Let  us  thank  the  brave  Artist,  then,  who  so 
deservingly  in  various  pictures  teaches  us  the 
whole,  even  as  if  we  saw  it:  he  has  spent  the 
fairest  hours  of  the  day  and  of  the  season  there- 
in, and  for  weeks  long  kept  moving  about  these 
scenes.  Here  in  this  corner  has  there  for  him, 
and  the  warder  we  gave  him,  been  a  little 
pleasant  dwelling  fitted  up.  You  could  not 
think,  my  Best,  what  a  lovely  outlook  into  the 
country,  into  court  and  walls,  he  has  got  there. 
But  now  when  all  is  once  in  outline,  so  pure,  so 
characteristic,  he  may  finish  it  down  here  at  his 
ease.  With  these  pictures  we  will  decorate 
our  garden-hall;  and  no  one  shall  recreate  his 
eyes  over  our  regular  parterres,  our  groves  and 
shady  walks,  without  wishing  himself  up  there, 
to  follow,  in  actual  sight  of  the  old  and  of  the 
new,  of  the  stubborn,  inflexible,  indestructible, 
and  of  the  fresh,  pliant,  irresistible,  what  reflec- 
tions and  comparisons  would  rise  for  him." 

Honorio  entered,  with  notice  that  the  horses 
were  brought  out;  then  said  the  Princess,  turn- 
ing to  the  Uncle:  "Let  us  ride  up;  and  you 
will  show  me  in  reality  what  you  have  here  set 
before  me  in  image.  Ever  since  I  came  among 
you,  I  have  heard  of  this  undertaking ;  and 
should  now  like  of  all  things  to  see  with  my 
own  eyes  what  in  the  narrative  seemed  impos- 
sible, and  in  the  depicting  remains  improbable.'1 
— "  Not  yet,  my  Love,"  answered  the  Prince  : 
"  what  you  here  saw  is  what  it  can  become  and 
is  becoming :  for  the  present  much  in  the  enter- 
prise stands  still  amid  impediments;  Art  must 
first  be  complete,  if  Nature  is  not  to  shame  it." 
— "  Then  let  us  ride  at  least  upwards,  were  it 
only  to  the  foot:  I  have  the  greatest  wish  to-day 
to  look  about  me  far  in  the  world." — "Altogether 
as  you  will  it,"  replied  the  Prince.  —  "Let  us 
ride  through  the  Town,  however,"  continued 
the  Lady,  "  over  the  great  market-place,  where 
stands  the  innumerable  crowd  of  booths,  look- 
ing like  a  little  city,  like  a  camp.  It  is  as  if  the 
wants  and  occupations  of  all  the  families  in  the 
land  were  turned  outwards,  assembled  in  this 
centre,  and  brought  into  the  light  of  day:  for 
the  attentive  observer  can  descry  whatsoever  it 
is  that  man  performs  and  needs ;  you  fancy,  for 
the  moment,  there  is  no  money  necessary,  that 
all  business  could  here  be  managed  by  barter, 
and  so  at  bottom  it  is.  Since  the  Prince,  last 
night,  set  me  on  these  reflections,  it  is  pleasant 
to  consider  how  here,  where  Mountain  and 
Plain  meet  together,  both  so  clearly  speak  out 


what  they  require  and  wish.  For  as  the  High- 
lander can  fashion  the  timber  of  his  woods  into 
a  hundred  shapes,  and  mould  his  iron  for  all 
manner  of  uses,  so  these  others  from  below 
come  to  meet  him  with  most  manifold  wares, 
in  which  often  you  can  hardly  discover  the 
material  or  recognise  the  aim." 

"I  am  aware,"  answered  the  Prince,  "that 
my  Nephew  turns  his  utmost  care  to  these 
things :  for  specially,  on  the  present  occasion, 
this  main  point  comes  to  be  considered,  that  one 
receive  more  than  one  give  out:  which  to 
manage  is,  in  the  long  run,  the  sum  of  all 
Political  Economy,  as  of  the  smallest  private 
housekeeping.  Pardon  me,  however,  my  Best: 
I  never  like  to  ride  through  markets;  at  every 
step  you  are  hindered  and  kept  back ;  and  then 
flames  up  in  my  imagination  the  monstrous 
misery,  which,  as  it  were,  burnt  itself  into  my 
eyes,  when  I  witnessed  one  such  world  of 
wares  go  off  in  fire.    I  had  scarcely  got  to  " 

"  Let  us  not  lose  the  bright  hours,"  interrupted 
the  Princess,  for  the  worthy  man  had  already 
more  than  once  afflicted  her  with  the  minute 
description  of  that  mischance :  how  he  being 
on  a  long  journey,  resting  in  the  best  inn,  on  the 
market-place  which  was  just  then  swarming 
with  a  fair,  had  gone  to  bed  exceedingly  fa- 
tigued;  and  in  the  night-time  been,  by  shrieks, 
and  flames  rolling  up  against  his  lodging,  hide- 
ously awakened. 

The  Princess  hastened  to  mount  her  favorite 
horse :  and  led,  not  through  the  backgate  up- 
wards, but  through  the  foregate  downwards, 
her  reluctant-willing  attendant :  for  who  but 
would  gladly  have  ridden  by  her  side,  who  but 
would  gladly  have  followed  after  her.  And  so 
Honorio  too  had  without  regret  staid  back  from 
the  otherwise  so  wished-for  Hunt,  to  be  exclu- 
sively at  her  service. 

As  was  to  be  anticipated,  they  could  only 
ride  through  the  market  step  by  step ;  but  the 
fair  Lovely  one  enlivened  every  stoppage  by 
some  sprightly  remark.  "I  repeat  my  lesson  of 
yester-night,"  said  she,  "  since  Necessity  is  try- 
ing our  patience."  And  in  truth,  the  whole 
mass  of  men  so  crowded  about  the  riders,  that 
their  progress  was  slow.  The  people  gazed 
with  joy  at  the  young  dame  ;  and,  on  so  many 
smiling  countenances,  might  be  read  the  plea- 
sure they  felt  to  see  that  the  first  woman  in  the 
land  was  also  the  fairest  and  gracefullest. 

Promiscuously  mingled  stood,  Mountaineers, 
who  had  built  their  still  dwellings  amid  rocks, 
firs,  and  spruces;  Lowlanders  from  hills,  mea- 
dows, and  leas ;  craftsmen  of  the  little  towns  ; 
and  what  else  had  all  assembled  there.  After 
a  quiet  glance,  the  Princess  remarked  to  her 
attendant,  how  all  these,  whencesoever  they 
came,  had  taken  more  stuff  than  necessary  for 
their  clothes,  more  cloth  and  linen,  more  ribands 
for  trimming.  It  is  as  if  the  woirlen  could  not 
be  bushy  enough,  the  men  not  puffy  enough,  to 
please  themselves. 

"  We  will  leave  them  that,"  answered  the 


348 


GOETHE. 


uncle:  "spend  his  superfluity  on  what  he  will, 
a  man  is  happy  in  it ;  happiest  when  he  there- 
with decks  and  dizens  himself."  The  fair 
dame  nodded  assent. 

So  had  they  by  degrees  got  upon  a  clear 
space,  which  led  out  to  the  suburbs,  when,  at 
the  end  of  many  small  booths  and  stands,  a 
larger  edifice  of  boards  showed  itself,  which 
was  scarcely  glanced  at  till  an  ear-lacerating 
bellow  sounded  forth  from  it.  The  feeding- 
hour  of  the  wild  beasts  there  exhibited  seemed 
to  have  come :  the  Lion  let  his  forest  and 
desert-voice  be  heard  in  all  vigor;  the  horses 
shuddered,  and  all  must  remark  how,  in  the 
peaceful  ways  and  workings  of  the  cultivated 
world,  the  King  of  the  wilderness  so  fearfully 
announced  himself.  Coming  nearer  the  booth, 
you  could  not  overlook  the  variegated  colossal 
pictures  representing  with  violent  colors  and 
strong  emblems  those  foreign  beasts ;  to  a  sight 
of  which  the  peaceful  burgher  was  to  be  irre- 
sistibly enticed.  The  grim  monstrous  tiger  was 
pouncing  on  a  blackamoor,  on  the  point  of  tear- 
ing him  in  shreds;  a  lion  stood  earnest  and 
majestic,  as  if  he  saw  no  prey  worthy  of  him  ; 
other  wondrous  party-colored  creatures,  beside 
these  mighty  ones,  deserved  less  attention. 

"As  we  come  back,"  said  the  Princess,  "we 
will  alight  and  take  a  nearer  view  of  these 
gentry." — "  It  is  strange,"  observed  the  Prince, 
"  that  man  always  seeks  excitement  by  Terror. 
Inside,  there,  the  Tiger  lies  quite  quiet  in  his 
cage;  and  here  must  he  ferociously  dart  upon 
a  black,  that  the  people  may  fancy  the  like  is 
to  be  seen  within  :  of  murder  and  sudden  death, 
of  burning  and  destruction,  there  is  not  enough  ; 
but  ballad-singers  must  at  every  corner  keep 
repeating  it.  Good  man  will  have  himself 
frightened  a  little ;  to  feel  the  better,  in  secret, 
how  beautiful  and  laudable  it  is  to  draw  breath 
in  freedom." 

Whatever  of  apprehensiveness  from  such 
bugbear  images  might  have  remained  was  soon 
all  and  wholly  effaced,  as,  issuing  through  the 
gate,  our  party  entered  on  the  cheerful  lest  of 
scenes.  The  road  led  first  up  the  River,  as  yet 
but  a  small  current,  and  bearing  only  light 
boats,  but  which  by  and  by,  as  a  renowned  world- 
stream,  would  carry  forth  its  name  and  waters, 
and  enliven  distant  lands.  They  proceeded 
next  through  well-cultivated  fruit-gardens  and 
pleasure-grounds,  softly  ascending;  and  by  de- 
grees you  could  look  about  you  in  the  now-dis- 
closed much-peopled  region,  till  first  a  thicket, 
then  a  little  wood  admitted  our  riders,  and  the 
gracefullest  localities  refreshed  and  limited  their 
view.  A  meadow  vale  leading  upwards,  shortly 
before  mown  for  the  second  time,  velvet-like  to 
look  upoz),  watered  by  a  brook  rushing  out  lively 
copious  at  once  from  the  uplands  above,  received 
them  as  with  welcome  ;  and  so  they  approached 
a  higher  freer  station,  which,  on  issuing  from 
the  wood,  after  a  stiff  ascent,  they  gained ;  and 
could  now  descry,  over  new  clumps  of  trees, 
the  old  Castle,  the  goal  of  their  pilgrimage, 


rising  in  the  distance,  as  pinnacle  of  the  rock 
and  forest.  Backwards,  again  (for  never  did 
one  mount  hither  without  turning  round),  they 
caught,  through  accidental  openings  of  the  high 
trees,  the  Prince's  Castle,  on  the  left,  lightened 
by  the  morning  sun ;  the  well-built  higher  quar- 
ter of  the  Town  softened  under  light  smoke- 
clouds  ;  and  so  on,  rightwards,  the  under  Town, 
the  River  in  several  bendings  with  its  meadows 
and  mills ;  on  the  farther  side,  an  extensive  fer- 
tile region. 

Having  satisfied  themselves  with  the  pros- 
pect, or  rather  as  usually  happens  when  we 
look  round  from  so  high  a  station,  become 
doubly  eager  for  a  wider,  less  limited  view,  they 
rode  on,  over  a  broad  stony  flat,  where  the 
mighty  Ruin  stood  fronting  them,  as  a  green- 
crowned  summit,  a  few  old  trees  far  down 
about  its  foot :  they  rode  along ;  and  so  arrived 
there,  just  at  the  steepest  most  inaccessible  side. 
Great  rocks  jutting  out  from  of  old,  insensible 
of  every  change,  firm,  well-founded,  stood 
clenched  together  there ;  and  so  it  towered  up- 
wards: what  had  fallen  at  intervals  lay  in  huge 
plates  and  fragments  confusedly  heaped,  and 
seemed  to  forbid  the  boldest  any  attempt.  But 
the  steep,  the  precipitous  is  inviting  to  youth: 
to  undertake  it,  to  storm  and  conquer  it,  is  for 
young  limbs  an  enjoyment.  The  Princess  testi- 
fied desire  for  an  attempt ;  Honorio  was  at  her 
hand  •  the  Prince-Uncle,  if  easier  to  satisfy,  took 
it  cheerfully,  and  would  show  that  he  too  had 
strength ;  the  horses  were  to  wait  below  among 
the  trees  ;  our  climbers  make  for  a  certain  point, 
where  a  huge  projecting  rock  affords  a  standing- 
room,  and  a  prospect,  which  indeed  is  already 
passing  over  into  the  bird's-eye  kind,  yet  folds 
itself  together  there  picturesquely  enough. 

The  sun,  almost  at  its  meridian,  lent  the 
clearest  light;  the  Prince's  Castle,  with  its  com- 
partments, main  buildings,  wings,  domes,  and 
towers,  lay  clear  and  stately;  the  upper  Town 
in  its  whole  extent;  into  the  lower  also  you 
could  conveniently  look,  nay,  by  the  telescope 
distinguish  the  booths  in  the  market-place.  So 
furthersome  an  instrument  Honorio  would  never 
leave  behind :  they  looked  at  the  River  up- 
wards and  downwards,  on  this  side  the  moun- 
tainous, terrace-like,  interrupted  expanse,  on 
that  the  ups welling,  fruitful  land,  alternating  in 
level  and  low  hill;  places  innumerable ;  for  it 
was  long  customary  to  dispute  how  many  of 
them  were  here  to  be  seen. 

Over  the  great  expanse  lay  a  cheerful  still- 
ness, as  is  common  at  noon ;  when,  as  the 
Ancients  were  wont  to  say,  Pan  is  asleep,  and 
all  Nature  holds  her  breath  not  to  awaken 
him. 

"It  is  not  the  first  time,"  said  the  Princess, 
"  that  I,  on  some  such  high  far-seeing  spot,  have 
reflected  how  Nature  all  clear  looks  so  pure  and 
peaceful,  and  gives  you  the  impression  as  if 
there  were  nothing  contradictory  in  the  world ; 
and  yet  when  you  return  back  into  the  habita- 
tion of  man,  be  it  lofty  or  low,  wide  or  narrow, 


GOE 


there  is  ever  somewhat  to  contend  with,  to 
battle  with,  to  smooth  and  put  to  rights." 

Honorio  who,  meanwhile,  was  looking  through 
the  glass  at  the  Town,  exclaimed:  "See!  see! 
There  is  fire  in  the  market !''  They  looked,  and 
could  observe  some  smoke,  the  flames  were 
smothered  in  the  daylight.  "The  fire  spreads!" 
cried  he,  still  looking  through  the  glass;  the 
mischief  indeed  now  became  noticeable  to  the 
good  eyes  of  the  Princess;  from  time  to  time 
you  observed  a  red  burst  of  flame,  the  smoke 
mounted  aloft;  and  Prince-Uncle  said:  "Let 
us  return ;  that  is  not  good :  I  always  feared  I 
should  see  that  misery  a  second  time."  They 
descended,  got  back  to  their  horses.  "  Ride," 
said  the  Princess  to  the  Uncle,  "fast,  but  not 
without  a  groom;  leave  me  Honorio,  we  will 
follow  without  delay."  The  Uncle  felt  the 
reasonableness,  nay  necessity  of  this;  and 
started  off  down  the  waste  stony  slope,  at  the 
quickest  pace  the  ground  allowed. 

As  the  Princess  mounted,  Honorio  said : 
"Please  your  Excellency  to  ride  slow!  In  the 
Town  as  in  the  Castle,  the  fire-apparatus  is  in 
perfect  order;  the  people,  in  this  unexpected 
accident,  will  not  lose  their  presence  of  mind. 
Here,  moreover,  we  have  bad  ground,  little 
stones  and  short  grass  ;  quick  riding  is  unsafe ; 
in  any  case,  before  we  arrive,  the  fire  will  be 
got  under."  The  Princess  did  not  think  so ; 
she  observed  the  smoke  spreading,  she  fancied 
that  she  saw  a  flame  flash  up,  that  she  heard 
an  explosion;  and  now  in  her  imagination  all 
the  terrific  things  awoke,  which  the  worthy 
Uncle's  repeated  narrative  of  his  experiences  in 
that  market-conflagration  had  too  deeply  im- 
planted there. 

Frightful  doubtless  had  that  business  been, 
alarming  and  impressive  enough  to  leave  be- 
hind it,  painfully  through  life  long,  a  boding  and 
image  of  its  recurrence,  when,  in  the  night- 
season,  on  the  great  booth-covered  market-space, 
a  sudden  fire  had  seized  booth  after  booth,  be- 
fore the  sleepers  in  these  light  huts  could  be 
shaken  out  of  deep  dreams  :  the  Prince  himself, 
as  a  wearied  stranger  arriving  only  for  rest, 
started  from  his  sleep,  sprang  to  the  window, 
saw  all  fearfully  illuminated;  flame  after  flame, 
from  the  right,  from  the  left,  darting  through 
each  other,  rolls  quivering  towards  him.  The 
houses  of  the  market-place,  reddened  in  the 
shine,  seemed  already  glowing,  threatened  every 
moment  to  kindle,  and  burst  forth  in  fire  :  be- 
low, the  element  raged  without  let;  planks 
cracked,  laths  cracked,  the  canvass  flew  abroad, 
and  its  dusky  fire-peaked  tatters  whirled  them- 
selves round  and  aloft,  as  if  bad  spirits,  in  their 
own  element,  with  perpetual  change  of  shape, 
were,  in  capricious  dance,  devouring  one  another; 
and  there  and  yonder  would  dart  up  out  from 
their  penal  fire.  And  then  with  wild  howls 
each  saved  what  was  at  hand  :  servants  and 
masters  labored  to  drag  forth  bales  already 
seized  by  the  flames,  to  snatch  away  yet  some- 
what from  the  burning  shelves,  and  pack  it  into 


THE.  349 


the  chests,  which  too  they  must  at  last  leave  a 
prey  to  the  hastening  flame.  How  many  a  one 
could  have  prayed  but  for  a  moment's  pause  to 
the  loud-advancing  fire ;  as  he  looked  round  for 
the  possibility  of  some  device,  and  was  with 
all  his  possession  already  seized  :  on  the  one 
side,  burnt  and  glowed  already,  what  on  the 
other  still  stood  in  dark  night.  Obstinate 
characters,  will-strong  men  grimly  fronted  the 
grim  foe,  and  saved  much,  with  loss  of  their 
eyebrows  and  hair.  Alas,  all  this  waste  con- 
fusion now  rose  anew  before  the  fair  spirit  of 
the  Princess  ;  the  gay  morning  prospect  was  all 
overclouded,  and  her  eyes  darkened  ;  wood  and 
meadow  had  put  on  a  look  of  strangeness,  of 
danger. 

Entering  the  peaceful  vale,  heeding  little  its 
refreshing  coolness,  they  were  but  a  few  steps 
down  from  the  copious  fountain  of  the  brook 
which  flowed  by  them,  when  the  Princess 
descried,  quite  down  in  the  thickets,  something 
singular,  which  she  soon  recognised  for  the 
tiger:  springing  on,  as  she  a  short  while  ago 
had  seen  him  painted,  he  came  towards  her ; 
and  this  image,  added  to  the  frightful  ones  she 
was  already  busy  with,  made  the  strangest  im- 
pression. "  Fly !  your  Grace,"  cried  Honorio, 
"  fly !"  She  turned  her  horse  towards  the  steep 
hill  they  had  just  descended.  The  young  man, 
rushing  on  towards  the  monster,  drew  his  pistol 
and  fired  when  he  thought  himself  near  enough; 
but,  alas,  without  effect;  the  tiger  sprang  to  a 
side,  the  horse  faltered,  the  provoked  wild  beast 
followed  his  course,  upwards  straight  after  the 
Princess.  She  galloped,  what  her  horse  could, 
up  the  steep  stony  space ;  scarcely  apprehend- 
ing that  so  delicate  a  creature,  unused  to  such 
exertion,  could  not  hold  out.  It  overdid  itself, 
driven  on  by  the  necessitated  Princess;  it 
stumbled  on  the  loose  gravel  of  the  steep,  and 
again  stumbled  ;  and  at  last  fell,  after  violent 
efforts,  powerless  to  the  ground.  The  fair  dame, 
resolute  and  dextrous,  failed  not  instantly  to  get 
upon  her  feet ;  the  horse  too  rose,  but  the  tiger 
was  approaching;  though  not  with  vehement 
speed ;  the  uneven  ground,  the  sharp  stones 
seemed  to  damp  his  impetuosity;  and  only 
Honorio  flying  after  him,  riding  with  checked 
speed  along  with  him,  appeared  to  stimulate 
and  provoke  his  force  anew.  Both  runners,  at 
the  same  instant,  reached  the  spot  where  the 
Princess  was  standing  by  her  horse  :  the  Knight 
bent  himself,  fired,  and  with  this  second  pistol 
hit  the  monster  through  the  head,  so  that  it 
rushed  down;  and  now,  stretched  out  in  full 
length,  first  clearly  disclosed  the  might  and 
terror  whereof  only  the  bodily  hull  was  left 
lying.  Honorio  had  sprung  from  his  horse ; 
was  already  kneeling  on  the  beast,  quenching 
its  last  movements,  and  held  his  drawn  hanger 
in  his  right  hand.  The  youth  was  beautiful; 
he  had  come  dashing  on  as  in  sports  of  the 
lance  and  the  ring  the  Princess  had  often  seen 
him  do.  Even  so  in  the  riding-course  would 
his  bullet,  as  he  darted  by,  hit  the  Turk  s  head 
30 


350 


GOETHE. 


on  the  pole,  right  under  the  turban  in  the  brow; 
even  so  would  he,  lightly  prancing  up,  prick  his 
naked  sabre  into  the  fallen  mass,  and  lift  it 
from  the  ground.  In  all  such  arts  he  was  dex- 
trous and  felicitous;  both  now  stood  him  in 
good  stead. 

"  Give  him  the  rest,"  said  the  Princess  :  "  I 
fear  he  will  hurt  you  with  his  claws."  — "Par- 
don!" answered  the  youth:  "he  is  already  dead 
enough  ;  and  I  would  not  hurt  the  skin,  which 
next  winter  shall  shine  upon  your  sledge." — 
"Sport  not,"  said  the  Princess:  "whatsoever  of 
pious  feeling  dwells  in  the  depth  of  the  heart 
unfolds  itself  in  such  a  moment."  —  "I  too," 
cried  Honorio,  "  was  never  more  pious  than 
even  now  ;  and  therefore  do  I  think  of  what  is 
joyfullest;  I  look  at  the  tiger's  fell  only  as  it 
can  attend  you  to  do  you  pleasure." — "  It  would 
for  ever  remind  me,"  said  she,  "of  this  fearful 
moment."  —  "Yet  is  it,"  replied  the  youth  with 
glowing  cheeks,  "a  more  harmless  spoil  than 
when  the  weapons  of  slain  enemies  are  carried 
for  show  before  the  victor."  —  "I  shall  bethink 
me,  at  sight  of  it,  of  your  boldness  and  clever- 
ness ;  and  need  not  add  that  you  may  reckon 
on  my  thanks  and  the  Prince's  favor  for  your 
life  long.  But  rise  ;  the  beast  is  clean  dead,  let 
us  consider  what  is  next:  before  all  things 
rise!" — "As  I  am  once  on  my  knees,"  replied 
the  youth,  "  once  in  a  posture  which  in  other 
circumstances  would  have  been  forbid,  let  me 
beg  at  this  moment  to  receive  assurance  of  the 
favor,  of  the  grace  which  you  vouchsafe  me.  I 
have  already  asked  so  often  of  your  high  con- 
sort for  leave  and  promotion  to  go  on  my  travels. 
He  who  has  the  happiness  to  sit  at  your  table, 
whom  you  honor  with  the  privilege  to  entertain 
your  company,  should  have  seen  the  world. 
Travellers  stream  in  on  us  from  all  parts;  and 
when  a  town,  an  important  spot  in  any  quarter 
of  the  world  comes  in  course,  the  question  is 
sure  to  be  asked  of  us,  were  we  ever  there  ? 
Nobody  allows  one  sense,  till  one  has  seen  all 
that:  it  is  as  if  you  had  to  instruct  yourself  only 
for  the  sake  of  others." 

"Rise!"  repeated  the  Princess  :  "I  were  loth 
to  wish  or  request  aught  that  went  against  the 
will  of  my  Husband  ;  however,  if  I  mistake  not, 
the  cause  why  he  has  restrained  you  hitherto 
will  soon  be  at  an  end.  His  intention  was  to 
see  you  ripened  into  a  complete  self-guided 
nobleman,  to  do  yourself  and  him  credit  in 
foreign  parts,  as  hitherto  at  court;  and  I  should 
think  this  deed  of  yours  was  as  good  a  recom- 
mendatory passport  as  a  young  man  could  wish 
for  to  take  abroad  with  him." 

That,  instead  of  a  youthful  joy,  a  certain 
mournfulness  came  over  his  face,  the  Princess 
had  not  time  to  observe,  nor  had  he  to  indulge 
his  emotion;  for,  in  hot  haste,  up  the  steep, 
came  a  woman,  with  a  boy  at  her  hand,  straight 
to  the  group  so  well  known  to  us ;  and  scarcely 
had  Honorio,  bethinking  him,  arisen,  when  they 
howling  and  shrieking  cast  themselves  on  the 
carcass ;  by  which  action,  as  well  as  by  their 


cleanly  decent,  yet  party-colored  and  unusual 
dress,  might  be  gathered  that  it  was  the  mistress 
of  this  slain  creature,  and  the  black-eyed  black- 
locked  boy,  holding  a  flute  in  his  hand,  her  son; 
weeping  like  his  mother,  less  violent  but  deeply 
moved,  kneeling  beside  her. 

Now  came  strong  outbreakings  of  passion 
from  this  woman ;  interrupted,  indeed,  and 
pulse-wise ;  a  stream  of  words,  leaping  like  a 
stream  in  gushes  from  rock  to  rock.  A  natural 
language,  short  and  discontinuous,  made  itself 
impressive  and  pathetic:  in  vain  should  we 
attempt  translating  it  into  our  dialects  ;  the  ap- 
proximate purport  of  it  we  must  not  omit.  "  They 
have  murdered  thee,  poor  beast!  murdered 
without  need!  Thou  wert  tame,  and  wouldst 
fain  have  laid  down  at  rest  and  waited  our 
coming ;  for  thy  foot-balls  were  sore,  thy  claws 
had  no  force  left.  The  hot  sun  to  ripen  them 
was  wanting.  Thou  wert  the  beautifullest  of 
thy  kind:  who  ever  saw  a  kingly  tiger  so  glori- 
ously stretched  out  in  sleep,  as  thou  here  liest, 
dead,  never  to  rise  more.  When  thou  awokest 
in  the  early  dawn  of  morning,  and  openedst  thy 
throat,  stretching  out  thy  red  tongue,  thou  wert 
as  if  smiling  on  us ;  and  even  when  bellowing, 
thou  tookest  thy  food  from  the  hands  of  a 
woman,  from  the  fingers  of  a  child.  How  long 
have  we  gone  with  thee  on  thy  journeys  ;  how 
long  has  thy  company  been  useful  and  fruitful 
to  us !  To  us,  to  us  of  a  very  truth,  meat  came 
from  the  eater,  and  sweetness  out  of  the  strong. 
So  will  it  be  no  more.    Wo  !  wo  !" 

She  had  not  done  lamenting,  when  over  the 
smoother  part  of  the  Castle  Mountain,  came 
riders  rushing  down ;  soon  recognised  as  the 
Prince's  Hunting-train,  himself  the  foremost. 
Following  their  sport,  in  the  backward  hills, 
they  had  observed  the  fire-vapors ;  and  fast 
through  dale  and  ravine,  as  in  fierce  chase, 
taken  the  shortest  path  towards  this  mournful 
sign.  Galloping  along  the  stony  vacancy,  they 
stopped  and  stared  at  sight  of  the  unexpected 
group,  which  in  that  empty  expanse  stood  out 
so  mark  worthy.  After  the  first  recognition  there 
was  silence;  some  pause  of  breathing-time ; 
and  then  what  the  view  itself  did  not  impart,, 
was  with  brief  words  explained.  So  stood  the 
Prince,  contemplating  the  strange  unheard-of 
incident;  a  circle  round  him  of  riders,  and 
followers  that  had  run  on  foot.  What  to  do  was 
still  undetermined  ;  the  Prince  intent  on  order- 
ing, executing,  when  a  man  pressed  forward 
into  the  circle  ;  large  of  stature,  party-colored, 
wondrously-apparelled,  like  wife  and  child. 
And  now  the  family  in  union  testified  their 
sorrow  and  astonishment.  The  man.  however, 
soon  restrained  himself,  bowed  in  reverent  dis- 
tance before  the  Prince,  and  said:  "It  is  not 
the  time  for  lamenting;  alas,  my  lord  and 
mighty  hunter,  the  lion  too  is  loose,  hither  to- 
wards the  mountains  is  he  gone :  but  spare 
him,  have  mercy  that  he  perish  not  like  this 
good  beast." 

"  The  Lion !"  said  the  Prince  :  «  Hast  thou  the 


GOETHE. 


351 


trace  of  him  ?" — "  Yes,  Lord  !  A  peasant  down 
there,  who  had  heedlessly  taken  shelter  on  a 
tree,  directed  me  farther  up  this  way,  to  the  left; 
but  I  saw  the  crowd  of  men  and  horses  here ; 
anxious  for  tidings  of  assistance,  I  hastened 
hither."  —  "So  then,"  commanded  the  Prince, 
"draw  to  the  left,  Huntsmen;  you  will  load 
your  pieces,  go  softly  to  work,  if  you  drive  him 
into  the  deep  woods,  it  is  no  matter :  but  in  the 
end,  good  man,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  kill  your 
animal;  why  were  you  improvident  enough  to 
let  him  loose?" — "The  fire  broke  out,"  replied 
he,  "  we  kept  quiet  and  attentive  ;  it  spread  fast, 
but  at  a  distance  from  us,  we  had  water  enough 
for  our  defence  ;  but  a  heap  of  powder  blew 
up,  and  threw  the  brands  on  to  us,  and  over  our 
heads:  we  were  too  hasty,  and  are  now  ruined 
people." 

The  Prince  was  still  busy  directing ;  but  for 
a  moment  all  seemed  to  pause,  as  a  man  was 
observed  hastily  springing  down  from  the 
heights  of  the  old  Castle ;  whom  the  troop  soon 
recognised  for  the  watchman  that  had  been  sta- 
tioned there  to  keep  the  Painter's  apartments, 
while  he  lodged  there  and  took  charge  of  the 
workmen.  He  came  running,  out  of  breath, 
yet  in  few  words  soon  made  known  that  the 
Lion  had  lain  himself  down,  within  the  high 
ring-wall,  in  the  sunshine,  at  the  foot  of  a  large 
beech,  and  was  behaving  quite  quietly.  With 
an  air  of  vexation,  however,  the  man  concluded  : 
Why  did  I  take  my  rifle  to  town  yesternight, 
to  have  it  cleaned  ;  he  had  never  risen  again, 
the  skin  had  been  mine,  and  I  might  all  my 
life  have  had  the  credit  of  the  thing." 

The  Prince,  whom  his  military  experiences 
here  also  stood  in  stead,  for  he  had  before  now 
been  in  situations  where  from  various  sides  in- 
evitable evil  seemed  to  threaten,  said  hereupon  : 
"  What  surety  do  you  give  me  that  if  we  spare 
your  lion,  he  will  not  work  destruction  among 
us,  among  my  people?" 

"  This  woman  and  this  child,"  answered  the 
father  hastily,  «  engage  to  tame  him,  to  keep  him 
peaceable,  till  I  bring  up  the  cage,  and  then  we 
can  carry  him  back  unharmed  and  without 
harming  any  one." 

The  boy  put  his  flute  to  his  lips ;  an  instru- 
ment of  the  kind  once  named  soft,  or  sweet 
flutes;  short-beaked  like  pipes:  he,  who  under- 
stood the  art,  could  bring  out  of  it  the  gracefullest 
tones.  Meanwhile  the  Prince  had  inquired  of 
the  watchman  how  the  lion  came  up.  "  By  the 
hollow-way,"  answered  he,  "  which  is  walled 
in  on  both  sides,  and  was  formerly  the  only  en- 
trance, and  is  to  be  the  only  one  still :  two  foot- 
paths, which  led  in  elsewhere,  we  have  so 
blocked  up  and  destroyed  that  no  human  being, 
except  by  that  first  narrow  passage,  can  reach 
die  Magic  Castle  which  Prince  Friedrich's  talent 
and  taste  is  making  of  it." 

After  a  little  thought,  during  which  the  Prince 
looked  round  at  the  boy,  who  still  continued  as 
if  softly  preluding,  he  turned  to  Honorio,  and 
said :  "  Thou  hast  done  much  to-day,  complete 


thy  task.  Secure  that  narrow  path  ;  keep  your 
rifles  in  readiness,  but  do  not  shoot  till  the  crea- 
ture can  no  otherwise  be  driven  back:  in  any 
case,  kindle  a  fire,  which  will  frighten  him  if 
he  make  downwards.  The  man  and  woman 
take  charge  of  the  rest."  Honorio  rapidly  be- 
stirred himself  to  execute  these  orders. 

The  child  continued  his  tune,  which  was  no 
tune ;  a  series  of  notes  without  law,  and  per- 
haps even  on  that  account  so  heart- touching : 
the  bystanders  seemed  as  if  enchanted  by  the 
movement  of  a  song-like  melody,  when  the  fa- 
ther with  dignified  enthusiasm  began  to  speak 
in  this  sort: 

"  God  has  given  the  Prince  wisdom,  and  also 
knowledge  to  discern  that  all  God's  works  are 
wise,  each  after  its  kind.  Behold  the  rock,  how 
he  stands  fast  and  stirs  not,  defies  the  weather 
and  the  sunshine;  primeval  trees  adorn  his 
head,  and  so  crowned  he  looks  abroad ;  neither 
if  a  mass  rush  away,  will  this  continue  what  it 
was,  but  falls  broken  into  many  pieces  and 
covers  the  side  of  the  descent.  But  there  too 
they  will  not  tarry,  capriciously  they  leap  far 
down,  the  brook  receives  them,  to  the  river  he 
bears  them.  Not  resisting,  not  contradictory, 
angular ;  no,  smooth  and  rounded  they  travel 
now  quicker  on  their  way,  arrive,  from  river  to 
river,  finally  at  the  ocean,  whither  march  the 
giants  in  hosts,  and  in  the  depths  whereof 
dwarfs  are  busy. 

"But  who  shall  exalt  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
whom  the  stars  praise  from  Eternity  to  Eternity  ! 
Why  look  ye  far  into  the  distance?  Consider 
here  the  bee :  late  at  the  end  of  harvest  she  still 
busily  gathers,  builds  her  a  house,  tight  of  cor- 
ner, straight  of  wall,  herself  the  architect  and 
mason.  Behold  the  ant:  she  knows  her  way, 
and  loses  it  not;  she  piles  her  a  dwelling  of 
grass-halms,  earth-crumbs,  and  needles  of  the 
fir ;  she  piles  it  aloft  and  arches  it  in ;  but  she 
has  labored  in  vain,  for  the  horse  stamps,  and 
scrapes  it  all  in  pieces:  lo !  he  has  trodden 
down  her  beams,  and  scattered  her  planks ; 
impatiently  he  snorts  and  cannot  rest ;  for  the 
Lord  has  made  the  horse  comrade  of  the  wind 
and  companion  of  the  storm,  to  carry  man  whi- 
ther he  wills,  and  woman  whither  she  desires, 
But  in  the  Wood  of  Palms  arose  he,  the  Lion, 
with  earnest  step  traversed  the  wilderness ; 
there  rules  he  over  all  creatures,  his  might  who 
shall  withstand  ?  Yet  man  can  tame  him ;  and 
the  fiercest  of  living  things  has  reverence  for  the 
image  of  God,  in  which  too  the  angels  are  made, 
who  serve  the  Lord  and  his  servants.  For  in 
the  den  of  Lions  Daniel  was  not  afraid  :  he  re- 
mained fast  and  faithful,  and  the  wild  bellow- 
ing interrupted  not  his  song  of  praise." 

This  speech,  delivered  with  expression  of  a 
natural  enthusiasm,  the  child  accompanied  here 
and  there  with  graceful  tones;  but  now,  the 
father  having  ended,  he,  with  clear  melodious 
voice  and  skilful  passaging,  struck  up  his  war- 
ble, whereupon  the  father  took  the  flute,  and 
gave  note  in  unison,  while  the  child  sang : 


352 


GOETHE. 


From  the  Dens,  I,  in  a  deeper, 
Prophet's  long  of  praise  can  hear ; 
Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper, 
.Needs  tine  good  man  there  to  fear? 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing, 
Mildly  pressing  round  him  came  ; 
Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 
It  hath  made  them  tame. 

The  father  continued  accompanying  this 
strophe  with  his  flute ;  the  mother  here  and 
there  touched  in  as  second  voice. 

Impressive,  however,  in  a  quite  peculiar  de- 
gree, it  was,  when  the  child  now  began  to  shuffle 
the  lines  of  the  strophe  into  other  arrangement ; 
and  thereby  if  not  bring  out  a  new  sense,  yet 
heighten  the  feeling  by  leading  it  into  self-ex- 
citement : 

Angel-host  around  doth  hover, 
Us  in  heavenly  tones  to  cheer : 
In  the  dens  our  head  doth  cover : 
Needs  the  poor  child  there  to  fear  ? 

For  that  humble  holy  praising 
Will  permit  no  evil  nigh  : 
Angels  hover,  keeping,  gazing, 
Who  so  safe  as  1  ? 

Hereupon  with  emphasis  and  elevation  began 
all  three : 

For  th'  Eternal  rules  above  us, 
Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  will ; 
Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us, 
And  the  proudest  waves  be  still. 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 
Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see, 
Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 
Prays,  0  Lord,  to  thee. 

All  were  silent,  hearing,  hearkening;  and 
only  when  the  tones  ceased  could  you  remark 
and  distinguish  the  impression  they  had  made. 
All  was  as  if  appeased  ;  each  affected  in  his 
way.  The  Prince,  as  if  he  now  first  saw  the 
misery  that  a  little  while  ago  had  threatened 
him,  looked  down  on  his  spouse,  who  leaning 
on  him  forbore  not  to  draw  out  the  little  em- 
broidered handkerchief,  and  therewith  covered 
her  eyes.  It  was  blessedness  for  her  to  feel  her 
young  bosom  relieved  from  the  pressure  with 
which  the  preceding  minutes  had  loaded  it.  A 
perfect  silence  reigned  over  the  crowd ;  they 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  dangers :  the  con- 
flagration below ;  and  above,  the  rising  up  of  a 
dubiously-reposing  Lion. 

By  a  sign  to  bring  the  horses,  the  Prince  first 
restored  the  group  to  motion ;  he  turned  to  the 
woman,  and  said:  "You  think  then  that,  once 
find  the  lion,  you  could,  by  your  singing,  by  the 
singing  of  this  child,  with  help  of  these  flute- 
tones,  appease  him,  and  carry  him  back  to  his 
prison,  unhurt  and  hurting  no  one  V  They  an- 
swered yes,  assuring  and  affirming;  the  Castel- 
lan was  given  them  as  guide.  And  now  the 
Prince  started  off  in  all  speed  with  a  few  ;  the 
Princess  followed  slower  with  the  rest  of  the 
train  ;  mother  and  son,  on  their  side,  under  con- 
duct of  the  warder,  who  had  got  himself  a  mus- 
ket, mounted  up  the  steeper  part  of  the  height. 

Before  the  entrance  of  the  hollow-way  which 
opened  their  access  to  the  Castle,  they  found  the 
hunters  busy  heaping  up  dry  brushwood,  to 


have,  in  any  case,  a  large  fire  ready  for  kindling. 
"  There  is  no  need,"  said  the  woman  :  "  it  will 
all  go  well  and  peaceably,  without  that." 

Farther  on,  sitting  on  a  wall,  his  double-barrel 
resting  in  his  lap,  Honorio  appeared ;  at  his 
post,  as  if  ready  for  every  occurrence.  How 
ever,  he  seemed  hardly  to  notice  our  party ;  he 
sat  as  if  sunk  in  deep  thoughts,  he  looked  round 
like  one  whose  mind  was  not  there.  The  wo- 
man addressed  him  with  a  prayer  not  to  let  the 
fire  be  lit;  he  appeared  not  to  heed  her  words; 
she  spoke  on  with  vivacity,  and  cried  :  "  Hand- 
some young  man,  thou  hast  killed  my  tiger,  I 
do  not  curse  thee ;  spare  my  lion,  good  young 
man,  I  will  bless  thee." 

Honorio  was  looking  straight  out  before  him, 
to  where  the  sun  on  his  course  began  to  sink. 
"  Thou  lookest  to  the  west,"  cried  the  woman ; 
"  thou  dost  well,  there  is  much  to  do  there ; 
hasten,  delay  not,  thou  wilt  conquer.  But  firs', 
conquer  thyself."  At  this  he  appeared  to  give 
a  smile ;  the  woman  stept  on  ;  could  not,  how- 
ever, but  look  back  once  more  at  him  :  a  ruddy 
sun  was  overshining  his  face ;  she  thought  she 
had  never  seen  a  handsomer  youth. 

"If  your  child,"  said  the  warder  now,  "  with 
his  fluting  and  singing,  can,  as  you  are  per- 
suaded, entice  and  pacify  the  lion,  we  shall  soon 
get  mastery  of  him  after,  for  the  creature  has 
lain  down  quite  close  to  the  perforated  vaults 
through  which,  as  the  main  passage  was  blocked 
up  with  ruins,  we  had  to  bore  ourselves  an  en- 
trance into  the  Castle-Court.  If  the  child  entioe 
him  into  this  latter,  I  can  close  the  opening  with 
little  difficulty ;  then  the  boy,  if  he  like,  can 
glide  out  by  one  of  the  little  spiral  stairs  he  wil! 
find  in  the  corner.  We  must  conceal  ourselves; 
but  I  shall  so  take  my  place  that  a  rifle-ball  can, 
at  any  moment,  help  the  poor  child  in  case  of 
extremity." 

"  All  these  precautions  are  unnecessary ;  God 
and  skill,  piety  and  a  blessing,  must  do  the 
work." — "May  be,"  replied  the  warder;  "how- 
ever, I  know  my  duties.  First,  I  must  lead  you, 
by  a  difficult  path,  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  right 
opposite  the  vaults  and  opening  I  have  men- 
tioned :  the  child  may  then  go  down,  as  into  the 
arena  of  the  show,  and  lead  away  the  animal, 
if  it  will  follow  him."  This  was  done:  wardei 
and  mother  looked  down  in  concealment,  as  the 
child  descending  the  screw-stairs,  showed  him- 
self in  the  open  space  of  the  Court,  and  disap- 
peared opposite  them  in  the  gloomy  opening; 
but  forthwith  gave  his  flute  voice,  which  hy 
and  by  grew  weaker,  and  at  last  sank  dumb. 
The  pause  was  bodeful  enough ;  the  old  Hunter, 
familiar  with  danger,  felt  heart-sick  at  the  sin- 
gular conjuncture ;  the  mother,  however,  with 
cheerful  face,  bending  over  to  listen,  showed 
not  the  smallest  discomposure. 

At  last  the  flute  was  again  heard  ;  the  child 
stept  forth  from  the  cavern  with  glittering  satis- 
fied eyes,  the  lion  after  him,  but  slowly,  and  as 
it  seemed  with  difficulty.  He  showed  here  and 
there  desire  to  lie  down ;  yet  the  boy  led  him 


GOETHE. 


353 


in  a  half-circle  through  the  few  disleaved  many- 
tinted  trees,  till  at  length,  in  the  last  rays  of  the 
sun  which  poured  in  through  a  hole  in  the 
ruins,  he  set  him  down,  as  if  transfigured  in  the 
bright  red  light ;  and  again  commenced  his  pa- 
.  cifying  song,  the  repetition  of  which  we  also 
'  cannot  forbear  : 

From  the  Dens,  I,  m  a  deeper, 

Prophet's  song  of  praise  can  hear ; 

Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper, 

Needs  the  good  man  there  to  fear  ? 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing, 

Mildly  pressing  round  him  came  ; 

Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 

It  hath  made  them  tame. 

Meanwhile  the  lion  had  laid  itself  down  quite 
close  to  the  child,  and  lifted  its  heavy  right 
fore-paw  into  his  bosom;  the  boy  as  he  sung 
gracefully  stroked  it;  but  was  not  long  in  ob- 
serving that  a  sharp  thorn  had  stuck  itself  be- 
tween the  balls.  He  carefully  pulled  it  out ; 
with  a  smile,  took  the  party-colored  silk-hand- 
kerchief from  his  neck,  and  bound  up  the  fright- 
ful paw  of  the  monster;  so  that  his  mother  for 
joy  bent  herself  back  with  outstretched  arms  ; 
and  perhaps,  according  to  custom,  would  have 
shouted  and  clapped  applause,  had  not  a  hard 
hand  gripe  of  the  warder  reminded  her  that  the 
danger  was  not  yet  over. 

Triumphantly  the  child  sang  on,  having  with 
a  few  tones  preluded  : 

For  th'  Eternal  rules  above  us, 

Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  will ; 

Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us, 

And  the  proudest  waves  be  still. 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 

Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see, 

Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 

Prays,  0  Lord,  to  thee. 

Were  it  possible  to  fancy  that  in  the  counte- 
nance of  so  grim  a  creature,  the  tyrant  of  the 
.  woods,  the  despot  of  the  animal  kingdom,  an 
expression  of  friendliness,  of  thankful  content- 
ment could  be  traced,  then  here  was  such  trace- 
able;  and  truly  the  child  in  his  illustrated  look 
had  the  air  as  of  a  mighty  triumphant  victor; 
the  other  figure,  indeed,  not  that  of  one  van- 
quished, for  his  strength  lay  concealed  in  him ; 
but  yet  of  one  tamed,  of  one  given  up  to  his 
own  peaceful  will.  The  child  fluted  and  sang 
on,  changing  the  lines  according  to  his  way,  and 
adding  new  : 

And  so  to  good  children  bringeth. 
Blessed  Angel  help  in  need  ; 
Fetters  o'er  the  cruel  fhngelh, 
Worthy  art  with  wings  doth  speed. 
So  have  tamed,  and  firmly  iron'd 
To  a  poor  child's  feeble  knee, 
Him  the  forest's  lordly  tyrant, 
Soug  and  Piety. 


THE  TALE* 

In  his  little  Hut,  by  the  great  River,  which  a 
heavy  rain  had  swoln  to  overflowing,  lay  the 

*  Translated  by  Carlyle.    The  editor  has  preferred  to 
publish  this  "  Tale"  without  the  translator's  comments. 
Whoever  is  curious  to  see  these,  and  to  have  a  key  to 
2  U 


ancient  Ferryman,  asleep,  wearied  by  the  toil 
of  the  day.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  loud 
voices  awoke  him ;  he  heard  that  it  was  travel- 
lers wishing  to  be  carried  over. 

Stepping  out,  he  saw  two  large  Will-o'-wisps, 
hovering  to  and  fro  on  his  boat,  which  lay 
moored :  they  said,  they  were  in  violent  haste, 
and  should  have  been  already  on  the  other  side. 
The  old  Ferryman  made  no  loitering  ;  pushed 
off,  and  steered  with  his  usual  skill  obliquely 
through  the  stream ;  while  the  two  strangers 
whillled  and  hissed  together,  in  an  unknown 
very  rapid  tongue,  and  every  now  and  then 
broke  out  in  loud  laughter,  hopping  about,  at 
one  time  on  the  gunwale  and  the  seats,  at  an- 
other on  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"The  boat  is  heeling!"  cried  the  old  man; 
"  if  you  don't  be  quiet,  it  will  overset ;  be  seated, 
gentlemen  of  the  wisp  !" 

At  this  advice  they  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter, 
mocked  the  old  man,  and  were  more  unquiet 
than  ever.  He  bore  their  mischief  with  pa- 
tience, and  soon  reached  the  farther  shore. 

"  Here  is  for  your  labor  !"  cried  the  travellers, 
and  as  they  shook  themselves,  a  heap  of  glitter- 
ing gold-pieces  jingled  down  into  the  wet  boat. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you  about?"  cried 
the  old  man  ;  "you  will  ruin  me  forever!  Had 
a  single  piece  of  gold  got  into  the  water,  the 
stream,  which  cannot  suffer  gold,  would  have 
risen  in  horrid  waves,  and  swallowed  both  my 
skiff"  and  me;  and  who  knows  how  it  might 
have  fared  with  you  in  that  case :  here,  take 
back  your  gold." 

"We  can  take  nothing  back,  which  we  have 
once  shaken  from  us,"  said  the  Lights. 

"Then  you  give  me  the  trouble,"  said  the  old 
man,  stooping  down,  and  gathering  the  pieces 
into  his  cap,  "of  raking  them  together,  and  car- 
rying them  ashore,  and  burying  them." 

The  Lights  had  leaped  from  the  boat,  but  the 
old  man  cried:  "Stay;  where  is  my  fare?" 

"If  you  take  no  gold,  you  may  work  for  no- 
thing," cried  the  Will-o'-wisps.  —  "You  must 
know  that  I  am  only  to  be  paid  with  fruits  of 
the  earth." — "Fruits  of  the  earth?  we  despise 
them,  and  have  never  tasted  them." — "  And  yet 
I  cannot  let  you  go,  till  you  have  promised  that 
you  will  deliver  me  three  Cabbages,  three  Arti- 
chokes, and  three  large  Onions." 

The  Lights  were  making  off*  with  jests;  but 
they  felt  themselves,  in  some  inexplicable  man- 
ner, fastened  to  the  ground :  it  was  the  unplea- 
santest  feeling  they  had  ever  had.  They  en- 
gaged to  pay  him  his  demand  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble :  he  let  them  go,  and  pushed  away.  He 
was  gone  a  good  distance,  when  they  called  to 
him:  "Old  man!  Holla,  old  man!  the  main 
point  is  forgotten!"  He  was  off,  however,  and 
did  not  hear  them.  He  had  fallen  quietly  down 
that  side  of  the  River,  where,  in  a  rocky  spot, 
which  the  water  never  reached,  he  meant  to 

this  wondrous  production,  is  referred  to  "Carlyle's  Mis- 
cellanies." Boston:  James  Munroe  &  Co.  Vol.  IV 
Appendix. 

30* 


354 


GOETHE. 


bury  the  pernicious  gold.  Here,  between  two 
high  crags,  he  found  a  monstrous  chasm;  shook 
the  metal  into  it,  and  steered  back  to  his  cottage. 

Now,  in  this  chasm,  lay  the  fair  green  Snake, 
who  was  roused  from  her  sleep  by  the  gold 
coming  chinking  down.  No  sooner  did  she  fix 
her  eye  on  the  glittering  coins,  than  she  ate 
them  all  up,  with  the  greatest  relish,  on  the 
spot;  and  carefully  picked  out  such  pieces  as 
were  scattered  in  the  chinks  of  the  rock. 

Scarcely  had  she  swallowed  them,  when, 
with  extreme  delight,  she  began  to  feel  the 
metal  melting  in  her  inwards,  and  spreading 
all  over  her  body ;  and  soon,  to  her  lively  joy, 
she  observed  that  she  was  grown  transparent 
and  luminous.  Long  ago  she  had  been  told  that 
this  was  possible ;  but  now  being  doubtful 
whether  such  a  light  could  last,  her  curiosity 
and  the  desire  to  be  secure  against  the  future, 
drove  her  from  her  cell,  that  she  might  see  who 
it  was  that  had  shaken  in  this  precious  metal. 
She  found  no  one.  The  more  delightful  was  it 
to  admire  her  own  appearance,  and  her  grace- 
ful brightness,  as  she  crawled  along  through 
roots  and  bushes,  and  spread  out  her  light  among 
the  grass.  Every  leaf  seemed  of  emerald,  every 
flower  was  dyed  with  new  glory.  It  was  in 
vain  that  she  crossed  the  solitary  thickets ;  but 
her  hopes  rose  high,  when,  on  reaching  the  open 
country,  she  perceived  from  afar  a  brilliancy 
resembling  her  own.  «  Shall  I  find  my  like  at 
last,  then?"  cried  she,  and  hastened  to  the  spot. 
The  toil  of  crawling  through  bog  and  reeds  gave 
her  little  thought;  for  though  she  liked  best  to 
live  in  dry  grassy  spots  of  the  mountains,  among 
the  clefts  of  rocks,  and  for  most  part  fed  on  spicy 
herbs,  and  slaked  her  thirst  with  mild  dew  and 
fresh  spring  water,  yet  for  the  sake  of  this  dear 
gold,  and  in  the  hope  of  this  glorious  light,  she 
would  have  undertaken  anything  you  could 
propose  to  her. 

At  last,  with  much  fatigue,  she  reached  a  wet 
rushy  spot  in  the  swamp,  where  our  two  Will- 
o'-wisps  were  frisking  to  and  fro.  She  shoved 
herself  along  to  them  ;  saluted  them,  was  happy 
to  meet  such  pleasant  gentlemen  related  to  her 
family.  The  Lights  glided  towards  her,  skipped 
up  over  her,  and  laughed  in  their  fashion. 
"Lady  Cousin,"  said  they,  "you  are  of  the  hori- 
zontal line,  yet  what  of  that?  It  is  true  we  are 
related  only  by  the  look  ;  for  observe  you,"  here 
both  the  Flames,  compressing  their  whole 
breadth,  made  themselves  as  high  and  peaked 
as  possible,  "  how  prettily  this  taper  length  be- 
seems us  gentlemen  of  the  vertical  line  !  Take 
it  not  amiss  of  us,  good  Lady ;  what  family  can 
boast  of  such  a  thing?  Since  there  ever  was  a 
Jack-o;-lanthorn  in  the  world,  no  one  of  them 
has  either  sat  or  lain." 

The  Snake  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable  in 
the  company  of  these  relations;  for  let  her  hold 
her  head  as  high  as  possible,  she  found  that  she 
must  bend  it  to  the  earth  again,  would  she  stir 
from  the  6pot;  and  if  in  the  dark  thicket  she 
had  been  extremely  satisfied  with  her  appear- 


ance, her  splendor  in  the  presence  of  these 
cousins  seemed  to  lessen  every  moment,  nay 
she  was  afraid  that  at  last  it  would  go  out  en- 
tirely. 

In  this  embarrassment  she  hastily  asked :  if 
the  gentlemen  could  not  inform  her,  whence 
the  glittering  gold  came,  that  had  fallen  a  short 
while  ago  into  the  cleft  of  the  rock;  her  own 
opinion  was,  that  it  had  been  a  golden  shower, 
and  had  trickled  down  direct  from  the  sky.  The 
Will-o'-wisps  laughed,  and  shook  themselves, 
and  a  multitude  of  gold-pieces  came  clinking 
down  about  them.  The  Snake  pushed  nimbly 
forwards  to  eat  the  coin.  "  Much  good  may  it 
do  you,  Mistress,"  said  the  dapper  gentlemen: 
"we  can  help  you  to  a  little  more."  They  shook 
themselves  again  several  times  with  great  quick- 
ness, so  that  the  Snake  could  scarcely  gulp  the 
precious  victuals  fast  enough.  Her  splendor 
visibly  began  increasing ;  she  was  really  shin- 
ing beautifully,  while  the  Lights  had  in  the 
meantime  grown  rather  lean  and  short  of  sta- 
ture, without  however  in  the  smallest  losing 
their  good-humor. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  ever,"  said  the  Snake, 
having  got  her  wind  again  after  the  repast, 
"ask  of  me  what  you  will;  all  that  I  can  I 
will  do." 

"  Very  good !"  cried  the  Lights.  "  Then  tell 
us  where  the  fair  Lily  dwells  ?  Lead  us  to  the 
fair  Lily's  palace  and  garden;  and  do  not  lose 
a  moment,  we  are  dying  of  impatience  to  fall 
down  at  her  feet." 

c:  This  service,"  said  the  Snake  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  I  cannot  now  do  for  you.  The  fair  Lily 
dwells,  alas,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water."— 
"  Other  side  of  the  water  ?  And  we  have  come 
across  it,  this  stormy  night !  How  cruel  is  the 
River  to  divide  us!  Would  it  not  be  possible  to 
call  the  old  man  back  ?"' 

"It  would  be  useless,"  said  the  Snake;  "for 
if  you  found  him  ready  on  the  bank,  he  would 
not  take  you  in  ;  he  can  carry  any  one  to  this 
side,  none  to  yonder." 

"  Here  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish !"  cried  the 
Lights  :  "  are  there  no  other  means  of  getting 
through  the  water  ?" — "  There  are  other  means, 
but  not  at  this  moment.  I  myself  could  tnke 
you  over,  gentlemen,  but  not  till  noon." — "That 
is  an  hour  we  do  not  like  to  travel  in." — "Then 
you  may  go  across  in  the  evening,  on  the  great 
Giant's  shadow." — "  How  is  that?" — "The  great 
Giant  lives  not  far  from  this  ;  with  his  body  he 
has  no  power ;  his  hands  cannot  lift  a  straw, 
his  shoulders  could  not  bear  a  faggot  of  twigs  ; 
but  with  his  shadow  he  has  power  over  much, 
nay  all.  At  sunrise  and  sunset  therefore  he  is 
strongest ;  so  at  evening  you  merely  put  your- 
self upon  the  back  of  his  shadow,  the  Giant 
walks  softly  to  the  bank,  and  the  shadow  car- 
ries you  across  the  water.  But  if  you  please, 
about  the  hour  of  noon,  to  be  in  waiting  at  that 
corner  of  the  wood,  where  the  bushes  overhang 
the  bank,  I  myself  will  take  you  over  and  pre- 
sent you  to  the  fair  Lily :  or  on  the  other  hand, 


GOETHE. 


355 


if  you  dislike  the  noontide,  you  have  just  to  go 
at  nightfall  to  that  bend  of  the  rocks,  and  pay 
a  visit  to  the  Giant;  he  will  certainly  receive 
you  like  a  gentleman." 

With  a  slight  bow,  the  Flames  went  off;  and 
the  Snake  at  bottom  was  not  discontented  to  get 
rid  of  them  ;  partly  that  she  might  enjoy  the 
brightness  of  her  own  light,  partly  satisfy  a 
curiosity  with  which,  for  a  long  time,  she  had 
been  agitated  in  a  singular  way. 

In  the  chasm,  where  she  often  crawled  hither 
and  thither,  she  had  made  a  strange  discovery. 
For  although  in  creeping  up  and  down  this 
abyss,  she  had  never  had  a  ray  of  light,  she 
could  well  enough  discriminate  the  objects  in  it, 
by  her  sense  of  touch.  Generally  she  met  with 
nothing  but  irregular  productions  of  nature ;  at 
one  time  she  would  wind  between  the  teeth  of 
large  crystals,  at  another  she  would  feel  the 
barbs  and  hairs  of  native  silver,  and  now  and 
then  carry  out  with  her  to  the  light  some  strag- 
gling jewels.  But  to  her  no  small  wonder,  in  a 
rock  which  was  closed  on  every  side,  she  had 
come  on  certain  objects  which  betrayed  the 
shaping  hand  of  man.  Smooth  walls  on  which 
she  could  not  climb,  sharp  regular  corners,  well- 
formed  pillars ;  and  what  seemed  strangest  of 
all,  human  figures  which  she  had  entwined 
more  than  once,  and  which  appeared  to  her  to 
be  of  brass,  or  of  the  finest  polished  marble. 
All  these  experiences  she  now  wished  to  com- 
bine by  the  sense  of  sight,  thereby  to  confirm 
what  as  yet  she  only  guessed.  She  believed 
she  could  illuminate  the  whole  of  the  subter- 
ranean vault  by  her  own  light ;  and  hoped  to 
get  acquainted  with  these  curious  things  at 
once.  She  hastened  back  ;  and  soon  found,  by 
the  usual  way,  the  cleft  by  which  she  used  to 
penetrate  the  Sanctuary. 

On  reaching  the  place,  she  gazed  around 
with  eager  curiosity;  and  though  her  shining 
could  not  enlighten  every  object  in  the  rotund o, 
yet  those  nearest  her  were  plain  enough.  With 
astonishment  and  reverence  she  looked  up  into 
a  glancing  niche,  where  the  image  of  an  august 
King  stood  formed  of  pure  Gold.  In  size  the 
figure  was  beyond  the  stature  of  man,  but  by 
its  shape  it  seemed  the  likeness  of  a  little  rather 
than  a  tall  person.  His  handsome  body  was 
encircled  with  an  unadorned  mantle ;  and  a 
garland  of  oak  bound  his  hair  together. 

No  sooner  had  the  Snake  beheld  this  reverend 
figure,  than  the  King  began  to  speak,  and  asked: 
"Whence  comest  thou?''  —  "From  the  chasms 
where  the  gold  dwells,"  said  the  Snake. — 
"What  is  grander  than  gold?"  inquired  the 
King. — «  Light,"  replied  the  Snake.  "  What  is 
more  refreshing  than  light?"  said  he. — "  Speech," 
answered  she. 

During  this  conversation,  she  had  squinted  to 
a  side,  and  in  the  nearest  niche  perceived  an- 
other glorious  image.  It  was  a  Silver  King  in 
a  sitting  posture  ;  his  shape  was  long  and  rather 
languid ;  he  was  covered  with  a  decorated 
robe  ;  crown,  girdle,  and  sceptre  were  adorned 


with  precious  stones:  the  cheerfulness  of  prido 
was  in  his  countenance ;  he  seemed  about  to 
speak,  when  a  vein  which  ran  dimly-colored 
over  the  marble  wall,  on  a  sudden  became 
bright,  and  diffused  a  cheerful  light  throughout 
the  whole  Temple.  By  this  brilliancy  the  Snake 
perceived  a  third  King,  made  of  Brass,  and 
sitting  mighty  in  shape,  leaning  on  his  club, 
adorned  with  a  laurel  garland,  and  more  like  a 
rock  than  a  man.  She  was  looking  for  the 
fourth,  which  was  standing  at  the  greatest 
distance  from  her  ;  but  the  wall  opened,  while 
the  glittering  vein  started  and  split,  as  lightning 
does,  and  disappeared. 

A  Man  of  middle  stature,  entering  through 
the  cleft,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Snake. 
He  was  dressed  like  a  peasant,  and  carried  in 
his  hand  a  little  Lamp,  on  whose  still  flame 
you  liked  to  look,  and  which  in  a  strange  man- 
ner, without  casting  any  shadow,  enlightened 
the  whole  dome. 

"Why  comest  thou,  since  we  have  light?" 
said  the  golden  King. — "  You  know  that  I  may 
not  enlighten  what  is  dark." — "Will  my  King- 
dom end?"  said  the  silver  King.  —  "Late  or 
never,"  said  the  old  Man. 

With  a  stronger  voice  the  brazen  King  began 
to  ask  :  "  When  shall  I  arise?" — "  Soon,"  replied 
the  Man. — "With  whom  shall  I  combine?"  said 
the  King. — "  With  thy  elder  brothers,"  said  the 
Man. — "What  will  the  youngest  do?"  inquired 
the  King.  —  "He  will  sit  down,"  replied  the 
Man. 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  cried  the  fourth  King,  with 
a  rough  faltering  voice. 

While  this  speech  was  going  on,  the  Snake 
had  glided  softly  round  the  temple,  viewing 
everything;  she  was  now  looking  at  the  fourth 
King  close  by  him.  He  stood  leaning  on  a  pil- 
lar ;  his  considerable  form  was  heavy  rather 
than  beautiful.  But  what  metal  it  was  made 
of  could  not  be  determined.  Closely  inspected, 
it  seemed  a  mixture  of  the  three  metals  which 
its  brothers  had  been  formed  of.  But  in  the 
founding,  these  materials  did  not  seem  to  have 
combined  together  fully;  gold  and  silver  veins 
ran  irregularly  through  a  brazen  mass,  and  gave 
the  figure  an  unpleasant  aspect. 

Meanwhile  the  gold  King  was  asking  of  the 
Man,  "How  many  secrets  knowest  thou?"  — 
"Three,"  replied  the  Man.  —  "Which  is  the 
most  important?"  said  the  silver  King. — "The 
open  one,"  replied  the  other. — "  Wilt  thou  open 
it  to  us  also  ?"  said  the  brass  King.  —  "  When  I 
know  the  fourth,"  replied  the  Man.  —  "What 
care  I  ?"  grumbled  the  composite  King,  in  an 
under  tone. 

"I  know  the  fourth,"  said  the  Snake;  ap- 
proached the  old  Man,  and  hissed  somewhat  in 
his  ear.  "The  time  is  at  hand!"  cried  the  old 
Man,  with  a  strong  voice.  The  temple  re- 
echoed, the  metal  statues  sounded  ;  and  that  in- 
stant the  old  Man  sank  away  to  the  westward, 
and  the  Snake  to  the  eastward ;  and  both  of 


356 


GOETHE. 


them  passed  through  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  with 
the  greatest  speed. 

All  the  passages,  through  which  the  old  Man 
travelled,  filled  themselves,  immediately  behind 
him,  with  gold :  for  his  Lamp  had  the  strange 
property  of  changing  stone  into  gold,  wood  into 
silver,  dead  animals  into  precious  stones,  and 
of  annihilating  all  metals.  But  to  display  this 
power,  it  must  shine  alone.  If  another  light 
were  beside  it,  the  Lamp  only  cast  from  it  a 
pure  clear  brightness,  and  all  living  things  were 
refreshed  by  it. 

The  old  Man  entered  his  cottage,  which  was 
built  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  He  found  his 
Wife  in  extreme  distress.  She  was  sitting  at 
the  fire  weeping,  and  refusing  to  be  consoled. 
"  How  unhappy  am  I !"  cried  she  :  "  Did  not  I 
entreat  thee  not  to  go  away  to-night?'' — "  What 
is  the  matter,  then  ?"  inquired  the  husband, 
quite  composed. 

"  Scarcely  wert  thou  gone,"  said  she,  sobbing, 
"  when  there  came  two  noisy  Travellers  to  the 
door:  unthinkingly  I  let  them  in;  they  seemed 
to  be  a  couple  of  genteel,  very  honorable  peo- 
ple ;  they  were  dressed  in  flames,  you  would 
have  taken  them  for  Will-o'-wisps.  But  no 
sooner  were  they  in  the  house,  than  they  began, 
like  impudent  varlets,  to  compliment  me,  and 
grew  so  forward  that  I  feel  ashamed  to  think 
of  it.;' 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  husband  with  a  smile, 
"the  gentlemen  were  jesting:  considering  thy 
age,  they  might  have  held  by  general  polite- 
ness." 

"  Age  !  what  age  V  cried  the  Wife  :  "  wilt 
thou  always  be  talking  of  my  age  1  How  old 
am  I  then"?  —  General  politeness!  But  I  know 
what  I  know.  Look  round  there  what  a  face 
the  walls  have ;  look  at  the  old  stones,  which  I 
have  not  seen  these  hundred  years;  every  film 
of  gold  have  they  licked  away,  thou  couldst  not 
think  how  fast;  and  still  they  kept  assuring  me 
that  it  tasted  far  beyond  common  gold.  Once 
they  had  swept  the  walls,  the  fellows  seemed 
to  be  in  high  spirits,  and  truly  in  that  little 
while  they  had  grown  much  broader  and 
brighter.  They  now  began  to  be  impertinent 
again,  they  patted  me,  and  called  me  their 
queen,  they  shook  themselves,  and  a  shower 
of  gold  pieces  sprang  from  them  ;  see  how  they 
are  shining  there  under  the  bench!  But,  ah! 
what  misery!  Poor  Mops  ate  a  coin  or  two; 
and  look,  he  is  lying  in  the  chimney,  dead. 
Poor  Pug!  O  well-a-day!  I  did  not  see  it  till 
they  were  gone;  else  I  had  never  promised  to 
pay  the  Ferryman  the  debt  they  owe  him." — 
"  What  do  they  owe  him  ?"  said  the  Man. — 
"Three  Cabbages,"  replied  the  Wife,  "three 
Artichokes,  and  three  Onions :  I  engaged  to 
go  when  it  was  day,  and  take  them  to  the 
River." 

"Thou  mayest  do  them  that  civility,"  said 
the  old  Man  ;  "  they  may  chance  to  be  of  use 
to  us  again." 

"  Whether  they  will  be  of  use  to  us  I  know 


not;  but  they  promised  and  vowed  that  they 

would." 

Meantime  the  fire  on  the  hearth  had  burnt 
low ;  the  old  Man  covered  up  the  embers  with 
a  heap  of  ashes,  and  put  the  glittering  gold 
pieces  aside  ;  so  that  his  little  Lamp  now  gleam- 
ed alone,  in  the  fairest  brightness.  The  walls 
again  coated  themselves  with  gold,  and  Mops 
changed  into  the  prettiest  onyx  that  could  be 
imagined.  The  alternation  of  the  brown  and 
black  in  this  precious  stone  made  it  the  most 
curious  piece  of  workmanship. 

"Take  thy  basket,"  said  the  Man,  "and  put 
the  onyx  into  it ;  then  take  the  three  Cabbages, 
the  three  Artichokes,  and  the  three  Onions; 
place  them  round  little  Mops,  and  carry  them 
to  the  River.  At  noon  the  Snake  will  take 
thee  over ;  visit  the  fair  Lily,  give  her  the  onyx, 
she  will  make  it  alive  by  her  touch,  as  by  her 
touch  she  kills  whatever  is  alive  already.  She 
will  have  a  true  companion  in  the  little  dog. 
Tell  her  not  to  mourn  ;  her  deliverance  is  near; 
the  greatest  misfortune  she  may  look  upon  as 
the  greatest  happiness  :  for  the  time  is  at  hand.'' 

The  old  Woman  filled  her  basket,  and  set 
out  as  soon  as  it  was  day.  The  rising  sun 
shone  clear  from  the  other  side  of  the  River, 
which  was  glittering  in  the  distance ;  the  old 
woman  walked  with  slow  steps,  for  the  basket 
pressed  upon  her  head,  and  it  was  not  the  onyx 
that  so  burdened  her.  Whatever  lifeless  thing 
she  might  be  carrying,  she  did  not  feel  the 
weight  of  it;  on  the  other  hand,  in  those  cases 
the  basket  rose  aloft,  and  hovered  along  above 
her  head.  But  to  carry  any  fresh  herbage,  or 
any  little  living  animal,  she  found  exceedingly 
laborious.  She  had  travelled  on  for  some  time, 
in  a  sullen  humor,  when  she  halted  suddenly 
in  fright,  for  she  had  almost  trod  upon  the 
Giant's  shadow,  which  was  stretching  towards 
her  across  the  plain.  And  now,  lifting  up  her 
eyes,  she  saw  the  monster  of  a  Giant  himself, 
who  had  been  bathing  in  the  River,  and  was 
just  come  out,  and  she  knew  not  how  she 
should  avoid  him.  The  moment  he  perceived 
her,  he  began  saluting  her  in  sport,  and  the 
hands  of  his  shadow  soon  caught  hold  of  the 
basket.  With  dexterous  ease  they  picked  away 
from  it  a  Cabbage,  an  Artichoke,  and  an  Onion, 
and  brought  them  to  the  Giant's  mouth,  who 
then  went  his  way  up  the  River,  and  let  the 
Woman  go  in  peace. 

She  considered  whether  it  would  not  be  bet- 
ter to  return,  and  supply  from  her  garden  the 
pieces  she  had  lost ;  and  amid  these  doubts,  she 
still  kept  walking  on,  so  that  in  a  little  while 
she  was  at  the  bank  of  the  River.  She  sat 
long  waiting  for  the  Ferryman,  whom  she  per- 
ceived at  last,  steering  over  with  a  very  singular 
traveller.  A  young,  noble-looking,  handsome 
man,  whom  she  could  not  gaze  upon  enough, 
stept  out  of  the  boat. 

"  What  is  it  you  bring?"  cried  the  old  man. 
"The  greens  which  those  two  Will-o'-wisps 
owe  you,"  said  the  Woman,  pointing  to  her 


357 


ware.  As  the  Ferryman  found  only  two  of 
each  sort,  he  grew  angry,  and  declared  he  would 
have  none  of  them.  The  Woman  earnestly 
entreated  him  to  take  them ;  told  him  that  she 
could  not  now  go  home,  and  that  her  burden  for 
the  way  which  still  remained  was  very  heavy. 
He  stood  by  his  refusal,  and  assured  her  that  it 
did  not  rest  with  him.  «  What  belongs  to  me," 
said  he,  "I  must  leave  lying  nine  hours  in  a 
heap,  touching  none  of  it,  till  I  have  given  the 
River  its  third."  After  much  higgling,  the  old 
man  at  last  replied :  "  There  is  still  another 
way.  If  you  like  to  pledge  yourself  to  the 
River,  and  declare  yourself  its  debtor,  I  will 
take  the  six  pieces;  but  there  is  some  risk  in 
it." — "If  I  keep  my  word,  I  shall  run  no  risk?" 
—  "Not  the  smallest.  Put  your  hand  into  the 
stream,"  continued  he,  "  and  promise  that  within 
four-and-twenty  hours  you  will  pay  the  debt." 

The  old  Woman  did  so ;  but  what  was  her 
affright,  when  on  drawing  out  her  hand,  she 
found  it  black  as  coal !  She  loudly  scolded  the 
old  Ferryman;  declared  that  her  hands  had 
always  been  the  fairest  part  of  her;  that  in 
spite  of  her  hard  work,  she  had  all  along  con- 
trived to  keep  these  noble  members  white  and 
dainty.  She  looked  at  the  hand  with  indig- 
nation, and  exclaimed  in  a  despairing  tone: 
"  Worse  and  worse !  Look,  it  is  vanishing  en- 
tirely: it  is  grown  far  smaller  than  the  other." 

"For  the  present  it  but  seems  so,"  said  the 
old  man;  "if  you  do  not  keep  your  word,  how- 
ever, it  may  prove  so  in  earnest.  The  hand 
will  gradually  diminish,  and  at  length  disappear 
altogether,  though  you  have  the  use  of  it  as 
formerly.  Every  thing  as  usual  you  will  be 
able  to  perform  with  it,  only  nobody  will  see 
it." — "  I  had  rather  that  I  could  not  use  it,  and 
no  one  could  observe  the  want,"  cried  she ; 
"but  what  of  that,  I  will  keep  my  word,  and 
rid  myself  of  this  black  skin,  and  all  anxieties 
about  it."  Thereupon  she  hastily  took  up  her 
basket,  which  mounted  of  itself  over  her  head, 
and  hovered  free  above  her  in  the  air,  as  she 
hurried  after  the  Youth,  who  was  walking  softly 
and  thoughtfully  down  the  bank.  His  noble 
form  and  strange  dress  had  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  her. 

His  breast  was  covered  with  a  glittering  coat 
of  mail ;  in  whose  wavings  might  be  traced 
every  motion  of  his  fair  body.  From  his  shoul- 
ders hung  a  purple  cloak ;  around  his  uncovered 
head  flowed  abundant  brown  hair  in  beautiful 
locks:  his  graceful  face,  and  his  well-formed 
feet  were  exposed  to  the  scorching  of  the  sun. 
With  bare  soles,  he  walked  composedly  over 
the  hot  sand;  and  a  deep  inward  sorrow  seemed 
to  blunt  him  against  all  external  things. 

The  garrulous  old  Woman  tried  to  lead  him 
into  conversation;  but  with  his  short  answers 
he  gave  her  small  encouragement  or  informa- 
tion;  so  that  in  the  end,  notwithstanding  the 
beauty  of  his  eyes,  she  grew  tired  of  speaking 
with  him  to  no  purpose,  and  took  leave  of  him 
with  these  words  :  «  You  walk  too  slow  for  me, 


worthy  sir;  I  must  not  lose  a  moment,  for  I 
have  to  pass  the  River  on  the  green  Snake,  and 
carry  this  fine  present  from  my  husband  to  the 
fair  Lily."  So  saying  she  stept  faster  forward  ; 
but  the  fair  Youth  pushed  on  with  equal  speed, 
and  hastened  to  keep  up  with  her.  "  You  are 
going  to  the  fair  Lily!"  cried  he;  "then  our 
roads  are  the  same.  But  what  present  is  this 
you  are  bringing  her?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Woman,  "it  is  hardly  fair, 
after  so  briefly  dismissing  the  questions  I  put 
you,  to  inquire  with  such  vivacity  about  my 
secrets.  But  if  you  like  to  barter,  and  tell  me 
your  adventures,  I  will  not  conceal  from  you 
how  it  stands  with  me  and  my  presents."  They 
soon  made  a  bargain ;  the  dame  disclosed  her 
circumstances  to  him  ;  told  the  history  of  the 
Pug,  and  let  him  see  the  singular  gift. 

He  lifted  his  natural  curiosity  from  the  basket, 
and  took  Mops,  who  seemed  as  if  sleeping  softly, 
into  his  arms.  "Happy  beast!"  cried  he;  "thou 
wilt  be  touched  by  her  hands,  thou  wilt  be 
made  alive  by  her  ;  while  the  living  are  obliged 
to  fly  from  her  presence  to  escape  a  mournful 
doom.  Yet  why  say  I  mournful !  Is  it  not  far 
sadder  and  more  frightful  to  be  injured  by  her 
look,  than  it  would  be  to  die  by  her  hand  1  Be- 
hold me,"  said  he  to  the  Woman  ;  "at  my  years, 
what  a  miserable  fate  have  I  to  undergo.  This 
mail  which  I  have  honorably  borne  in  war,  this 
purple  which  I  sought  to  merit  by  a  wise  reign, 
Destiny  has  left  me ;  the  one  as  a  useless  bur- 
den, the  other  as  an  empty  ornament.  Crown, 
and  sceptre,  and  sword  are  gone  ;  and  I  am  as 
bare  and  needy  as  any  other  son  of  earth ;  for 
so  unblessed  are  her  bright  eyes,  that  they  take 
from  every  living  creature  they  look  on  all  its 
force,  and  those  whom  the  touch  of  her  hand 
does  not  kill  are  changed  to  the  state  of  shadows 
wandering  alive." 

Thus  did  he  continue  to  bewail,  nowise  con- 
tenting the  old  Woman's  curiosity,  who  wished 
for  information  not  so  much  of  his  internal  as 
of  his  external  situation.  She  learned  neither 
the  name  of  his  father,  nor  of  his  kingdom.  He 
stroked  the  hard  Mops,  whom  the  sunbeams 
and  the  bosom  of  the  youth  had  warmed  as  if 
he  had  been  living.  He  inquired  narrowly 
about  the  man  with  the  Lamp,  about  the  in- 
fluences of  the  sacred  light,  appearing  to  expect 
much  good  from  it  in  his  melancholy  case. 

Amid  such  conversation,  they  descried  from 
afar  the  majestic  arch  of  the  Bridge,  which  ex- 
tended from  the  one  bank  to  the  other,  glittering 
with  the  strangest  colors  in  the  splendors  of  the 
sun.  Both  were  astonished  ;  for  until  now  they 
had  never  seen  this  edifice  so  grand.  "  How  !" 
cried  the  Prince !  "  was  it  not  beautiful  enough, 
as  it  stood  before  our  eyes,  piled  out  of  jasper 
and  agate  ?  Shall  we  not  fear  to  tread  it,  now 
that  it  appears  combined,  in  graceful  complexity, 
of  emerald  and  chrysopras  and  chrysolite  V 
Neither  of  them  knew  the  alteration  that  had 
taken  place  upon  the  Snake  :  for  it  was  indeed 
the  Snake,  who  every  day  at  noon  curved  her- 


358 


GOETHE. 


self  over  the  River,  and  stood  forth  in  the  form 
of  a  bold-swelling  bridge.  The  travellers  stept 
upon  it  with  a  reverential  feeling,  and  passed 
over  it  in  silence. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
than  the  bridge  began  to  heave  and  stir;  in  a 
little  while,  it  touched  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  the  green  Snake  in  her  proper  form  came 
gliding  after  the  wanderers.  They  had  scarcely 
thanked  her  for  the  privilege  of  crossing  on  her 
back,  when  they  found  that,  besides  them  three, 
there  must  be  other  persons  in  the  company, 
whom  their  eyes  could  not  discern.  They  heard 
a  hissing,  which  the  Snake  also  answered  with 
a  hissing;  they  listened,  and  at  length  caught 
what  follows:  "We  shall  first  look  about  us  in 
the  fair  Lily's  Park,"  said  a  pair  of  alternating 
voices ;  "  and  then  request  you  at  nightfall,  so 
soon  as  we  are  anywise  presentable,  to  intro- 
duce us  to  this  paragon  of  beauty.  At  the  shore 
of  the  great  Lake,  you  will  find  us."  —  "Be  it 
so,"  replied  the  Snake ;  and  a  hissing  sound 
died  away  in  the  air. 

Our  three  travellers  now  consulted  in  what 
order  they  should  introduce  themselves  to  the 
fair  Lady  ;  for  however  many  people  might  be 
in  her  company,  they  were  obliged  to  enter  and 
depart  singly,  under  pain  of  suffering  very  hard 
severities. 

The  Woman  with  the  metamorphosed  Pug  in 
the  basket  first  approached  the  garden,  looking 
round  for  her  Patroness  ;  who  was  not  difficult 
to  find,  being  just  engaged  in  singing  to  her 
harp.  The  finest  tones  proceeded  from  her,  first 
like  circles  on  the  surface  of  the  still  lake,  then 
like  a  light  breath  they  set  the  grass  and  the 
bushes  in  motion.  In  a  green  enclosure,  under 
the  shadow  of  a  stately  group  of  many  diverse 
trees,  was  she  seated  ;  and  again  did  she  en- 
chant the  eyes,  the  ear,  and  the  heart  of  the 
woman,  who  approached  with  rapture,  and 
swore  within  herself  that  since  she  saw  her 
last,  the  fair  one  had  grown  fairer  than  ever. 
With  eager  gladness  from  a  distance  she  ex- 
pressed her  reverence  and  admiration  for  the 
lovely  maiden.  "What  a  happiness  to  see  you, 
what  a  Heaven  does  your  presence  spread 
around  you !  How  charmingly  the  harp  is  lean- 
ing on  your  bosom,  how  softly  your  arms  sur- 
round it,  how  it  seems  as  if  longing  to  be  near 
you,  and  how  it  sounds  so  meekly  under  the 
touch  of  your  slim  fingers  !  Thrice  happy  youth, 
to  whom  it  were  permitted  to  be  there!" 

So  speaking  she  approached ;  the  fair  Lily 
raised  her  eyes ;  let  her  hands  drop  from  the 
harp,  and  answered:  "Trouble  me  not  with 
untimely  praise  ;  I  feel  my  misery  but  the  more 
deeply.  Look  here,  at  my  feet  lies  the  poor 
Canary-bird,  which  used  so  beautifully  to  ac- 
company my  singing;  it  would  sit  upon  my 
harp,  and  was  trained  not  to  touch  me ;  but  to- 
day, while  I,  refreshed  by  sleep,  was  raising  a 
peaceful  morning  hymn,  and  my  little  singer 
was  pouring  forth  his  harmonious  tones  more 
gaily  than  ever,  a  Hawk  darts  over  my  head ; 


the  poor  little  creature,  in  affright,  takes  refuge 
in  my  bosom,  and  I  feel  the  last  palpitations  of 
its  departing  life.  The  plundering  Hawk  indeed 
was  caught  by  my  look,  and  fluttered  fainting 
down  into  the  water  ;  but  what  can  his  punish- 
ment avail  me?  my  darling  is  dead,  and  his 
grave  will  but  increase  the  mournful  bushes  of 
my  garden." 

"Take  courage,  fairest  Lily!"  cried  the  Wo- 
man, wiping  off  a  tear,  which  the  story  of  the 
hapless  maiden  had  called  into  her  eyes;  "com- 
pose yourself;  my  old  man  bids  me  tell  you  to 
moderate  your  lamenting,  to  look  upon  the 
greatest  misfortune  as  a  forerunner  of  the 
greatest  happiness,  for  the  time  is  at  hand; 
and  truly,"  continued  she,  "the  world  is  going 
strangely  on  of  late.  Do  but  look  at  my  hand, 
how  black  it  is!  As  I  live  and  breathe,  it  is 
grown  far  smaller:  I  must  hasten,  before  it 
vanish  altogether  !  Why  did  I  engage  to  do  the 
Will-o'-wisps  a  service,  why  did  I  meet  the 
Giant's  shadow,  and  dip  my  hand  in  the  River? 
Could  you  not  afford  me  a  single  cabbage,  an 
artichoke,  and  an  onion?  I  would  give  them 
to  the  River,  and  my  hand  were  white  as 
ever,  so  that  I  could  almost  show  it  with  one 
of  yours. 

"Cabbages  and  onions  thou  mayest  still  find: 
but  artichokes  thou  wilt  search  for  in  vain.  No 
plant  in  my  garden  bears  either  flowers  or  fruit; 
but  every  twig  that  I  break,  and  plant  upon  the 
grave  of  a  favorite,  grows  green  straightway, 
and  shoots  up  in  fair  boughs.  All  these  groups, 
these  bushes,  these  groves  my  hard  destiny  has 
so  raised  around  me.  These  pines  stretching 
out  like  parasols,  these  obelisks  of  cypresses, 
these  colossal  oaks  and  beeches,  were  all  little 
twigs  planted  by  my  hand,  as  mournful  me- 
morials in  a  soil  that  otherwise  is  barren." 

To  this  speech  the  old  Woman  had  paid  little 
heed ;  she  was  looking  at  her  hand,  which,  in 
presence  of  the  fair  Lily,  seemed  every  moment 
growing  blacker  and  smaller.  She  was  about 
to  snatch  her  basket  and  hasten  off,  when  she 
noticed  that  the  best  part  of  her  errand  had 
been  forgotten.  She  lifted  out  the  onyx  Pug, 
and  set  him  down,  not  far  from  the  fair  one,  in 
the  grass.  "  My  husband,"  said  she,  "  send-: 
you  this  memorial ;  you  know  that  you  can 
make  a  jewel  live  by  touching  it.  This  pretty 
faithful  dog  will  certainly  afford  you  much  en- 
joyment; and  my  grief  at  losing  him  is  bright- 
ened only  by  the  thought  that  he  will  be  in 
your  possession." 

The  fair  Lily  viewed  the  dainty  creature 
with  a  pleased,  and  as  it  seemed,  with  an  asto- 
nished look.  "Many  signs  combine,"  said  she, 
"  that  breathe  some  hope  into  me  :  but  ah  !  is  it 
not  a  natural  deception  which  makes  us  fane}', 
when  misfortunes  crowd  upon  us,  that  a  better 
day  is  near? 

■  What  can  these  many  signs  avail  me 

My  Singer's  Death,  thy  coal-black  Hand  ? 
This  Dog  of  Onyx,  that  can  never  fail  me  ? 
And  coming  at  the  Lamp's  command ! 


GOETHE. 


359 


•  From  human  joys  removed  forever, 

With  sorrows  compassed  round  1  sit : 
Is  there  a  Temple  at  the  River? 
Is  there  a  Bridge  T   Alas,  not  yet !'  " 

The  good  old  dame  had  listened  with  impa- 
tience to  this  singing,  which  the  fair  Lily  ac- 
companied with  her  harp,  in  a  way  that  would 
have  charmed  any  other.  She  was  on  the  point 
of  taking  leave,  when  the  arrival  of  the  green 
Snake  again  detained  her.  The  Snake  had 
caught  the  last  lines  of  the  song,  and  on  this 
matter  forthwith  began  to  speak  comfort  to  the 
fair  Lily. 

"The  Prophecy  of  the  Bridge  is  fulfilled!" 
cried  the  Snake :  "  you  may  ask  this  worthy 
dame  how  royally  the  arch  looks  now.  What 
formerly  was  untransparent  jasper,  or  agate, 
allowing  but  a  gleam  of  light  to  pass  about  its 
edges,  is  now  become  transparent  precious 
stone.  No  beryl  is  so  clear,  no  emerald  so 
beautiful  of  hue." 

"I  wish  you  joy  of  it,"  said  Lily,  "but  you 
will  pardon  me  if  I  regard  the  prophecy  as  yet 
unaccomplished.  The  lofty  arch  of  your  bridge 
can  still  but  admit  foot-passengers;  and  it  is 
promised  us  that  horses  and  carriages  and  tra- 
vellers of  every  sort  shall,  at  the  same  moment, 
cross  this  bridge  in  both  directions.  Is  there 
not  something  said,  too,  about  pillars,  which  are 
to  arise  of  themselves  from  the  waters  of  the 
River?" 

The  old  Woman  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
her  hand ;  she  here  interrupted  their  dialogue, 
and  was  taking  leave.  "  Wait  a  moment,"  said 
the  fair  Lily,  "  and  carry  my  little  bird  with 
you.  Bid  the  Lamp  change  it  into  topaz ;  I  will 
enliven  it  by  my  touch  ;  with  your  good  Mops 
it  shall  form  my  dearest  pastime  :  but  hasten, 
hasten ;  for,  at  sunset,  intolerable  putrefaction 
will  fasten  on  the  hapless  bird,  and  tear  asunder 
the  fair  combination  of  its  form  forever." 

The  old  Woman  laid  the  little  corpse,  wrapped 
in  soft  leaves,  into  her  basket,  and  hastened 
away. 

-However  it  may  be,"  said  the  Snake,  re- 
commencing their  interrupted  dialogue,  "the 
Temple  is  built." 

"  But  it  is  not  at  the  River,"  said  the  fair  one. 

"  It  is  yet  resting  in  the  depths  of  the  Earth," 
said  the  Snake ;  "  I  have  seen  the  Kings  and 
conversed  with  them." 

"But  when  will  they  arise?"  inquired  Lily. 

The  Snake  replied :  "  I  heard  resounding  in 
the  Temple  these  deep  words,  The  time  is  at 
hand.'' 

A  pleasing  cheerfulness  spread  over  the  fair 
Lily's  face :  "  :T  is  the  second  time,"  said  she, 
u  that  I  have  heard  these  happy  words  to-day  : 
when  will  the  day  come  for  me  to  hear  them 
thrice  ?" 

She  rose,  and  immediately  there  came  a 
lovely  maiden  from  the  grove,  and  took  away 
her  harp.  Another  followed  her,  and  folded 
up  the  fine-carved  ivory  stool,  on  which  the  fair 
one  had  been  sitting,  and  put  the  silvery  cushion 


under  her  arm.  A  third  then  made  her  ap- 
pearance, with  a  large  parasol  worked  with 
pearls;  and  looked  whether  Lily  would  require 
her  in  walking.  These  three  maidens  were 
beyond  expression  beautiful ;  and  yet  their 
beauty  but  exalted  that  of  Lily,  for  it  was  plain 
to  every  one  that  they  could  never  be  compared 
to  her. 

Meanwhile  the  fair  one  had  been  looking, 
with  a  satisfied  aspect,  at  the  strange  onyx 
Mops.  She  bent  down,  and  touched  him,  and 
that  instant  he  started  up.  Gaily  he  looked 
around,  ran  hither  and  thither,  and  at  last,  in 
his  kindest  manner,  hastened  to  salute  his  bene- 
factress. She  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  pressed 
him  to  her.  "  Cold  as  thou  art,"  cried  she,  "  and 
though  but  a  half-life  works  in  thee,  thou  art 
welcome  to  me ;  tenderly  will  I  love  thee,  pret- 
tily will  I  play  with  thee,  softly  caress  thee,  and 
firmly  press  thee  to  my  bosom."  She  then  let 
him  go,  chased  him  from  her,  called  him  back, 
and  played  so  daintily  with  him,  and  ran  about 
so  gaily  and  so  innocently  with  him  on  the 
grass,  that  with  new  rapture  you  viewed  and 
participated  in  her  joy,  as  a  little  while  ago  her 
sorrow  had  attuned  every  heart  to  sympathy. 

This  cheerfulness,  these  graceful  sports  were 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  woful  Youth. 
He  stepped  forward,  in  his  former  guise  and 
aspect;  save  that  the  heat  of  the  day  appeared 
to  have  fatigued  him  still  more,  and  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  mistress  he  grew  paler  every  mo- 
ment. He  bore  upon  his  hand  a  Hawk,  which 
was  sitting  quiet  as  a  dove,  with  its  body  shrunk 
and  its  wings  drooping. 

u  It  is  not  kind  in  thee,"  cried  Lily  to  him, 
"to  bring  that  hateful  thing  before  my  eyes,  the 
monster,  which  to-day  has  killed  my  little 
singer." 

"  Blame  not  the  unhappy  bird  !"  replied  the 
Youth;  "rather  blame  thyself  and  thy  destiny; 
and  leave  me  to  keep  beside  me  the  companion 
of  my  wo." 

Meanwhile  Mops  ceased  not  teasing  the  fair 
Lily;  and  she  replied  to  her  transparent  favor- 
ite, with  friendly  gestures.  She  clapped  her 
hands  to  scare  him  off ;  then  ran,  to  entice  him 
after  her.  She  tried  to  get  him  when  he  fled, 
and  she  chased  him  away  when  he  attempted 
to  press  near  her.  The  Youth  looked  on  in  si- 
lence, with  increasing  anger ;  but  at  last,  when 
she  took  the  odious  beast,  which  seemed  to  him 
unutterably  ugly,  on  her  arm,  pressed  it  to  her 
white  bosom,  and  kissed  its  black  snout  with 
her  heavenly  lips,  his  patience  altogether  failed 
him,  and  full  of  desperation  he  exclaimed : 
"Must  I,  who  by  a  baleful  fate  exist  beside  thee, 
perhaps  to  the  end,  in  an  absent  presence,  who 
by  thee  have  lost  my  all,  my  very  self,  must  I 
see  before  my  eyes,  that  so  unnatural  a  monster 
can  charm  thee  into  gladness,  can  awaken  thy 
attachment,  and  enjoy  thy  embrace  ?  Shall  I 
any  longer  keep  wandering  to  and  fro,  measur- 
ing my  dreary  course  to  that  side  of  the  River 
and  to  this  1    No,  there  is  still  a  spark  of  the 


300 


GOETHE. 


old  heroic  spirit  sleeping  in  my  bosom  ;  let  it 
start  this  instant  into  its  expiring  flame!  If 
stones  may  rest  in  thy  bosom,  let  me  be  changed 
to  stone ;  if  thy  touch  kills,  I  will  die  by  thy 
hands." 

So  saying  he  made  a  violent  movement;  the 
Hawk  flew  from  his  finger,  but  lie  himself 
rushed  towards  the  fair  one ;  she  held  out  her 
hands  to  keep  him  off,  and  touched  him  only 
the  sooner.  Consciousness  forsook  him ;  and 
she  felt  with  horror  the  beloved  burden  lying 
on  her  bosom.  With  a  shriek  she  started  back, 
and  the  gentle  youth  sank  lifeless  from  her  arms 
upon  the  ground. 

The  misery  had  happened!  The  sweet  Lily 
stood  motionless,  gazing  on  the  corpse.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  pause  in  her  bosom  ;  and  her 
eyes  were  without  tears.  In  vain  did  Mops 
try  to  gain  from  her  any  kindly  gesture;  with 
her  friend,  the  world  for  her  was  all  dead  as 
the  grave.  Her  silent  despair  did  not  look  round 
for  help;  she  knew  not  of  any  help. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Snake  bestirred  her- 
self the  more  actively;  she  seemed  to  meditate 
deliverance  ;  and  in  fact  her  strange  movements 
served  at  last  to  keep  away,  for  a  little,  the  im- 
mediate consequences  of  the  mischief.  With 
her  limber  body,  she  formed  a  wide  circle  round 
the  corpse,  and  seizing  the  end  of  her  tail  be- 
tween her  teeth,  she  lay  quite  still. 

Ere  long  one  of  Lily's  fair  waiting-maids  ap- 
peared ;  brought  the  ivory  folding-stool,  and 
with  friendly  beckoning  constrained  her  mistress 
to  sit  down  on  it.  Soon  afterwards  there  came 
a  second ;  she  had  in  her  hand  a  fire-colored 
veil,  with  which  she  rather  decorated  than  con- 
cealed the  fair  Lily's  head.  The  third  handed 
her  the  harp,  and  scarcely  had  she  drawn  the 
gorgeous  instrument  towards  her,  and  struck 
some  tones  from  its  strings,  when  the  first  maid 
returned  with  a  clear  round  mirror;  took  her 
station  opposite  the  fair  one ;  caught  her  looks 
in  the  glass,  and  threw  back  to  her  the  loveliest 
image  that  was  to  be  found  in  nature.  Sorrow 
heightened  her  beauty,  the  veil  her  charms,  the 
harp  her  grace  ;  and  deeply  as  you  wished  to 
see  her  mournful  situation  altered,  not  less 
deeply  did  you  wish  to  keep  her  image,  as  she 
now  looked,  forever  present  with  you. 

With  a  still  look  at  the  mirror,  she  touched 
the  harp  ;  now  melting  tones  proceeded  from 
the  strings,  now  her  pain  seemed  to  mount,  and 
the  music  in  strong  notes  responded  to  her  wo; 
sometimes  she  opened  her  lips  to  sing,  but  her 
voice  failed  her  ;  and  ere  long  her  sorrow  melted 
into  tears,  two  maidens  caught  her  helpfully  in 
their  arms,  the  harp  sank  from  her  bosom, 
scarcely  could  the  quick  servant  snatch  the  in- 
strument and  carry  it  aside. 

Who  gets  us  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  before 
the  sun  set?"  hissed  the  Snake,  faintly,  but  au- 
dibly: the  maids  looked  at  one  another,  and 
Lily's  tears  fell  faster.  At  this  moment  came 
the  Woman  with  the  Basket,  panting  and  alto- 
gether breathless.    »  I  am  lost,  and  maimed  for 


life!''  cried  she:  "see  how  my  hand  is  almost 
I  vanished  ;  neither  Ferryman  nor  Giant  would 
!  take  me  over,  because  I  am  the  River's  debtor- 
in  vain  did  I  promise  hundreds  of  Cabbages  I 
and  hundreds  of  Onions  ;  they  will  take  no  more 
than  three  ;  and  no  Artichoke  is  now  to  be  found 
in  all  this  quarter. 

-  Forget  your  own  care,"  said  the  Snake,  "and 
try  to  bring  help  here :  perhaps  it  may  come  to 
yourself  also.  Haste  with  your  utmost  speed 
to  seek  the  Will-o'-wisps ;  it  is  too  light  for  you 
to  see  them,  but  perhaps  you  will  hear  them 
laughing  and  hopping  to  and  fro.  If  they  he 
speedy,  they  may  cross  upon  the  Giant's  sha- 
dow, and  seek  the  Man  with  the  Lamp  and 
send  him  to  us." 

The  Woman  hurried  off  at  her  quickest  pace, 
and  the  Snake  seemed  expecting  as  impatiently 
as  Lily  the  return  of  the  Flames.  Alas !  the 
beam  of  the  sinking  Sun  was  already  gilding 
only  the  highest  summits  of  the  trees,  in  the 
thicket,  and  long  shadows  were  stretching  over 
lake  and  meadow  ;  the  Snake  hitched  up  and 
down  impatiently,  and  Lily  dissolved  in  tears. 

In  this  extreme  need,  the  Snake  kept  looking 
round  on  all  sides ;  for  she  was  afraid  every 
moment  that  the  Sun  would  set,  and  corruption 
i  penetrate  the  magic  circle,  and  the  fair  youth 
immediately  moulder  away.  At  last  she  noticed 
sailing  high  in  the  air,  with  purple-red  feathers, 
I  the  Prince's  Hawk,  whose  breast  was  catching 
I  the  last  beams  of  the  Sun.    She  shook  herself  I 
I  for  joy  at  this  good  omen  ;  nor  was  she  deceived : 
j  for  shortly  afterwards  the  Man  with  the  Lamp 
was  seen  gliding  towards  them  across  the  Lake, 
fast  and  smoothly,  as  if  he  had  been  travelling 
on  skates. 

The  Snake  did  not  change  her  posture ;  but 
Lily  rose  and  called  to  him  :  ••  What  good  spirit 
sends  thee,  at  the  moment  when  we  were  de- 
siring thee,  and  needing  thee,  so  much?" 

"  The  spirit  of  my  Lamp,"  replied  the  Man, 
"has  impelled  me,  and  the  Hawk  has  conducted 
me.  My  Lamp  sparkles  when  I  am  needed, 
and  I  just  look  about  me  in  the  sky  for  a  signal ; 
some  bird  or  meteor  points  to  the  quarter  to- 
wards which  I  am  to  turn.  Be  calm,  fairest 
Maiden!  whether  I  can  help  I  know  not:  an 
individual  helps  not,  but  he  who  combines  him- 

!  self  with  many  at  the  proper  hour.  We  will 
postpone  the  evil,  and  keep  hoping.  Hold  thy 
circle  fast,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  Snake; 
then  set  himself  upon  a  hillock  beside  her,  and 
illuminated  the  dead  body.  "Bring  the  little 
Bird  hidier  too,  and  lay  it  in  the  circle  !';  The 
maidens  took  the  little  corpse  frorr.  the  basket, 

i  which  the  old  Woman  had  left  standing,  and 
did  as  he  directed. 

Meanwhile  the  Sun  had  set,  and  as  the  dark- 
ness increased,  not  only  the  Snake  and  the  old 
Man's  Lamp  began  shining  in  their  fashion,  but 
also  Lily's  veil  gave  out  a  soft  light,  which 
gracefully  tinged,  as  with  a  meek  dawning  red, 

!  her  pale  cheeks,  and  her  white  robe.  The 
party  looked  at  one  another,  silently  reflecting; 


GOETHE. 


361 


care  and  sorrow  were  mitigated  by  a  sure 
hope. 

It  was  no  unpleasing  entrance,  therefore,  that 
i    the  woman  made,  attended  by  the  two  gay 
Flames,  which  in  truth  appeared  to  have  been 
,    very  lavish  in  the  interim,  for  they  had  again 
'    become  extremely  meager ;  yet  they  only  bore 
,    themselves  the  more  prettily  for  that,  towards 
Lily  and  the  other  ladies.    With  great  tact,  and 
expressiveness,  they  said  a  multitude  of  rather 
common  things  to  these  fair  persons ;  and  de- 
clared themselves  particularly  ravished  by  the 
charm  which  the  gleaming  veil  spread  over 
Lily  and  her  attendant.    The  ladies  modestly 
cast  down  their  eyes,  and  the  praise  of  their 
!    beauty  made  them  really  beautiful.    All  were 
peaceful  and  calm,  except  the  old  Woman.  In 
spite  of  the  assurance  of  her  husband,  that  her 
hand  could  diminish  no  farther,  while  the  Lamp 
shone  on  it,  she  asserted  more  than  once,  that 
if  things  went  on  thus,  before  midnight  this 
noble  member  would  have  utterly  vanished. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  the  conversation  of  the  Lights;  and 
was  gratified  that  Lily  had  been  cheered,  in 
some  measure,  and  amused  by  it.  And,  in  truth, 
midnight  had  arrived  they  knew  not  how.  The 
old  Man  looked  to  the  stars,  and  then  began 
speaking  :  "  We  are  assembled  at  the  propitious 
j  hour ;  let  each  perform  his  task,  let  each  do  his 
duty;  and  a  universal  happiness  will  swallow 
up  our  individual  sorrows,  as  a  universal  grief 
consumes  individual  joys." 

At  these  words  arose  a  wondrous  hubbub ; 
for  all  the  persons  in  the  party  spoke  aloud, 
each  for  himself,  declaring  what  they  had  to 
do ;  only  the  three  maids  were  silent ;  one  of 
them  had  fallen  asleep  beside  the  harp,  another 
near  the  parasol,  the  third  by  the  stool ;  and  you 
could  not  blame  them  much,  for  it  was  late. 
The  Fiery  youths,  after  some  passing  compli- 
ments which  they  devoted  to  the  waiting-maids, 
had  turned  their  sole  attention  to  the  Princess, 
as  alone  worthy  of  exclusive  homage. 

"  Take  the  mirror,"  said  the  Man  to  the  Hawk ; 
"and  with  the  first  sunbeam  illuminate  the 
three  sleepers,  and  awake  them,  with  light  re- 
flected from  above." 

The  Snake  now  began  to  move  ;  she  loosened 
her  circle,  and  rolled  slowly,  in  large  rings,  for- 
ward to  the  River.    The  two  Will-o'-wisps  fol- 
lowed with  a  solemn  air ;  you  would  have  taken 
them  for  the  most  serious  Flames  in  nature. 
The  old  Woman  and  her  husband  seized  the 
Basket,  whose  mild  light  they  had  scarcely  ob- 
served till  now  ;  they  lifted  it  at  both  sides,  and 
it  grew  still  larger  and  more  luminous ;  they 
lifted  the  body  of  the  Youth  into  it,  laying  the 
Canary-bird  upon  his  breast;  the  Basket  rose 
into  the  air  and  hovered  above  the  old  Woman's 
j   head,  and  she  followed  the  Will-o'-wisps  on 
i   foot.    The  fair  Lily  took  Mops  on  her  arm,  and 
:   followed  the  Woman ;  the  Man  with  the  Lamp 
i   concluded  the  procession,  and  the  scene  was 
curiously  illuminated  by  these  many  lights. 
2  v 


But  it  was  with  no  small  wonder  that  the 
party  saw,  when  they  approached  the  River,  a 
glorious  arch  mount  over  it,  by  which  the  help- 
ful Snake  was  aflbrding  them  a  glittering  path. 
If  by  day  they  had  admired  the  beautiful  trans- 
parent precious  stones,  of  which  the  Bridge 
seemed  formed  ;  by  night  they  were  astonished 
at  its  gleaming  brilliancy.  On  the  upper  side 
the  clear  circle  marked  itself  sharp  against  the 
dark  sky,  but  below,  vivid  beams  were  darting 
to  the  centre,  and  exhibiting  the  airy  firmness 
of  the  edifice.  The  procession  slowly  moved 
across  it ;  and  the  Ferryman  who  saw  it  from 
his  hut  afar  off,  considered  with  astonishment 
the  gleaming  circle,  and  the  strange  lights  which 
were  passing  over  it. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
than  the  arch  began,  in  its  usual  way,  to  swag 
up  and  down,  and  with  a  wavy  motion  to  ap- 
proach the  water.  The  Snake  then  came  on 
land,  the  Basket  placed  itself  upon  the  ground, 
and  the  Snake  again  drew  her  circle  round  it. 
The  old  Man  stooped  towards  her,  and  said  : 
"What  hast  thou  resolved  on?" 

"To  sacrifice  myself  rather  than  be  sacri- 
ficed," replied  the  Snake ;  "  promise  me  that 
thou  wilt  leave  no  stone  on  shore." 

The  old  Man  promised ;  then  addressing 
Lily:  "Touch  the  Snake,"  said  he,  "with  thy 
left  hand,  and  thy  lover  with  thy  right."  Lily 
knelt,  and  touched  the  Snake,  and  the  Prince's 
body.  The  latter  in  the  instant  seemed  to  come 
to  life  ;  he  moved  in  the  basket,  nay,  he  raised 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture ;  Lily  was  about 
to  clasp  him  ;  but  the  old  Man  held  her  back, 
and  himself  assisted  the  youth  to  rise,  and  led 
him  forth  from  the  Basket  and  the  circle. 

The  Prince  was  standing;  the  Canary-bird 
was  fluttering  on  his  shoulder  ;  there  was  life 
again  in  both  of  them,  but  the  spirit  had  not 
yet  returned;  the  fair  youth's  eyes  were  open, 
yet  he  did  not  see,  at  least  he  seemed  to  look 
on  all  without  participation.  Scarcely  had  their 
admiration  of  this  incident  a  little  calmed,  when 
they  observed  how  strangely  it  had  fared  in  the 
meanwhile  with  the  Snake.  Her  fair  taper 
body  had  crumbled  into  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  shining  jewels  ;  the  old  Woman  reach- 
ing at  her  Basket  had  chanced  to  come  against 
the  circle ;  and  of  the  shape  or  structure  of  the 
Snake  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  seen,  only 
a  bright  ring  of  luminous  jewels  was  lying  in 
the  grass. 

The  old  Man  forthwith  set  himself  to  gather 
the  stones  into  the  basket;  a  task  in  which  his 
wife  assisted  him.  They  next  carried  the 
Basket  to  an  elevated  point  on  the  bank  ;  and 
here  the  man  threw  its  whole  lading,  not  with- 
out contradiction  from  the  fair  one  and  his  wife, 
who  would  gladly  have  retained  some  part  of 
it,  down  into  the  River.  Like  gleaming  twink- 
ling stars  the  stones  floated  down  with  the 
waves;  and  you  could  not  say  whether  they 
lost  themselves  in  the  distance,  or  sank  to  die 
bottom. 

31 


3G2 


GOETHE. 


"  Gentlemen,"  said  he  with  the  Lamp,  in  a 
respectful  tone  to  the  Lights,  "I  will  now  show 
you  the  way,  and  open  you  the  passage ;  but 
you  will  do  us  an  essential  service,  if  you  please 
to  unbolt  the  door,  by  which  the  Sanctuary  must 
be  entered  at  present,  and  which  none  but  you 
can  unfasten." 

The  Lights  made  a  stately  bow  of  assent,  and 
kept  their  place.  The  old  Man  of  the  Lamp 
went  foremost  into  the  rock,  which  opened  at 
his  presence;  the  Youth  followed  him,  as  if 
mechanically;  silent  and  uncertain,  Lily  kept 
at  some  distance  from  him ;  the  old  Woman 
would  not  be  left,  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
that  the  light  of  her  husband's  Lamp  might  still 
fall  upon  it.  The  rear  was  closed  by  the  two 
Will-o'-wisps,  who  bent  the  peaks  of  their  flames 
towards  one  another,  and  appeared  to  be  en- 
gaged in  conversation. 

They  had  not  gone  far  till  the  procession 
halted  in  front  of  a  large  brazen  door,  the  leaves 
of  which  were  bolted  with  a  golden  lock.  The 
Man  now  called  upon  the  Lights  to  advance ; 
who  required  small  entreaty,  and  with  their 
pointed  flames  soon  ate  both  bar  and  lock. 

The  brass  gave  a  loud  clang,  as  the  doors 
sprang  suddenly  asunder ;  and  the  stately  figures 
of  the  Kings  appeared  within  the  Sanctuary, 
illuminated  by  the  entering  Lights.  All  bowed 
before  these  dread  sovereigns,  especially  the 
Flames  made  a  profusion  of  the  daintiest 
reverences. 

After  a  pause,  the  gold  King  asked :  "  Whence 
come  ye?"  —  "From  the  world,"  said  the  old 
Man. — "  Whither  go  ye  ?"  said  the  silver  King. 
— •'  Into  the  world ;"  replied  the  Man. — "  What 
would  ye  with  us  ?"  cried  the  brazen  King. — 
*  Accompany  you,"  replied  the  Man. 

The  composite  King  was  about  to  speak, 
when  the  gold  one  addressed  the  Lights,  who 
had  got  too  near  him  :  "  Take  yourselves  away 
from  me,  my  metal  was  not  made  for  you." 
Thereupon  they  turned  to  the  silver  King,  and 
clasped  themselves  about  him ;  and  his  robe 
glittered  beautifully  in  their  yellow  brightness. 
"  You  are  welcome,"  said  he,  "  but  I  cannot  feed 
you  ;  satisfy  yourselves  elsewhere,  and  bring 
me  your  light."  They  removed  ;  and  gliding 
past  the  brazen  King  who  did  not  seem  to 
notice  them,  they  fixed  on  the  compounded 
King.  "  Who  will  govern  the  world?"  cried  he 
with  a  broken  voice.  —  "He  who  stands  upon 
his  feet,"  replied  the  old  Man.  —  "I  am  he," 
said  the  mixed  King. — "  We  shall  see,"  replied 
the  Man  :  "  for  the  time  is  at  hand.'" 

The  fair  Lily  fell  upon  the  old  Man's  neck, 
and  kissed  him  cordially.  "Holy  Sage  !"  cried 
she,  "a  thousand  times  I  thank  thee:  for  I  hear 
that  fateful  word  the  third  time."  She  had 
scarcely  spoken,  when  she  clasped  the  old  Man 
still  faster :  for  the  ground  began  to  move  be- 
neath them;  the  Youth  and  the  old  Woman 
also  held  by  one  another ;  the  Lights  alone  did 
not  regard  it. 

You  could  feel  plainly  that  the  whole  Tem- 


ple was  in  motion;  as  a  ship  that  softly  glides  I 
away  from  the  harbor,  when  her  anchors  are  j 
lifted  ;  the  depths  of  the  Earth  seemed  to  open 
for  the  Building  as  it  went  along.    It  struck  on 
nothing ;  no  rock  came  in  its  way. 

For  a  few  instants,  a  small  rain  seemed  to  i 
drizzle  from  the  opening  of  the  dome ;  the  old 
Man  held  the  fair  Lily  fast,  and  said  to  her: 
"  We  are  now  beneath  the  River  ;  we  shall  soon 
be  at  the  mark."  Ere  long  they  thought  the 
Temple  made  a  halt ;  but  they  were  in  an  error : 
it  was  mounting  upwards. 

And  now  a  strange  uproar  rose  above  their  I 
heads.    Planks  and  beams  in  disordered  com- 
bination now  came  pressing  and  crashing  in,  at  i 
the  opening  of  the  dome.    Lily  and  the  Woman 
started  to  a  side;  the  Man  with  the  Lamp  laid  | 
hold  of  the  Youth,  and  kept  standing  still.  The  j 
little  cottage  of  the  Ferryman,  for  it  was  this 
which  the  Temple  in  ascending  had  severed 
from  the  ground  and  carried  up  with  it,  sank 
gradually  down,  and  covered  the  old  Man  and 
the  Youth. 

The  women  screamed  aloud,  and  the  Tem- 
ple shook,  like  a  ship  running  unexpectedly 
aground.  In  sorrowful  perplexity,  the  Princess 
and  her  old  attendant  wandered  round  the  cot- 
tage in  the  dawn  ;  the  door  was  bolted,  and  to 
iheir  knocking,  no  one  answered.  They  knock 
ed  more  loudly,  and  were  not  a  little  struck, 
when  at  length  the  wood  began  to  ring.  By 
virtue  of  the  Lamp  locked  up  in  it,  the  hut  had 
been  converted  from  the  inside  to  the  outside 
into  solid  silver.  Ere  long  too  its  form  changed: 
for  the  noble  metal  shook  aside  the  accidental 
shapes  of  planks,  posts,  and  beams,  and  stretch- 
ed itself  out  into  a  noble  case  of  beaten  orna- 
mented workmanship.  Thus  a  fair  little  tem- 
ple stood  erected  in  the  middle  of  the  large 
one ;  or  if  you  will,  an  Altar  worthy  of  tne 
Temple. 

By  a  stair  which  ascended  from  within,  the 
noble  Youth  now  mounted  aloft,  lighted  by  the 
old  man  with  the  Lamp  ;  and,  as  it  seemed, 
supported  by  another,  who  advanced  in  a  white 
short  robe,  with  a  silver  rudder  in  his  hand; 
and  was  soon  recognised  as  the  Ferryman,  the 
former  possessor  of  the  cottage. 

The  fair  Lily  mounted  the  outer  steps,  which 
led  from  the  floor  of  the  Temple  to  the  Altar; 
but  she  was  still  obliged  to  keep  herself  apart 
from  her  Lover.  The  old  Woman,  whose  hand 
in  the  absence  of  the  Lamp  had  grown  stiil 
smaller,  cried  :  "Am  I  then  to  be  unhappy  after 
all?  Among  so  many  miracles,  can  there  he 
nothing  done  to  save  my  hand  ?"  Pier  husbanU 
pointed  to  the  open  door,  and  said  to  her  :  "  N  : 
the  day  is  breaking;  haste,  bathe  thyself  in  the 
River."  —  "What  an  advice!"  cried  she:  "it 
will  make  me  all  black :  it  will  make  me  vanish 
altogether  :  for  my  debt  is  not  yet  paid."  "  Go," 
said  the  man,  "and  do  as  I  advise  thee;  a!) 
debts  are  now  paid." 

The  old  Woman  hastened  away;  and  at  that 
moment  appeared  the  rising  sun,  upon  the  rim 


GOETHE. 


363 


of  the  dome.  The  old  Man  stept  between  the 
Virgin  and  the  Youth,  and  cried  with  a  loud 
voice:  "There  are  three  which  have  rule  on 
Earth;  Wisdom,  Appearance,  and  Strength." 
At  the  first  word,  the  gold  King  rose  ;  at  the 

,  second,  the  silver  one;  and  at  the  third,  the 
brass  King  slowly  rose ;  while  the  mixed  King 
on  a  sudden  very  awkwardly  plumped  down. 

Whoever  noticed  him  could  scarcely  keep 
from  laughing,  solemn  as  the  moment  was:  for 
he  was  not  sitting,  he  was  not  lying,  he  was 
not  leaning,  but  shapelessly  sunk  together. 

The  Lights,  who  till  now  had  been  employed 
upon  him,  drew  to  a  side  ;  they  appeared,  al- 
though pale  in  the  morning  radiance,  yet  once 
more  well-fed,  and  in  good  burning  condition ; 
with  their  peaked  tongues,  they  had  dexterously 
licked  out  the  gold  veins  of  the  colossal  figure 
to  its  very  heart.  The  irregular  vacuities  which 
this  occasioned  had  continued  empty  for  a  time, 
and  the  figure  had  maintained  its  standing  pos- 
ture. But  when  at  last  the  very  tenderest  fila- 
ments were  eaten  out,  the  image  crashed  sud- 
denly together ;  and  that,  alas,  in  the  very  parts 
which  continue  unaltered  when  one  sits  down; 
whereas  the  limbs,  which  should  have  bent, 
sprawled  themselves  out  unbowed  and  stiff. 
Whoever  could  not  laugh  was  obliged  to  turn 
away  his  eyes ;  this  miserable  shape  and  no- 

t    shape  was  offensive  to  behold. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  now  led  the  hand- 
some Youth,  who  still  kept  gazing  vacantly 
beibre  him,  down  from  the  altar,  and  straight 
to  the  brazen  King.  At  the  feet  of  this  mighty 
Potentate,  lay  a  sword  in  a  brazen  sheath.  The 
young  man  girt  it  round  him.  "  The  sword  on 
the  left,  the  right  free  !"  cried  the  brazen  voice. 
They  next  proceeded  to  the  silver  King;  he 
bent  his  sceptre  to  the  youth  ;  the  latter  seized 
it  with  his  left  hand,  and  the  King  in  a  pleasing 
voice,  said  :  "  Feed  the  sheep  !:'  On  turning  to 
the  golden  King,  he  stooped  with  gestures  of 
paternal  blessing,  and  pressing  his  oaken  gar- 
land on  the  young  man's  head,  said :  "  Under- 
stand what  is  highest!" 

During  this  progress,  the  old  Man  had  care- 
fully observed  the  Prince.  After  girding  on  the 
sword,  his  breast  swelled,  his  arms  waved,  and 
his  feet  trod  firmer ;  when  he  took  the  sceptre 
in  his  hand,  his  strength  appeared  to  soften,  and 
by  an  unspeakable  charm  to  become  still  more 
subduing;  but  as  the  oaken  garland  came  to 
deck  his  hair,  his  features  kindled,  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  inexpressible  spirit,  and  the  first 
word  of  his  mouth  was  "  Lily!" 

'•Dearest  Lily!"  cried  he,  hastening  up  the 
silver  stairs  to  her,  for  she  had  viewed  his  pro- 
gress from  the  pinnacle  of  the  altar;  "Dearest 
Lily!  what  more  precious  can  a  man,  equipt 
with  all,  desire  for  himself  than  innocence  and 
the  still  ailection  which  thy  bosom  brings  me  ? 
0  my  friend!"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  old 
Man,  and  looking  at  the  three  statues;  "glorious 
and  secure  is  the  kingdom  of  our  fathers ;  but 
thou  hast  forgotten  the  fourth  power,  which 


rules  the  world,  earlier,  more  universally,  more 
certainly,  the  power  of  Love."  With  these 
words,  he  fell  upon  the  lovely  maiden's  neck; 
she  had  cast  away  her  veil,  and  her  cheeks 
were  tinged  with  the  fairest,  most  imperishable 
red. 

Here  the  old  Man  said,  with  a  smile:  "Love 
does  not  rule;  but  it  trains,  and  that  is  more." 

Amid  this  solemnity,  this  happiness  and  rap- 
ture, no  one  had  observed  that  it  was  now  broad 
day;  and  all  at  once,  on  looking  through  the 
open  portal,  a  crowd  of  altogether  unexpected 
objects  met  the  eye.  A  large  space  surrounded 
with  pillars  formed  the  fore-court,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  seen  a  broad  and  stately  Bridge 
stretching  with  many  arches  across  the  River. 
It  was  furnished,  on  both  sides,  with  commodi- 
ous and  magnificent  colonnades  for  foot-travel- 
lers, many  thousands  of  whom  were  already 
there,  busily  passing  this  way  or  that.  The 
broad  pavement  in  the  centre  was  thronged 
with  herds  and  mules,  with  horsemen  and  car- 
riages, flowing  like  two  streams,  on  their  several 
sides,  and  neither  interrupting  the  other.  All 
admired  the  splendor  and  convenience  of  the 
structure  ;  and  the  new  King  and  his  Spouse 
were  delighted  with  the  motion  and  activity  of 
this  great  people,  as  they  were  already  happy 
in  their  own  mutual  love. 

"Remember  the  Snake  in  honor,"  said  the 
man  with  the  Lamp  ;  "  thou  owest  her  thy  life, 
thy  people  owe  her  the  Bridge,  by  which  these 
neighboring  banks  are  now  animated  and  com- 
bined into  one  land.  Those  swimming  and 
shining  jewels,  the  remains  of  her  sacrificed 
body,  are  the  piers  of  this  royal  bridge ;  upon 
these  she  has  built  and  will  maintain  herself." 

The  party  were  about  to  ask  some  explana- 
tion of  this  strange  mystery,  when  there  entered 
four  lovely  maidens  at  the  portal  of  the  Temple. 
By  the  Harp,  the  Parasol,  and  the  folding  Stool, 
it  was  not  difficult  to  recognise  the  waiting- 
maids  of  Lily;  but  the  fourth,  more  beautiful 
than  any  of  the  rest,  was  an  unknown  fair  one, 
and  in  sisterly  sportfulness  she  hastened  with 
them  through  the  Temple,  and  mounted  the 
steps  of  the  Altar. 

"  Wilt  thou  have  better  trust  in  me  another 
time,  good  wife  ?"  said  the  man  with  the  Lamp 
to  the  fair  one:  "Well  for  thee,  and  every  living 
thing  that  bathes  this  morning  in  the  River!" 

The  renewed  and  beautified  old  Woman,  of 
whose  former  shape  no  trace  remained,  em- 
braced with  young  eager  arms  the  man  with 
the  Lamp,  who  kindly  received  her  caresses. 
"If  I  am  too  old  for  thee,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"  thou  mayest  choose  another  husband  to-day ; 
from  this  hour  no  marriage  is  of  force,  which  is 
not  contracted  anew." 

"  Dost  thou  not  know,  then,"  answered  she, 
"that  thou  too  art  grown  younger !" —  "It  de- 
lights me  if  to  thy  young  eyes  I  seem  a  hand- 
some youth  :  I  take  thy  hand  anew,  and  am 
well  content  to  live  with  thee  another  thousand 
years." 


304 


GOETHE. 


The  Queen  welcomed  her  new  friend,  and 
went  down  with  her  into  the  interior  of  the 
altar,  while  the  King  stood  between  his  two 
men,  looking  towards  the  bridge,  and  atten- 
tively contemplating  the  busy  tumult  of  the 
people. 

But  his  satisfaction  did  not  last;  for  ere  long 
he  saw  an  object  which  excited  his  displeasure. 
The  great  Giant,  who  appeared  not  yet  to  have 
awoke  completely  from  his  morning  sleep,  came 
stumbling  along  the  Bridge,  producing  great 
confusion  all  around  him.  As  usual,  he  had 
risen  stupified  with  sleep,  and  had  meant  to 
bathe  in  the  well-known  bay  of  the  River:  in- 
stead of  which  he  found  firm  land,  and  plunged 
upon  the  broad  pavement  of  the  Bridge.  Yet 
although  he  reeled  into  the  midst  of  men  and 
cattle  in  the  clumsiest  way,  his  presence,  won- 
dered at  by  all,  was  felt  by  none;  but  as  the 
sunshine  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  raised  his 
hands  to  rub  them,  the  shadows  of  his  monstrous 
fists  moved  to  and  fro  behind  him  with  such 
force  and  awkwardness,  that  men  and  beasts 
were  heaped  together  in  great  masses,  were 
hurt  by  such  rude  contact,  and  in  danger  of  be- 
ing pitched  into  the  River. 

The  King,  as  he  saw  this  mischief,  grasped 
with  an  involuntary  movement  at  his  sword  ; 
but  he  bethought  himself,  and  looked  calmly  at 
his  sceptre,  then  at  the  Lamp  and  the  Rudder 
of  his  attendants.  "  I  guess  thy  thoughts,"  said 
the  man  with  the  Lamp ;  "  but  we  and  our  gifts 
are  powerless  against  this  powerless  monster. 
Be  calm !  He  is  doing  hurt  for  the  last  time,  and 
happily  his  shadow  is  not  turned  to  us." 

Meanwhile  the  Giant  was  approaching  nearer ; 
in  astonishment  at  what  he  saw  with  open  eyes, 
he  had  dropt  his  hands ;  he  was  now  doing  no 
injury,  and  came  staring  and  agape  into  the 
forecourt. 

He  was  walking  straight  to  the  door  of  the 
Temple,  when  all  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the 
court,  he  halted,  and  was  fixed  to  the  ground. 
He  stood  there  like  a  strong  colossal  statue,  of 
reddish  glittering  stone,  and  his  shadow  pointed 
out  the  hours,  which  were  marked  in  a  circle 
on  the  floor  around  him,  not  in  numbers,  but  in 
noble  and  expressive  emblems. 

Much  delighted  was  the  King  to  see  the 
monster's  shadow  turned  to  some  useful  pur- 
pose; much  astonished  was  the  Queen;  who, 
on  mounting  from  within  the  Altar,  decked  in 


royal  pomp  with  her  virgins,  first  noticed  the 
huge  figure,  which  almost  closed  the  prospect 
from  the  Temple  to  the  Bridge. 

Meanwhile  the  people  had  crowded  after  the 
Giant,  as  he  ceased  to  move ;  they  were  walk- 
ing round  him,  wondering  at  his  metamorphosis. 
From  him  they  turned  to  the  Temple,  which 
they  now  first  appeared  to  notice,  and  pressed 
towards  the  door. 

At  this  instant  the  Hawk  with  the  mirror 
soared  aloft  above  the  dome ;  caught  the  light 
of  the  sun,  and  reflected  it  upon  the  group, 
which  was  standing  on  the  altar.  The  Kii.g, 
the  Queen,  and  their  attendants,  in  the  dusky 
concave  of  the  Temple,  seemed  illuminated  by 
a  heavenly  splendor,  and  the  people  fell  upon 
their  faces.  When  the  crowd  had  recovered 
and  risen,  the  King  with  his  followers  had 
descended  into  the  Altar,  to  proceed  by  secret 
passages  into  his  palace ;  and  the  multitude 
dispersed  about  the  Temple  to  content  their 
curiosity.  The  three  Kings  that  were  standing 
erect  they  viewed  with  astonishment  and  re- 
verence; but  the  more  eager  were  they  to  dis- 
cover what  mass  it  could  be  that  was  hid  behind 
the  hangings,  in  the  fourth  niche ;  for  by  some 
hand  or  another,  charitable  decency  had  spread 
over  the  resting-place  of  the  Fallen  King  a 
gorgeous  curtain,  which  no  eye  can  penetrate, 
and  no  hand  may  dare  to  draw  aside. 

The  people  would  have  found  no  end  to  their 
gazing  and  their  admiration,  and  the  crowding 
multitude  would  have  even  suffocated  one  an- 
other in  the  Temple,  had  not  their  attention 
been  again  attracted  to  the  open  space. 

Unexpectedly  some  gold-pieces,  as  if  falling 
from  the  air,  came  tinkling  down  upon  the 
marble  flags ;  the  nearest  passers-by  rushed 
thither  to  pick  them  up ;  the  wonder  was  re- 
peated several  times,  now  here,  now  there.  It 
is  easy  to  conceive  that  the  shower  proceeded 
from  our  two  retiring  Flames,  who  wished  to 
have  a  little  sport  here  once  more,  and  were 
thus  gaily  spending,  ere  they  went  away,  the 
gold  which  they  had  licked  from  the  members 
of  the  sunken  King.  The  people  still  ran  eagerly 
about,  pressing  and  pulling  one  another,  even 
when  the  gold  had  ceased  to  fall.  At  length 
they  gradually  dispersed,  and  went  their  way; 
and  to  the  present  hour  the  Bridge  is  swarm- 
ing with  travellers,  and  the  Temple  is  the  most 
frequented  on  the  whole  Earth. 


PAINTED  BYA.ORAFF. 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER. 

Born  1759.   Died  1805. 


The  life  and  character  of  this  most  popular 
of  German  writers  have  been  made  familiar  to 
the  English  and  American  Public  by  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  excellent  biography,  republished  in  this 
country  several  years  since,  and  still  the  best, 
if  not  the  only  one,  in  the  English  language. 
It  has  the  credit  of  having  been  translated  into 
German  at  the  solicitation  of  his  late  Excel- 
lency, von  Goethe.  To  this  everywhere  acces- 
sible and  everywhere  satisfactory  work  the 
reader  is  referred  for  a  fuller  account  of  Schil- 
ler than  is  compatible  with  the  scope  of  the 
present  publication.  For  readers  of  German, 
there  is  Doring's  well-known  work,  and  later 
and  better,  Schiller's  Leben,  &c,  by  Frau  von 
Wolzogen,  sister-in-law  of  the  poet. 

A  very  brief  notice  must  suffice  for  these 
pages.  Schiller  was  a  native  of  Marburg,  in 
the  duchy  of  Wurtemberg.  His  father,  Johann 
Caspar  Schiller,  a  military  officer  in  the  service 
of  the  Duke,  was  piously  solicitous  to  procure 
for  his  son  the  best  education  which  his  cir- 
cumstances would  allow.  For  this  purpose  he 
was  first  placed  under  the  tuition  of  a  private 
instructer,  a  clergyman  by  the  name  of  Moser, 
and  afterward  sent  to  the  Latin  school  at  Lud- 
wigsburg.  It  was  the  wish  of  his  parents — 
and  his  own  choice,  as  he  ripened  toward  man- 
hood, coincided  with  theirs  —  that  he  should 
become  a  divine ;  but  the  offer  of  the  Duke  and 
the  preference  shown  to  the  sons  of  military 
officers  at  the  new  seminary  established  by  him 
at  Stuttgard,  induced  them  to  place  him  at  that 
institution,  where  his  studies  assumed  a  dif- 
ferent direction,  and  where,  after  devoting  him- 
self awhile  to  law,  he  finally  settled  upon  me- 
dicine. 

The  six  years  spent  at  this  institution  are 
represented  as  the  most  wretched  of  his  life. 
"The  Stuttgart  system  of  education,"  says  his 
biographer,  "seems  to  have  been  formed  on  the 
principle,  not  of  cherishing  and  correcting  na- 
ture, but  of  rooting  it  out  and  supplying  its 
place  with  something  better.  The  process  of 
teaching  and  living  was  conducted  with  the 
stiff  formality  of  military  drilling.  Everything 


went  on  by  statute  and  ordinance ;  there  was 
no  scope  for  the  exercise  of  freewill,  no  allow- 
ance for  the  varieties  of  original  structure.  A 
scholar  might  possess  what  instincts  or  capa- 
cities he  pleased,  the  '  regulations  of  the  school' 
took  no  account  of  this ;  he  must  fit  himself 
into  the  common  mould  which,  like  the  old 
giant's  bed,  stood  there  appointed  by  superior 
authority  to  be  filled  alike  by  the  great  and  the 
little.  The  same  strict  and  narrow  course  of 
reading  and  composition  was  marked  out  for 
each  beforehand,  and  it  was  by  stealth  if  he 
read  or  wrote  anything  beside."  *  *  *  * 
"  The  pupils  were  kept  apart  from  the  conver- 
sation or  sight  of  any  person  but  their  teachers; 
none  ever  got  beyond  the  precincts  of  despotism 
to  snatch  even  a  fearful  joy.  Their  very  amuse- 
ments proceeded  by  word  of  command." 

This  sort  of  discipline  was  ill  adapted  to 
educate  a  poet.  Some  natures  would  have 
been  utterly  perverted  or  crushed  by  it.  In 
Schiller  it  produced  an  intense  inwardness. 
His  soul  was  thrust  back  within  itself,  and 
found  refuge  in  the  world  of  ideas  from  the  hard 
formalities  of  his  scholastic  life.  This  effect 
was  both  a  benefit  and  an  evil.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  whether,  on  the  whole,  he  gained  or 
lost  by  it.  On  the  one  hand,  it  stimulated  his 
productiveness  and  was  probably  the  chief  and 
immediate  cause  of  his  literary  efforts ;  and  on 
the  other  hand,  it  gave  his  poetry  that  sub- 
jective character,  the  excess  of  which  is  its 
great  defect.  Perhaps,  a  more  genial  nurture 
would  have  corrected  this  error  by  awakening 
an  interest  in  actual  life;  and  perhaps  too, 
such  a  nurture  might  have  given  his  faculties 
a  different  direction  and  left  the  poet  undeve- 
loped. It  is  doubtful  if  any  training  could  have 
supplied  that  intimate  communication  with  ex- 
ternal nature,  that  eye  for  forms,  that  love  of 
things,  that  sunny  realism  which  constitutes  so 
essential  a  qualification  of  the  true  poet,  and 
which  seems  to  be  a  natural  endowment,  unat- 
tainable and  inimitable. 

In  1780  Schiller,  having  completed  his  me- 
dical studies,  was  appointed  surgeon  to  the 
31  *  (365) 


366 


SCHILLER. 


regiment  Auge,  in  the  Wiirtemberg  army.  In 
1781  he  published  his  "  Robbers,"  composed,  it 
is  said,  some  years  before,  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen, but  concealed,  for  fear  of  offence,  until  he 
had  completed  his  studies.  This  juvenile  effort 
is,  in  every  point  of  view,  a  wonderful  produc- 
tion. Considered  as  a  specimen  of  precocious 
genius,  it  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  extant. 
Moreover,  it  stands  decidedly  at  the  head  of  that 
class  of  writings  to  which  it  belongs,  —  a  class 
characterized  by  stormy  force  and  passionate 
extravagance  of  sentiment  and  diction,  "a 
savageness  of  unreclaimed  blood."  The  "  Sa- 
tanic school"  it  is  denominated  by  Mr.  Carlyle. 
Most  of  Byron's  works  rank  in  this  rubric. 
Even  the  "  Sorrows  of  Werter,"  though  with 
some  latitude  of  interpretation,  has  been  thus 
classed.  Schiller's  drama  stands  pre-eminent 
among  works  of  this  description,  surpassing 
everything  of  the  sort  in  that  peculiar  power 
of  fervid  declamation  which  constitutes  one  of 
its  distinguishing  features.  The  "Corsair"  and 
"Giaour"  are  milk-and-water  idyls  compared 
with  it.  The  "  Robbers"  forms  an  era  in  litera- 
ture. It  was  soon  translated  into  most  of  the 
languages  of  Europe,  and  everywhere  wel- 
comed as  the  word  which  all  men  were  wait- 
ing to  hear.  Not  only  did  the  pent  volcano  in 
the  author's  own  breast  find  vent  in  those 
"  power-words,"  but  he  appeared  as  the  spokes- 
man of  his  time,  —  the  voice  of  that  muttered 
uneasiness  and  impatience  of  existing  institu- 
tions which  marked  the  epoch  immediately 
preceding  the  French  revolution.  In  strong 
and  terrible  accents  it  spoke  the  hoarded  wrath 
of  long  centuries  of  misrule  and  oppression.  It 
was  an  angry  scream  which  pierced  every  soul 
from  the  Rhine  to  the  Baltic,  and  startled  the 
eagles  of  dominion  on  their  ancient  sceptres, — 
a  prophecy  of  that  tempest  which  soon  after 
burst  upon  the  world  and  changed  the  face  of 
empires.  Popular  as  it  was  with  the  young, 
and  on  the  stage,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  real  merits 
of  the  "  Robbers,"  to  this  day,  have  been  duly 
appreciated  by  the  critics.  Its  extravagances 
and  puerilities,  unhappily  but  too  prominent, 
have  thrown  a  shade  over  its  great  excellences 
and  biassed  the  judgment  of  mature  and  less 
inflammable  readers.  It  is  not,  as  sometimes 
represented,  a  mere  farrago  of  power-words 
and  rodomontade.  It  is  far  more  than  that.  It 
is  a  genuine  work  of  genius,  a  work  unsur- 
passed, with  the  exception  of  Faust,  by  any- 
thing since  Shakspeare,  in  imaginative  power, 


in  the  vivid  delineation  of  vice  and  passion,  and 
in  tragic  interest.  Schiller  has  produced  many  i 
things  far  superior  to  the  "  Robbers,"  as  works 
of  art,  but  nothing  that  equals  it  in  vigor  and 
effect.  The  promise  implied  in  this  first  effort,  ' 
which  the  author  himself  has  stigmatised  as  a 
"monster  born  of  the  unnatural  union  of  Genius 
with  Thraldom,"  was  never  quite  realized  in  i 
his  subsequent  productions. 

Meanwhile  the  publication  of  this  tragedy  ! 
was  attended  with  some  disagreeable  conse-  ! 
quences  to  the  author.  He  drew  down  upon 
himself  the  wrath  of  the  people  of  the  Grisons 
by  an  offensive  allusion,  aspersing  the  reputa- 
tion of  that  district ;  he  incurred  the  suspicion 
of  the  Grand  Duke  by  becoming  an  author,  u 
well  as  by  the  specific  character  of  his  drama  , 
and  finally  subjected  himself  to  repeated  arrests 
for  going  to  Manheim  "  without  leave"  to  wit- 
ness its  performance  at  the  theatre  in  that  city. 
The  result  was  that  Schiller  made  his  escape 
from  surgery  and  persecution  at  Stuttgart  and 
fled  to  Manheim,  where  he  found  a  temporary 
support  by  writing  for  the  stage.  After  a  short 
residence  in  this  city  he  went  to  Mayence, 
then  to  Dresden,  then  to  Leipzig.  He  also 
resided  for  a  while  at  the  estate  of  the  Frau 
von  Wolzogen.  In  1784  he  was  made  Counsel- 
lor by  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  and  in  1787  took 
up  his  residence  in  that  city.  Here,  after  some 
hesitation  and  coyness,  and  overcoming  of  pre- 
judice on  both  sides,  he  became  acquainted 
and  finally  intimate  with  Goethe,  whose  nature, 
in  most  respects  the  antipodes  of  his  own,  acted 
with  decisive  effect  on  Schiller's  genius  and 
destiny.  Indeed,  his  acquaintance  with  Goethe 
seems  to  have  been  the  most  powerful  influence 
to  which  his  riper  years  were  subjected.  Goethe 
has  given  an  account  of  the  formation  of  this 
acquaintance,  from  which  it  appears  how  diffi- 
cult it  was  for  these  two  spirits,  the  idealist 
and  the  realist,  —  each  so  determined  in  his 
way,  —  to  amalgamate  or  even  to  converse. 
The  unbroken  friendship  subsisting  between 
them  for  nearly  twenty  years,  is  a  rare  and 
beautiful  passage  in  literary  history,  and  highly 
creditable  to  both  parties.  In  Goethe  it  re- 
quired a  severe  struggle  with  fixed  views  and 
purposes,  and  some  magnanimity,  to  make  the 
first  advances  to  the  young  poet  whom,  on  his 
return  from  Italy,  he  found  in  full  possession 
of  the  popular  ear  and  heart,  and  threatening 
to  re-induce  a  style  and  tendency  which  he, 
for  his  part,  had  laid  aside  with  the  crudities 


SCHILLER. 


307 


of  his  youth,  and  was  every  way  endeavoring 
to  counteract  and  supplant.  Schiller  himself 
thought  they  should  never  come  together,  and 
writes  thus  of  their  first  interview :  "  Though 
it  did  not  at  all  diminish  the  idea,  great  as  it 
was,  which  I  had  previously  formed  of  Goethe, 
I  doubt  if  we  shall  ever  come  into  close  com- 
munication with  each  other.  Much  that  still 
interests  me  has  already  had  its  epoch  with 
him ;  his  whole  nature  is  from  its  very  origin 
otherwise  constructed  than  mine  ;  his  world  is 
not  my  world,  our  modes  of  conceiving  things 
appear  to  be  essentially  different."  Goethe,  on 
the  other  hand,  relates  that  Schiller  during 
this  interview,  in  which  the  conversation 
turned  on  the  metamorphosis  of  plants,  said 
many  things  which  pained  him  excessively, 
but  that  he  determined  to  take  no  notice  of 
them,  and  to  discover,  if  possible,  something 
which  was  common  to  both,  and  which  might 
serve  as  the  basis  of  an  harmonious  relation. 
Long  after  Schiller's  death  he  remarks  of  their 
intimacy  :  "  There  was  something  providential 
in  my  connection  with  Schiller ;  it  might  have 
happened  earlier  or  later  without  so  much 
significance;  but  that  it  should  occur  just  at 
this  time,  when  I  had  my  Italian  journey  be- 
hind me,  and  Schiller  began  to  be  weary  of 
his  philosophical  speculations,  led  to  very  im- 
portant consequences  for  both."  Mr.  Carlyle 
remarks :  "  If  we  regard  the  relative  situation 
of  the  parties,  and  their  conduct  in  this  matter, 
we  must  recognise  in  both  of  them  no  little 
social  virtue,  at  all  events,  a  deep  disinterested 
love  of  worth.  In  the  case  of  Goethe,  more 
especially,  who,  as  the  elder  and  every  way 
greater  of  the  two,  has  little  to  expect  in  com- 
parison with  what  he  gives,  this  friendly  union, 
had  we  space  to  explain  its  nature  and  progress, 
would  give  new  proof  that,  as  poor  Jung  Stil- 
ling also  experienced,  '  the  man's  heart  which 
few  know,  is  as  true  and  noble  as  his  genius 
which  all  know.' " 

In  1789  Schiller  was  made,  through  the  me- 
diation of  Goethe,  Professor  extraordinary  of 
philosophy  at  Jena,  and,  the  year  following, 
was  married  to  Fraulein  von  Lengefeld.  In 
1791  he  was  attacked  with  a  violent  disease 
of  the  chest,  which,  for  a  long  while,  incapa- 
citated him  for  literary  and  professional  labor. 
During  this  interval^  he  received  from  the 
hereditary  Prince  of  Denmark  and  Count  von 
Schimmelman,  a  pension  of  one  thousand  rix 
dollars  for  three  years.    After  his  recovery  he 


applied  himself  with  renewed  and  suicidal 
devotion  to  his  former  pursuits,  compelling 
himself  to  labor  oftentimes,  when  nature  was 
unequal  to  the  effort,  and  seconding  nature 
with  stimulants.  "  His  intolerance  of  inter- 
ruption," says  his  biographer,  "  first  put  him  on 
the  plan  of  studying  by  night ;  an  alluring  but 
pernicious  practice  which  began  at  Dresden 
and  was  never  afterwards  given  up."  *  *  * 
"During  summer,  his  place  of  study  was  in 
a  garden,  which  he  at  length  purchased,  in 
the  suburbs  of  Jena."  *  *  *  In  this  garden 
"Schiller  built  himself  a  small  house  with  a 
single  chamber.  It  was  his  favorite  abode 
during  the  hours  of  composition ;  a  great  part 
of  the  works  he  then  wrote  were  written  here." 

*  *  *  "On  sitting  down  to  his  desk  at  night 
he  was  wont  to  keep  some  strong  coffee  or 
wine-chocolate,  but  more  frequently  a  flask  of 
old  Rhenish  or  Champagne  standing  by  him, 
that  he  might  repair  the  exhaustion  of  nature." 

*  *  *  "In  winter  he  was  to  be  found  at  his 
desk  till  four  or  even  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  summer  till  towards  three.  He  then 
went  to  bed,  from  which  he  seldom  rose  till  nine 
or  ten."  As  might  be  expected,  this  insane  and 
ruinous  mode  of  life  soon  used  up  the  feeble 
remains  of  a  constitution  originally  slender,  and 
long  impaired  by  disease.  The  only  wonder  is, 
that  nature  endured  the  outrage  so  long. 
Goethe  says :  "  This  habit  not  only  injured  his 
health  but  also  his  productions:  the  faults 
which  some  wise  heads  find  in  his  works,  pro- 
ceed, I  think,  from  this  source.  All  the  pas- 
sages which  they  blame  may  be  styled  patho- 
logical passages;  for  they  were  written  on 
those  days  when  he  had  not  strength  to  do  his 
best." 

In  1801,  by  the  advice  of  his  physician,  he 
removed  from  Jena  to  Weimar,  where  he  re- 
sided until  his  death.  The  Grand  Duke  allowed 
him  a  pension  of  a  thousand  dollars  yearly, 
and  offered  to  give  him  twice  as  much,  in  case 
he  should  be  hindered  by  sickness.  Schiller 
declined  this  last  offer  and  never  availed  him- 
self of  it.  "I  have  talents,"  said  he,  "and  must 
help  myself."  His  chief  income  was  derived 
from  his  works,  and  he  compelled  himself  to 
write  two  dramas  yearly,  to  meet  the  growing 
expenses  of  his  family.  In  1802  he  was  en- 
nobled by  the  emperor  of  Germany.  He  had 
previously  received  the  rights  of  citizenship 
from  the  French  Republic,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Revolution. 


368 


SCHILLER. 


After  attending  a  representation  of  his  own 
"  Tell"  at  Berlin,  where  he  was  received  with 
great  honor,  he  died  at  Weimar,  May  19th, 
1805,  in  his  forty-seventh  year ;  having,  in  the 
language  of  Goethe,  "  sacrificed  life  to  the  de- 
lineation of  life."* 

The  forty  years  which  have  elapsed  since 
his  death  have  not  diminished  the  estima- 
tion in  which  Schiller  is  held  by  his  country- 
men. He  is  still  the  most  popular  of  German 
writers.  Goethe,  indeed,  is  preferred  by  men 
of  the  highest  culture ;  Goethe  is  the  prophet 
of  the  philosophical  and  profound;  but  Schiller 
is  the  poet  of  the  people,  and,  in  all  probability, 
will  long  continue  to  hold  the  supreme  rank  in 
the  popular  estimation.  In  a  great  measure, 
this  popularity  is  owing  to  intrinsic  merit. 
Schiller's  excellences  are  perfectly  intelligible ; 
they  commend  themselves  at  first  sight;  they 
lie  on  the  surface.  Not  that  he  lacks  profound- 
ness; but  he  does  not,  like  so  many  of  his 
countrymen,  court  obscurity ;  he  does  not  hide 
a  second  meaning  behind  the  first;  there  is 
nothing  esoteric  in  his  writings;  he  never 
enigmatizes.  Goethe  maintained  that  a  perfect 
work  of  art  must  leave  something  to  conjec- 
ture. This  was  not  Schiller's  theory  of  art. 
At  least,  it  was  not  his  practice.  Though  emi- 
nently reflective,  he  is  perfectly  transparent. 
In  part,  however,  the  popularity  of  Schiller 
may  be  ascribed  to  the  zeal  with  which,  in 
early  life,  he  advocated  the  cause  of  liberty ; 
and  another  reason  still,  is  the  dramatic  form 
which  his  genius  assumed  at  the  outset,  and 
the  wide  circulation  and  commanding  emphasis 
given  to  his  writings  by  theatrical  exhibition. 
The  dramatic  poet  possesses  a  great  advantage, 
in  this  respect,  over  other  authors.  "In  the 
first  place,  it  is  evident,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "how 
far  one  of  the  latter  class,  with  his  scattered 
recluse-readers,  honored  but  little,  and  that  only 
by  cultivated  men,  read  perhaps  twice  in  suc- 
cession, but  not  heard  forty  times  in  succession; 
— it  is  evident,  I  say,  how  far  such  an  Irus  in 
fame,  such  a  John  Lackland  falls  below  the 
stage-poet,  who  not  only  wears  these  laurel- 
gleanings  upon  his  head,  but  adds  to  them  the 
rich  harvest,  that  prince  and  chimney-sweep, 

*"  He  had,"  says  Goethe,  "  an  awful  progressiveness. 
When  I  had  been  a  week  without  seeing  him, I  was  amazed 
and  knew  not  where  to  take  hold  of  him,  and  found  him 
already  advanced  again.  And  so  he  went  ever  forward 
for  forty-six  years.  Then,  indeed,  he  had  gone  far 
enough." 


and  every  generation  and  every  age  get  his 
thoughts  into  their  heads  and  his  name  into 
their  mouths ;  that  often  the  most  miserable 
market- towns,  whenever  a  more  miserable 
strolling  actor's  company  moves  into  them, 
harness  themselves  to  the  triumphal  car  in 
which  such  a  writer  is  borne."  *  *  *  "  There 
are  a  hundred  other  advantages  which,  by  the 
figure  of  permission  {Jigura  prateritionis),  I 
might  mention,  but  which  I  prefer  to  omit; 
this,  e.  g.,  that  a  dramatic  author  (and  often- 
times he  is  present  and  hears  it  all)  employs, 
as  it  were,  a  whole  corporation  of  hands  in  his 
service;  *  *  *  furthermore,  that  he  is 
learned  by  heart,  not  only  by  the  actors,  but, 
after  many  repetitions,  by  the  hearers  also,  and 
is  continually  praised  anew  in  all  the  standing 
though  tedious  theatrical  notices  of  the  daily 
and  monthly  journals."  *  *  *  "  Hence  we 
may  explain  the  fact,  that  our  cold  Germany 
has  exerted  itself  so  much  and  so  well  for 

Schiller  and  so  little  for  Herder."*  No 

writer  of  any  nation,  at  present,  fills  so  large  a 
place  in  the  mind  of  his  country,  or  exercises 
such  fascination  over  it,  as  Schiller.  Scarcely 
less  read  than  Scott,  he  is  far  more  deeply 
loved,  —  loved  with  the  passionate  interest 
which  attaches  to  a  great  unfinished  life ;  with 
that  yearning  which  follows  a  beautiful  spirit 
too  soon  withdrawn  from  the  earth.  To  him 
belongs  the  peculiar  charm  which  made  Byron, 
for  a  while,  the  idol  of  the  young;  but  without 
the  moral  abatements  so  lamentable  in  his 
case, — the  charm  of  intensity.  Add  to  this  the 
feminine  delicacy  of  Racine,  the  masculine  sin- 
cerity, if  not  the  austere  sanctity,  of  Milton, 
the  soaring  mind  of  Tasso,  the  studied  elegance 
of  Virgil,  the  tragic  seriousness  of  Euripides: 
all  these  combine  to  render  Schiller  not  only 
the  favorite  of  his  own  nation,  but  the  delight 
of  the  world.  Frederic  Schlegel  characterizes 
him  as  "  the  true  founder  of  the  German  dra- 
ma," the  man  who  gave  it  "  its  proper  sphere 
and  its  most  happy  form."f  The  most  elaborate 
eulogy  of  Schiller  is  that  of  Menzel,  in  his 
survey  of  German  literature,  in  which  the  poet 
is  not  inaptly  compared  to  Raphael.  Mr.  Long- 
fellow has  cited  this  full-mouthed  panegyric  in 
the  notice  of  Schiller  contained  in  "  The  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Europe."  For  this  reason,  it  was 
thought  best  to  omit  it  here  and  to  substitute 

*From  "Katzenberger's  Badereise." 

t  Lectures  on  the  History  of  Literature,  vol.  ii. 


SCHILLER. 


369 


instead  the  more  discriminating,  if  less  lauda- 
tory criticism  of  Mr.  Carlyle.* 

"From  many  indications,  we  can  perceive 
that  to  Schiller  the  task  of  the  Poet  appeared 
of  far  weightier  import  to  mankind  in  these 
times  than  that  of  any  other  man  whatever. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  "  casting  his 
bread  upon  the  waters,  and  would  find  it  after 
many  days ;"  that  when  the  noise  of  all  conju- 
rors, and  demagogues,  and  political  reformers 
had  quite  died  away,  some  tone  of  heavenly 
wisdom  that  had  dwelt  even  in  him  might  still 
linger  among  men,  and  be  acknowledged  as 
heavenly  and  priceless,  whether  as  his  or  not ; 
whereby,  though  dead,  he  would  yet  speak,  and 
his  spirit  would  live  throughout  all  generations, 
when  the  syllables  that  once  formed  his  name 
had  passed  into  forgetfulness  forever.  We  are 
told,  "he  was  in  the  highest  degree  philan- 
thropic and  humane;  and  often  said  that  he 
had  no  deeper  wish  than  to  know  all  men  hap- 
py." What  was  still  more,  he  strove,  in  his 
public  and  private  capacity,  to  do  his  utmost 
for  that  end.  Honest,  merciful,  disinterested, 
he  is  at  all  times  found :  and  for  the  great  duty 
laid  on  him  no  man  was  ever  more  unweariedly 
ardent.  It  was  'his  evening  song  and  his 
morning  prayer.'  He  lived  for  it ;  and  he  died 
for  it ;  '  sacrificing,'  in  the  words  of  Goethe, 
'his  Life  itself  to  this  delineating  of  Life.'  In 
collision  with  his  fellow-men, — for  with  him  as 
with  others  this  also  was  a  part  of  his  relation 
to  society, — we  find  him  no  less  noble  than  in 
friendly  union  with  them.  He  mingles  in  none 
of  the  controversies  of  the  time ;  or  only  like  a 
god  in  the  battles  of  men.  In  his  conduct  to- 
wards inferiors,  even  ill-intentioned  and  mean 
inferiors,  there  is  everywhere  a  true,  dignified, 
patrician  spirit.  Ever  witnessing,  and  inwardly 
lamenting,  the  baseness  of  vulgar  Literature  in 
his  day,  he  makes  no  clamorous  attacks  on  it ; 
alludes  to  it  only  from  afar:  as  in  Milton's 
writings,  so  in  his,  few  of  his  contemporaries 
are  named,  or  hinted  at;  it  was  not  with  men, 
but  with  things  that  he  had  a  warfare.  In  a 
word,  we  can  say  of  Schiller,  what  can  be  said 
only  of  few  in  any  country  or  time :  He  was  a 
high  ministering  servant  at  Truth's  altar  ;  and 
bore  him  worthily  of  the  office  he  held.  Let 
this,  and  that  it  was  even  in  our  age,  be  forever 
remembered  to  his  praise. 

"  Schiller's  intellectual  character  has,  as  in- 

*  From  "  Carlyle's  Miscellanies."  Boston,  James  Mun- 
roe  and  Co.,  vol.  ii. 

2  w 


deed  is  always  the  case,  an  accurate  conformity 
with  his  moral  one.  Here  too  he  is  simple  in 
his  excellence ;  lofty  rather  than  expansive  or 
varied ;  pure,  divinely  ardent  rather  than  great. 
A  noble  sensibility,  the  truest  sympathy  with 
Nature,  in  all  forms,  animates  him ;  yet  scarcely 
any  creative  gift  altogether  commensurate  with 
this.  If  to  his  mind's  eye  all  forms  of  Nature 
have  a  meaning  and  beauty,  it  is  only  under  a 
few  forms,  chiefly  of  the  severe  or  pathetic 
kind,  that  he  can  body  forth  this  meaning,  can 
represent  as  a  Poet  what  as  a  Thinker  he  dis- 
cerns and  loves.  We  might  say,  his  music  is 
true  spheral  music ;  yet  only  with  few  tones, 
in  simple  modulation ;  no  full  choral  harmony 
is  to  be  heard  in  it.  That  Schiller,  at  least  in 
his  later  years,  attained  a  genuine  poetic  style, 
and  dwelt,  more  or  less,  in  the  perennial  regions 
of  his  Art,  no  one  will  deny :  yet  still  his  poetry 
shows  rather  like  a  partial  than  a  universal 
gift;  the  labored  product  of  certain  faculties 
rather  than  the  spontaneous  product  of  his 
whole  nature.  At  the  summit  of  the  pyre, 
there  is  indeed  white  flame ;  but  the  materials 
are  not  all  in  flame,  perhaps  not  all  ignited. 
Nay,  often  it  seems  to  us,  as  if  poetry  were,  on 
the  whole,  not  his  essential  gift ;  as  if  his  genius 
were  reflective  in  a  still  higher  degree  than 
creative ;  philosophical  and  oratorical  rather 
than  poetic.  To  the  last,  there  is  a  stiffness  in 
him,  a  certain  infusibility.  His  genius  is  not 
an  iEolian  harp,  for  the  common  wind  to  play 
with,  and  make  wild,  free  melody ;  but  a  sci- 
entific harmonica,  that  being  artfully  touched 
will  yield  rich  notes,  though  in  limited  mea- 
sure. It  may  be,  indeed,  or  rather  it  is  highly 
probable,  that  of  the  gifts  which  lay  in  him 
only  a  small  portion  was  unfolded :  for  we  are 
to  recollect  that  nothing  came  to  him  without 
a  strenuous  effort ;  and  that  he  was  called  away 
at  middle  age.  At  all  events,  here  as  we  find 
him  we  should  say,  that  of  all  his  endowments 
the  most  perfect  is  understanding.  Accurate, 
thorough  insight  is  a  quality  we  miss  in  none 
of  his  productions,  whatever  else  may  be  want- 
ing. He  has  an  intellectual  vision,  clear,  wide, 
piercing,  methodical, — a  truly  philosophic  eye. 
Yet  in  regard  to  this  also  it  is  to  be  remarked, 
that  the  same  simplicity,  the  same  want  of  uni- 
versality again  displays  itself.  He  looks  aloft 
rather  than  around.  It  is  in  high,  far-seeing 
philosophic  views  that  he  delights ;  in  specu- 
lations on  Art, — on  the  dignity  and  destiny  of 
Man,  rather  than  on  the  common  doings  and 


370 


SCHILLER. 


interests  of  Men.  Nevertheless  these  latter, 
mean  as  they  seem,  are  boundless  in  signifi- 
cance ;  for  every  the  poorest  aspect  of  Nature, 
especially  of  living  Nature,  is  a  type  and  mani- 
festation of  the  invisible  spirit  that  works  in 
Nature.  There  is  properly  no  object  trivial 
or  insignificant :  but  every  finite  thing,  could 
we  look  well,  is  as  a  window,  through  which 
solemn  vistas  are  opened  into  Infinitude  itself. 
But  neither  as  a  Poet  nor  as  a  Thinker,  neither 
in  delineation  nor  in  exposition  and  discussion, 
does  Schiller  more  than  glance  at  such  objects. 
For  the  most  part,  the  Common  is  to  him  still 
the  Common,  or  is  idealized,  rather  as  it  were 
by  mechanical  art  than  by  inspiration :  not 
by  deeper  poetic  or  philosophic  inspection,  dis- 
closing new  beauty  in  its  every-day  features, 
but  rather  by  deducting  these,  by  casting  them 
aside,  and  dwelling  on  what  brighter  features 
may  remain  in  it.  Herein  Schiller,  as,  indeed, 
himself  was  modestly  aware,  differs  essentially 
from  most  great  poets;  and  from  none  more 
than  from  his  great  contemporary,  Goethe. 
Such  intellectual  preeminence  as  this,  valuable 
though  it  be,  is  the  easiest  and  the  least  valu- 
able ;  a  preeminence  that  indeed  captivates  the 
general  eye,  but  may,  after  all,  have  little  in- 
trinsic grandeur.  Less  in  rising  into  lofty  ab- 
stractions lies  the  difficulty,  than  in  seeing  well 
and  lovingly  the  complexities  of  what  is  at 
hand.  He  is  wise  who  can  instruct  us  and 
assist  us  in  the  business  of  daily  virtuous  living ; 
he  who  trains  us  to  see  old  truth  under  Aca- 
demic formularies  may  be  wise  or  not  as  it 
chances;  but  we  love  to  see  Wisdom  in  unpre- 
tending forms,  to  recognise  her  royal  features 
under  week-day  vesture. — There  may  be  more 
true  spiritual  force  in  a  Proverb  than  in  a  phi- 
losophical system.  A  King  in  the  midst  of  his 
body-guards,  with  all  his  trumpets,  war-horses, 
and  gilt  standard-bearers,  will  look  great  though 
he  be  little ;  but  only  some  Roman  Carus  can 
give  audience  to  satrap  -  ambassadors,  while 
seated  on  the  ground,  with  a  woollen  cap,  and 
supping  on  boiled  peas,  like  a  common  soldier. 

"  In  all  Schiller's  earlier  writings,  nay,  more 
or  less,  in  the  whole  of  his  writings,  this  aris- 
tocratic fastidiousness,  this  comparatively  bar- 
ren elevation,  appears  as  a  leading  character- 
istic. In  speculation  he  is  either  altogether 
abstract  and  systematic,  or  he  dwells  on  old, 
conventionally  -  noble  themes;  never  looking 
abroad,  over  the  many-colored  stream  of  life, 
to  elucidate  and  ennoble  it ;  or  only  looking  on 


it,  so  to  speak,  from  a  college  window.  The 
philosophy  even  of  his  Histories,  for  example, 
founds  itself  mainly  on  the  perfectibility  of  man, 
the  effect  of  constitutions,  of  religions,  and  other 
such  high,  purely  scientific  objects.  In  his 
Poetry  we  have  a  similar  manifestation.  The 
interest  turns  on  prescribed,  old-established 
matters,  common  love  mania,  passionate  great- 
ness, enthusiasm  for  liberty,  and  the  like.  This, 
even  in  Don  Karlos,  a  work  of  what  may  be 
called  his  transition-period,  the  turning-point 
between  his  earlier  and  his  later  period,  where 
we  still  find  Posa,  the  favorite  hero,  '  towering 
aloft,  far-shining,  clear  and  cold,  as  a  sea  bea- 
con.' In  after  years,  Schiller  himself  saw  well 
that  the  greatest  lay  not  here.  With  unwea- 
ried effort  he  strove  to  lower  and  to  widen  his 
sphere,  and  not  without  success,  as  many  of  his 
Poems  testify;  for  example,  the  Lied  der 
Glocke  (Song  of  the  Bell),  every  way  a  noble 
composition ;  and,  in  a  still  higher  degree,  the 
tragedy  of  Wilhelm  Tell,  the  last,  and,  so  far 
as  spirit  and  style  are  concerned,  the  best  of 
all  his  dramas. 

"  Closely  connected  with  this  imperfection, 
both  as  cause  and  as  consequence,  is  Schiller's 
singular  want  of  Humor.  Humor  is  properly 
the  exponent  of  low  things;  that  which  first 
renders  them  poetical  to  the  mind.  The  man 
of  Humor  sees  common  life,  even  mean  life, 
under  the  new  light  of  sportfulness  and  love; 
whatever  has  existence  has  a  charm  for  him. 
Humor  has  justly  been  regarded  as  the  finest 
perfection  of  poetic  genius.  He  who  wants  it, 
be  his  other  gifts  what  they  may,  has  only  half 
a  mind  ;  an  eye  for  what  is  above  him,  not  for 
what  is  about  him  or  below  him.  Now,  among 
all  writers  of  any  real  poetic  genius,  we  cannot 
recollect  one  who,  in  this  respect,  exhibits  such 
total  deficiency  as  Schiller.  In  his  whole  writ- 
ings there  is  scarcely  any  vestige  of  it,  scarcely 
any  attempt  that  way.  His  nature  was  without 
Humor ;  and  he  had  too  true  a  feeling  to  adopt 
any  counterfeit  in  its  stead.  Thus  no  drollery 
or  caricature,  still  less  any  barren  mockery, 
which,  in  the  hundred  cases,  are  all  that  we 
find  passing  current  as  Humor,  discover  them- 
selves in  Schiller.  His  works  are  full  of  la- 
bored earnestness;  he  is  the  gravest  of  ail 
writers.  Some  of  his  critical  discussions,  es- 
pecially in  the  Aesthetische  Briefe,  where  he 
designates  the  ultimate  height  of  man's  culture 
by  the  title  of  Spieltrieb  (literally,  sport- im- 
pulse), prove  that  he  knew  what  Humor  was, 


SCHILLER. 


371 


and  how  essential ;  as  indeed,  to  his  intellect, 
all  forms  of  excellence,  even  the  most  alien  to 
his  own,  were  painted  with  a  wonderful  fidelity. 
Nevertheless,  he  himself  attains  not  that  height 
which  he  saw  so  clearly ;  to  the  last  the  Spiel- 
trieb  could  be  little  more  than  a  theory  with 
him.  With  the  single  exception  of  Wallen- 
stein's  Lager,  where,  too,  the  Humor,  if  it  be 
such,  is  not  deep,  his  other  attempts  at  mirth, 
fortunately  very  few,  are  of  the  heaviest.  A 
rigid  intensity,  a  serious  enthusiastic  ardor, 
majesty  rather  than  grace,  still  more  than 
lightness  or  sportfulness,  characterizes  him. 
Wit  he  had,  such  wit  as  keen  intellectual  in- 
sight can  give ;  yet  even  of  this  no  large  en- 
dowment. Perhaps  he  was  too  honest,  too 
sincere,  for  the  exercise  of  wit ;  too  intent  on 
the  deeper  relations  of  things  to  note  their 
more  transient  collisions.  Besides,  he  dealt  in 
Affirmation,  and  not  in  Negation;  in  which 
last,  it  has  been  said,  the  material  of  wit  chiefly 
lies. 

"  These  observations  are  to  point  out  for  us 
the  special  department  and  limits  of  Schiller's 
excellence ;  nowise  to  call  in  question  its  reality. 
Of  his  noble  sense  for  Truth,  both  in  specula- 
tion and  in  action ;  of  his  deep,  genial  insight 
into  nature ;  and  the  living  harmony  in  which 
he  renders  back  what  is  highest  and  grandest 
in  Nature,  no  reader  of  his  works  need  be  re- 
minded. In  whatever  belongs  to  the  pathetic, 
the  heroic,  the  tragically  elevating,  Schiller  is 
at  home,  a  master ;  nay  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  all  late  poets.  To  the  assiduous  student, 
moreover,  much  that  lay  in  Schiller,  but  was 
never  worked  into  shape,  will  become  partially 
visible :  deep,  inexhaustible  mines  of  thought 
and  feeling :  a  whole  world  of  gifts,  the  finest 
produce  of  which  was  but  beginning  to  be  real- 
ized. To  his  high-minded,  unwearied  efforts, 
what  was  impossible,  had  length  of  years  been 
granted  him !  There  is  a  tone  in  some  of  his 
later  pieces,  which  here  and  there  breathes  of 
the  very  highest  region  of  Art.  Nor  are  the 
natural  or  accidental  defects  we  have  noticed 
in  his  genius,  even  as  it  stands,  such  as  to  ex- 
clude him  from  the  rank  of  great  Poets.  Poets 
whom  the  whole  world  reckons  great,  have, 
more  than  once,  exhibited  the  like.  Milton, 
for  example,  shares  most  of  them  with  him: 
like  Schiller  he  dwells,  with  full  power,  only 
in  the  high  and  earnest;  in  all  other  provinces 
exhibiting  a  certain  inaptitude,  a  certain  ele- 
phantine unpliancy:  he  too  has  little  Humor; 


his  coarse  invective  has  in  it  contemptuous 
emphasis  enough,  yet  scarcely  any  graceful 
sport.  Indeed,  on  the  positive  side  also,  these 
two  worthies  are  not  without  a  resemblance. 
Under  far  other  circumstances,  with  less  mas- 
siveness,  and  vehement  strength  of  soul,  there 
is  in  Schiller  the  same  intensity;  the  same 
concentration,  and  towards  similar  objects,  to- 
wards whatever  is  sublime  in  Nature  and  in 
Art,  which  sublimities  they  both,  each  in  his 
several  way,  worship  with  undivided  heart. 
There  is  not  in  Schiller's  nature  the  same  rich 
complexity  of  rhythm,  as  in  Milton's,  with  its 
depths  of  linked  sweetness ;  yet  in  Schiller  too 
there  is  something  of  the  same  pure,  swelling 
force,  some  tone  which,  like  Milton's,  is  deep, 
majestic,  solemn. 

"  It  was  as  a  Dramatic  Author  that  Schiller 
distinguished  himself  to  the  world :  yet  often 
we  feel  as  if  chance  rather  than  a  natural  ten- 
dency had  led  him  into  this  province  ;  as  if  his 
talent  were  essentially,  in  a  certain  style,  ly- 
rical, perhaps  even  epic,  rather  than  dramatic. 
He  dwelt  within  himself,  and  could  not  without 
effort,  and  then  only  within  a  certain  range, 
body  forth  other  forms  of  being.  Nay,  much 
of  what  is  called  his  poetry  seems  to  us,  as 
hinted  above,  oratorical  rather  than  poetical; 
his  first  bias  might  have  led  him  to  be  a  speaker, 
rather  than  a  singer.  Nevertheless,  a  pure 
fire  dwelt  deep  in  his  soul ;  and  only  in  Poetry, 
of  one  or  the  other  kind,  could  this  find  utter- 
ance. The  rest  of  his  nature,  at  the  same 
time,  has  a  certain  prosaic  rigor:  so  that  not 
without  strenuous  and  complex  endeavors,  long 
persisted  in,  could  its  poetic  quality  evolve  it- 
self. Quite  pure,  and  as  the  all-sovereign  ele- 
ment, it  perhaps  never  did  evolve  itself ;  and 
among  such  complex  endeavors,  a  small  ac- 
cident might  influence  large  portions  in  its 

course.  Of  Schiller's  Philosophic  talent, 

still  more  of  the  results  he  had  arrived  at  in 
philosophy,  there  were  much  to  be  said  and 
thought,  which  we  must  not  enter  upon  here. 
As  hinted  above,  his  primary  endowment  seems 
to  us  fully  as  much  philosophical  as  poetical ; 
his  intellect,  at  all  events,  is  peculiarly  of  that 
character ;  strong,  penetrating,  yet  systematic 
and  scholastic,  rather  than  intuitive ;  and  ma- 
nifesting this  tendency  both  in  the  objects  it 
treats,  and  in  its  mode  of  treating  them.  The 
transcendental  Philosophy,  which  arose  in  Schil- 
ler's busiest  era,  could  not  remain  without  in- 
fluence on  him :  he  had  carefully  studied  Kant's 


372 


SCHILLER. 


system,  and  appears  to  have  not  only  admitted 
but  zealously  appropriated  its  fundamental  doc- 
trines; remoulding  them,  however,  into  his 
own  peculiar  forms,  so  that  they  seem  no  longer 
borrowed,  but  permanently  acquired ;  not  less 
Schiller's  than  Kant's.  Some,  perhaps  little 
aware  of  his  natural  wants  and  tendencies,  are 
of  opinion  that  these  speculations  did  not  profit 
him.  

"  Among  younger  students  of  German  Lite- 
rature, the  question  often  arises,  and  is  warmly 
mooted :  whether  Schiller  or  Goethe  is  the 
greater  Poet?  Of  this  question  we  must  be 
allowed  to  say  that  it  seems  rather  a  slender 
one,  and  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  Schil- 
ler and  Goethe  are  of  totally  dissimilar  endow- 
ments and  endeavors,  in  regard  to  all  matters 
intellectual,  and  cannot  well  be  compared  to- 
gether as  Poets.  Secondly,  because  if  the 
question  mean  to  ask,  which  Poet  is  on  the 
whole  the  rarer  and  more  excellent,  as  probably 
it  does,  it  must  be  considered  as  long  ago  abun- 
dantly answered.  To  the  clear-sighted  and 
modest  Schiller,  above  all,  such  a  question 
would  have  appeared  surprising :  No  one  knew 
better  than  himself,  that  as  Goethe  was  a  born 
Poet,  so  he  was  in  a  great  part  a  made  Poet ; 
that  as  the  one  spirit  was  intuitive,  all-embrac- 
ing, instinct  with  melody,  so  the  other  was 
scholastic,  divisive,  only  partially  and  as  it  were 
artificially  melodious.  Besides,  Goethe  has 
lived  to  perfect  his  natural  gift,  which  the  less 
happy  Schiller  was  not  permitted  to  do.  The 


UPON  NAIVE  AND  SENTIMENTAL 
POETRY* 

There  are  moments  in  our  life  when  we  feel 
a  kind  of  love  and  tender  respect  for  Nature  in 
plants,  minerals,  animals,  landscapes,  and  for 
human  nature  in  children,  in  the  manners  of 
rustics  and  of  the  primitive  times  :  not  on  ac- 
count of  its  sensuous  interest,  nor  because  it 
satisfies  our  intellect  or  taste,  for  the  opposite 
may  often  occur  with  both,  but  solely  because  it 
is  Nature.  Every  cultivated  man,  not  entirely 
deficient  in  feeling,  is  sensible  of  this,  when  he 
walks  in  the  open  air,  or  is  living  in  the  coun- 
try, or  lingers  near  the  monuments  of  past 
time  :  in  short,  when  he  is  overtaken,  in  the  midst 
of  artificial  relations  and  situations,  by  the  sim- 
plicity of  nature.  It  is  this  interest,  often 
amounting  to  a  want,  which  underlies  many  of 
*  Translated  by  Rev.  J.  Weiss. 


former  accordingly  is  the  national  Poet;  the 
latter  is  not  and  never  could  have  been.  We 
once  heard  a  German  remark,  that  readers  to 
their  twenty-fifth  year  usually  preferred  Schil- 
ler ;  after  their  twenty-fifth  year,  Goethe.  This 
probably  was  no  unfair  illustration  of  the  ques- 
tion. Schiller  can  seem  higher  than  Goethe 
only  because  he  is  narrower.  Thus  to  unprac- 
tised eyes,  a  Peak  of  Teneriffe,  nay,  a  Strass- 
burg  Minster,  when  we  stand  on  it,  may  seem 
higher  than  a  Chimborazo ;  because  the  former 
rise  abruptly,  without  abutment  or  environment ; 
the  latter  rises  gradually,  carrying  half  a  world 
aloft  with  it;  and  only  the  deeper  azure  of  the 
heavens,  the  widened  horizon,  the  'eternal 
sunshine'  disclose  to  the  geographer  that  the 
'  Region  of  Change'  lies  far  below  him. 

"However,  let  us  not  divide  these  two  Friends, 
who  in  life  were  so  benignantly  united.  With- 
out asserting  for  Schiller  any  claim  that  even 
enemies  can  dispute,  enough  will  remain  for 
him.  We  may  say  that,  as  a  Poet  and  Thinker, 
he  attains  to  a  perennial  Truth,  and  ranks 
among  the  noblest  productions  of  his  century 
and  nation.  Goethe  may  continue  the  German 
Poet,  but  neither  through  long  generations  can 
Schiller  be  forgotten." 

As,  of  all  German  writers,  Schiller  is  per- 
haps the  best  known,  or  least  misunderstood, 
among  us ;  as  he  has  rank  as  poet  rather  than 
prose-writer,  the  following  essay  must  suffice 
for  the  present  collection. 


our  passions  for  flowers  and  creatures,  for  sim- 
ple gardens,  for  walks,  for  the  country  and  its 
inhabitants,  for  many  products  of  distant  an- 
tiquity, and  the  like.  But  this  presupposes  that 
neither  affectation  nor  an  otherwise  accidental 
interest  comes  into  play.  Then  this  kind  of 
interest  in  nature  occurs  only  under  two  con- 
ditions. In  the  first  place  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary, that  the  object  which  excites  it  should  be 
Nature,  or  taken  for  such  by  us :  secondly,  that, 
in  the  widest  signification  of  the  term,  it  should 
be  naive,  that  is,  that  nature  should  stand  in  con- 
trast with  art,  and  rebuke  it.  Nature  becomes 
naive  as  soon  as  these  two  conditions  are  com- 
bined. 

From  this  point  of  view  nature  becomes  for 
us  nothing  more  nor  less  than  independent 
Being,  the  persistence  of  things  by  themselves, 
existence  according  to  peculiar  'and  immutable 
laws. 


SCHILLER.  373 


This  conception  is  absolutely  prerequisite,  if 
we  would  take  interest  in  like  phenomena. 
Could  one,  with  the  eornpletest  deception,  give 
a  natural  look  to  an  artificial  flower,  or  carry 
the  imitation  of  naive  manners  to  the  highest 
point  of  illusion,  the  discovery  that  it  was  all 
imitation  would  entirely  destroy  the  feeling  of 
which  we  speak*  Whence  it  is  clear  that  this 
kind  of  pleasure  in  nature  is  moral  and  not 
aesthetic :  for  it  is  mediated  by  an  idea,  and  is 
not  created  by  direct  contemplation.  Besides 
which,  it  is  by  no  means  directed  towards 
beauty  of  form.  For  instance  :  what  attraction 
would  a  colorless  flower,  a  fountain,  a  mossy 
stone,  the  twitter  of  birds,  the  humming  of  bees, 
have  for  us  in  themselves?  What  could  give 
them  a  claim  to  our  love  1  We  do  not  love  the 
objects  themselves,  but  the  ideas  they  represent. 
We  love  in  each  of  them  the  still,  creative  life, 
the  tranquil  production  out  of  itself,  existence 
according  to  its  own  laws,  eternal  unity  with 
itself. 

They  are  what  we  were ;  they  are  what  we 
again  should  be.  Like  them,  we  were  Nature ; 
and  our  culture  ought  to  lead  us  back  to  Nature, 
by  the  path  of  reason  and  freedom.  Then  they 
are  at  the  same  time  the  representation  of  our 
lost  childhood,  which  forever  remains  the  dear- 
est to  us :  hence,  they  fill  us  with  a  certain  sad- 
ness; and  at  the  same  time  the  representation 
of  our  loftiest  completion  in  the  ideal :  hence, 
they  give  us  a  sublime  emotion. 

But  their  completeness  is  not  their  merit, 
since  it  is  not  the  work  of  their  own  choice. 
They  secure  for  us,  then,  this  entirely  peculiar 
pleasure,  that  without  making  us  ashamed,  they 
are  our  model.  They  surround  us,  as  a  con- 
tinual divine  manifestation,  but  more  refreshing 
than  dazzling.  What  makes  their  character 
complete  is  exactly  that  in  which  our  own  is 
deficient:  what  distinguishes  us  from  them  is 
exactly  that  of  divinity  in  which  they  fail.  We 
are  free,  and  they  are  necessary :  we  alter,  they 
remain  one.  But  the  divine  or  the  ideal  ob- 
tains, only  when  the  differences  are  blended, 
when  the  will  follows  freely  the  law  of  neces- 
sity, and  the  reason  maintains  its  sway  through 
every  change  of  fancy.  Then  we  forever  per- 
ceive in  them  that  which  we  lack,  but  for  which 
we  are  invited  to  strive,  and  to  which,  even 
though  we  never  attain  it,  we  may  yet  hope  to 
approximate  in  an  infinite  progression.  We 
perceive  in  ourselves  a  superiority,  which  they 

*  Kant,  the  first  to  my  knowledge  who  directed  reflec- 
tion expressly  towards  this  phenomenon,  remarks,  that 
if  we  heard  a  man  imitate  with  complete  success  the 
note  of  a  nightingale,  and  yielded  to  the  impression  with 
profound  emotion,  all  our  pleasure  would  vanish  with 
the  dissipation  of  this  illusion.  See  the  chapter  in  the 
Critique  of  Aesthetic  Judgment,  upon  Intellectual  interest 
in  the  beautiful.  Whoever  has  learned  to  admire  the 
author  only  as  a  great  thinker,  will  here  he  delighted  to 
meet  with  a  trace  of  his  heart;  and  to  l>e  convinced, 
by  the  discovery,  of  his  fitness  for  this  lofty  vocation, 
which  unquestionably  demands  the  union  of  both  those 
qualities. 


lack,  but  which  they  can  either  never  share, 
like  the  senseless  creation,  or  only  as  they  pro- 
ceed in  our  path,  like  the  state  of  childhood. 
Hence,  as  idea,  they  create  for  us  the  sweetest 
enjoyment  of  our  manhood,  although  they  must 
of  necessity  humiliate  us  with  respect  to  each 
determinate  condition  of  our  manhood. 

As  this  interest  for  nature  is  based  upon  an 
idea,  it  can  be  shown  only  in  dispositions  sus- 
ceptible of  ideas,  that  is,  in  moral  ones.  By  far 
the  majority  of  men  only  affect  it;  and  the  uni- 
versality of  this  sentimental  taste  in  our  times, 
which  displays  itself,  especially  since  the  ap- 
pearance of  certain  writings,  in  affected  travels,  i 
gardens  of  like  sort,  walks  and  other  fondnesses 
of  the  kind,  is  no  proof  at  all  for  the  univer- 
sality of  the  true  sentiment.  Yet  Nature  will 
always  exert  something  of  this  influence  upon 
the  most  insensible,  since  for  that  the  com- 
mon bias  of  all  men  to  the  moral  is  adequate ; 
and  all  of  us  without  distinction,  however 
great  a  disproportion  there  may  be  between 
our  acts  and  the  simplicity  and  truth  of  Na- 
ture, are  compelled  to  that  in  idea.  This  sen- 
timent for  Nature  and  incitement  from  objects 
standing  in  a  close  relation  with  us, —  as  for 
example,  children  and  childlike  people, — and 
bringing  nearer  to  us  both  self  -  retrospection 
and  our  own  unnature,  is  especially  strong  and 
universal.  It  is  erroneous  to  suppose,  that  it  is 
only  the  appearance  of  helplessness  which 
makes  us,  at  certain  times,  linger  with  so  much 
emotion  near  children.  Perhaps  that  may  be 
the  case  with  some,  who  are  wont  to  feel,  in  the 
presence  of  weakness,  nothing  but  their  own 
superiority.  But  the  feeling  of  which  I  speak 
occurring  only  in  entirely  moral  dispositions, 
and  not  to  be  confounded  with  that  excited  by 
the  playful  activity  of  children,  is  rather  hu- 
miliating than  gratifying  to  self-love;  and  in- 
deed if  any  superiority  is  noticeable  at  all,  it  is 
by  no  means  on  our  side.  We  experience  emo- 
tion, not  while  we  look  down  upon  the  child 
from  the  height  of  our  power  and  perfection, 
but  while  we  look  up,  out  of  the  limitation  of 
our  condition  which  is  inseparable  from  the 
definite  mode  to  which  we  have  attained,  at  the 
child's  boundless  cleterminablenessand  its  perfect 
innocence.  And,  at  such  a  moment,  our  feeling 
is  too  plainly  mingled  with  a  certain  sadness, 
to  allow  us  to  mistake  its  source.  The  child 
represents  the  bias  and  determination,  we  repre- 
sent the  fulfilment,  which  forever  remains  in- 
finitely far  behind  the  former.  Hence  the  child 
is  an  actualization  of  the  ideal,  not  indeed  of 
one  fulfilled,  but  of  one  proposed;  and  so  it  is 
by  no  means  the  appearance  of  its  neediness 
and  limits  which  moves  us,  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  the  appearance  of  its  free  and  pure  power, 
its  integrity,  its  infinity.  For  this  reason,  a  child 
will  be  a  holy  object  to  the  man  of  morality 
and  feeling,  that  is,  an  object  which,  by  the 
magnitude  of  an  idea,  abolishes  every  actual 
magnitude,  and  which  wins  again  in  rich  mea- 
sure from  the  estimation  of  the  reason  all  that 
32 


374 


SCHILLER. 


it  may  lose  in  the  estimation  of  the  under- 
standing. 

Out  of  this  very  contradiction  between  the 
judgment  of  the  reason  and  of  the  understand- 
ing, proceeds  the  entirely  peculiar  phenomenon 
of  mixed  feeling,  which  a  naive  disposition  ex- 
cites in  us.  It  unites  childlike  with  childish  sim- 
plicity. By  the  latter,  it  gives  the  understand- 
ing an  idea  of  weakness,  and  produces  that 
laughter  by  which  we  make  known  our  (theo- 
retic) superiority.  But  as  soon  as  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  childish  simplicity  is 
at  the  same  time  childlike,  and  that  conse- 
quently its  source  is  not  folly,  or  imbecility,  but 
a  loftier  (practical)  strength,  a  heart  full  of  in- 
nocence and  truth,  which  makes  ashamed,  by 
its  internal  greatness,  the  mediation  of  art, — 
then  that  triumph  of  the  understanding  is  over, 
and  a  jest  at  simpleness  passes  over  into  admi- 
ration of  simplicity.  We  feel  ourselves  com- 
pelled to  respect  the  object  at  which  we  pre- 
viously laughed,  and,  while  casting  a  look  into 
ourselves,  to  lament  that  we  are  not  like  it. 
Thus  arises  the  entirely  peculiar  appearance 
of  a  feeling,  in  which  are  blended  gay  derision, 
reverence  and  sadness.*    The  Naive  demands, 


*  Kant,  in  a  note  to  the  Analysis  of  the  Sublime 
(Critique  of  Aesth.  Judg.,  p.  225,  1st  Ed.),  in  like  manner 
distinguishes  this  three-fold  composition  in  the  percep- 
tion of  the  Naive,  hut  he  gives  another  explanation  of 
it.  "  Something  of  both  (the  animal  feeling  of  pleasure, 
and  the  spiritual  feeling  of  respect)  united,  is  found  in 
naivete,  which  is  the  outbreak  of  the  originally  natural 
uprightness  of  humanity  against  the  art  of  dissimula- 
tion become  a  second  nature.  We  laugh  at  the  simplicity 
which  does  not  yet  understand  how  to  dissimulate,  and 
still  we  enjoy  that  natural  simplicity  which  disappoints 
such  arts.  If  we  expected  the  every-day  style  of  an  af- 
fected expression  that  is  prudently  established  upon 
aesthetic  show,  behold,  it  is  unsophisticated,  blameless 
nature,  which  we  were  not  at  all  prepared  to  meet,  and 
which,  it  would  seem,  was  not  meant  to  be  exposed. 
And  because  the  aesthetic,  but  false,  show,  which  com- 
monly counts  for  much  in  our  judgment,  here  suddenly 
vanishes,  and  because,  so  to  speak,  our  waggery  is  ex- 
posed, this  brings  out  in  two  opposite  directions,  a  men- 
tal agitation,  which  at  the  same  time  gives  the  body  a 
salutary  shaking.  But  because  something,  which  is  in- 
finitely better  than  all  assumed  style,  that  is,  mental  sin- 
cerity (at  least  the  tendency  thereto),  is  not  yet  entirely 
extinguished  in  human  nature,— this  it  is  which  mingles 
seriousness  and  regard  in  this  play  of  the  judgment.  But 
since  the  phenomenon  lasts  only  for  a  little  while,  and 
the  veil  of  dissimulation  is  soon  again  drawn  before  it 
a  regret,  which  is  an  emotion  of  tenderness,  mingles  also 
with  our  feeling;  and  it  does  not  refuse  to  unite  as  play 
with  a  hearty  laugh,  at  the  same  time  relieving  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  person  who  is  the  object  of  it,  because 
he  has  not  yet  learned  the  way  of  the  world."  I  must 
confess  the  explanation  does  not  entirely  satisfy  me,  and 
particularly  for  this  reason,  that  it  asserts  something  of 
the  Naive  in  general,  which  is  chiefly  true  of  one  species, 
the  Naive  of  surprise,  of  which  I  shall  afterwards  speak. 
It  certainly  excites  laughter,  when  anybody  exposes  him- 
self by  naivete  ;  and  in  many  cases  this  laughter  may  re- 
sult from  a  previous  expectation  which  is  resolved  into 
nothing.  But  also  naivete  of  the  noblest  kind,  the  Naive 
of  disposition,  always  excites  a  smile,  which  can  hardly 
have  for  its  cause  an  expectation  resolved  into  nothing ; 


that  Nature  should  bear  away  the  victory  over 
Art,*  whether  it  happen  without  the  knowledge 
and  will  of  the  person,  or  with  his  full  con- 
sciousness. In  the  first  case  it  is  the  Naive  of 
Surprise,  and  delights:  in  the  other  case  it  is 
the  Naive  of  Disposition,  and  moves. 

In  the  Naive  of  surprise,  the  person  must  be 
morally  able  to  deny  nature ;  in  the  Naive  of 
disposition  he  need  not  be  so,  and  yet,  if  it  would 
afl'ect  us  as  naivete,  we  need  not  imagine  him 
as  physically  unable  to  do  so.  Hence  the  talk 
and  actions  of  children  give  us  the  pure  im- 
pression of  naivete,  only  so  long  as  we  do  not 
remember  their  incapacity  for  art,  but  merely 
regard  the  contrast  of  their  naturalness  with  the 
art  in  us.  A  childishness,  where  it  is  no  longer 
expected,  is  Naive,  and  therefore  that  cannot  be 
ascribed,  in  strictness  of  meaning,  to  actual 
childhood. 

But  in  the  cases,  both  of  Naivete  of  Surprise 
and  that  of  Disposition,  nature  must  be  right,  but 
art  be  wrong. 

The  conception  of  the  Naive  is  only  com- 
pleted by  this  final  definition.  Feeling  is  also 
nature,  and  the  rule  of  propriety  is  something 
artificial ;  but  yet  the  victory  of  feeling  over 
propriety  is  nothing  less  than  naive.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  same  feeling  overcomes  artifice, 
false  propriety,  dissimulation,  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  call  that  naive. -J-  It  is  necessary,  then, 
that  nature  should  triumph  over  art,  not  as  a 
dynamic  magnitude,  by  its  blind  force,  but  as  a 
moral  magnitude,  by  its  form.  The  impropriety, 
and  not  the  insufficing  of  art,  must  have  afforded 
the  victory  to  nature  ;  for  nothing  which  results 

but  it  is  generally  to  be  explained  only  by  the  contrast 
of  a  certain  demeanor  with  the  once  assumed  and  ex- 
pected forms.  I  also  doubt,  whether  the  pity,  which  is 
blended  in  our  feeling  at  the  Naive  of  the  latter  kind, 
relates  to  the  naive  person,  and  not  rather  to  ourselves, 
or  rather  to  mankind  in  general,  of  whose  deterioration 
we  are  reminded  by  such  a  circumstance.  It  is  too 
plainly  a  moral  sadness,  which  must  have  a  nobler  object 
than  the  physical  weakness  with  which  sincerity  is 
threatened  in  the  customary  routine  of  life;  and  this 
object  cannot  well  be  other  than  the  decay  of  truth  and 
simplicity  in  humanity. 

*  Perhaps  I  should  briefly  say;  truth  over  Dissimula- 
tion. But  the  idea  of  the  Naive  appears  to  me  to  include 
still  something  more,  while  the  simplicity  which  prevails 
over  artifice,  and  the  natural  freedom  which  conquers 
stiffness  and  constraint,  excite  in  us  a  similar  percep- 
tion. 

f  A  child  is  ill  bred,  if  it  resists  the  precepts  of  a  good 
education  from  desire,  caprice  or  passion  :  but  it  is  naive, 
if  it  releases  itself  by  virtue  of  a  free  and  healthy  nature, 
from  the  mannerism  of  an  unwise  education,  from  the 
stiff  postures  of  the  dancing-master,  and  the  like.  The 
same  also  occurs  with  that  loosely  defined  naivete  which 
results  from  the  transmission  of  humanity  to  the  irra- 
tional. If  the  weeds  got  the  upper  hand  in  a  badly  kept 
garden,  no  one  would  find  the  appearance  naive;  but 
there  is  something  positively  naive  when  the  free  growth 
of  outspreading  branches  destroys  the  laborious  work  of 
the  shears  in  a  French  garden.  And  so  it  is  not  at  all 
naive  when  a  trained  horse  repeats  his  lesson  badly  out 
of  natural  fatness,  but  there  is  something  naive  when  he 
forgets  it  out  of  natural  freedom. 


SCHILLER. 


375 


from  deficiency  can  command  respect.  It  is 
true,  that  in  the  Naive  of  Surprise,  it  is  always 
the  overplus  of  feeling  and  a  deficiency  of  re- 
straint which  causes  nature  to  be  recognized  : 
but  this  deficiency  and  that  overplus  by  no 

I  means  create  the  Naive,  for  they  only  afford  an 
opportunity  for  nature  to  follow  unimpeded  its 
moral  capacity,  that  is,  the  law  of  harmony. 

The  Naive  of  Surprise  can  only  appertain  to 
man,  and  to  man  alone,  in  so  far  as  at  that  mo- 
ment he  is  no  longer  pure  and  innocent  nature. 
It  presupposes  a  will  which  does  not  harmonize 
with  that  which  nature  does  spontaneously. 
Such  a  person,  if  rendered  conscious  of  it,  will 
be  frightened  at  himself:  on  the  contrary,  he 

:  who  is  naive  by  Disposition,  will  be  surprised  at 
men  and  at  their  astonishment.  Then,  as  the 
truth  does  not  here  recognize  the  personal  and 
moral  character,  but  only  the  natural  character 
released  by  feeling,  so  we  attribute  no  merit  to 
the  man  for  his  uprightness,  and  our  laughter, 
which  is  restrained  by  no  personal  veneration 
for  him,  is  merited  sport.  But  as  here  also  it 
is  the  uprightness  of  nature  which  breaks  through 
the  veil  of  falseness,  a  satisfaction  of  a  higher 
kind  unites  with  the  mischievous  pleasure  at 
having  surprised  a  man.  For  nature,  in  oppo- 
sition to  artifice,  and  truth,  in  opposition  to  de- 
ception, must  always  excite  respect.  We  feel, 
then,  in  the  naive  of  surprise  also,  an  actual 

I     moral  pleasure,  though  not  from  a  moral  cha- 

j  racter* 

It  is  true,  we  always  respect  nature  in  the 
naive  of  surprise,  since  we  must  respect  the 
truth.  On  the  contrary,  we  respect  the  person 
in  the  naive  of  disposition,  and  then  we  enjoy 
not  only  a  moral  pleasure,  but  also  at  a  moral 
object.  In  the  one  as  in  the  other  case  nature 
is  right,  so  that  she  speaks  the  truth  :  but  in  the 
latter  case  nature  is  not  only  right,  but  the  per- 
son is  also  worthy  of  respect.  In  the  first  case 
the  uprightness  of  nature  always  redounds  to 
the  shame  of  the  person,  because  it  is  involun- 
tary; in  the  second  it  always  redounds  to  his 
merit,  even  supposing  that  he  incurs  odium  by 
•     what  it  expresses. 

We  ascribe  a  naive  disposition  to  a  man,  if, 
in  his  judgments  of  things,  he  overlooks  their 
artificial  and  forced  relations,  and  adheres  only 
to  simple  nature.  We  demand  from  him  all 
the  judgments  that  can  be  made  within  the 
limits  of  healthy  nature ;  and  we  completely 

*  As  the  naive  depends  only  upon  the  form  in  which 
something  is  said  or  done,  this  property  disappears,  as 
soon  as  the  thing  itself,  either  through  its  causes  or 
through  its  effects,  makes  a  preponderating  or  indeed 
contradictory  impression.  By  naivete  of  this  kind  even 
a  crime  can  be  detected,  but  then  we  have  neither  the 
quiet  nor  the  leisure  to  direct  our  attention  to  the  form 
of  the  detection  :  and  aversion  for  the  personal  character 
absorbs  all  our  satisfaction  at  the  nature.  And  as  a  re- 
volted feeling  steals  the  moral  pleasure  at  the  upright- 
j  ness  of  nature,  as  soon  as  naivete  gives  knowledge  of  a 
crime,  just  so  does  an  excited  compassion  destroy  our 
mischievous  pleasure,  as  soon  as  we  see  anybody  placed 
in  peril  by  his  naivete. 


discharge  him  only  from  that  which  presup- 
poses a  separation  from,  at  least  a  knowledge 
of,  nature,  whether  in  feeling  or  in  thought. 

If  a  father  tells  his  child,  that  this  or  that 
man  is  pining  in  poverty,  and  the  child  hastens 
to  carry  to  the  man  his  father's  purse  of  gold, 
the  action  is  naive,  for  healthy  nature  acts  out 
of  the  child:  and  it  would  be  perfectly  right  so 
to  proceed  in  a  world  where  healthy  nature 
rules.  He  only  regards  the  need  and  the  nearest 
method  of  satisfying  it:  such  an  extension  of 
the  right  of  property,  whereby  a  part  of  huma- 
nity are  left  to  perish,  is  not  founded  in  simple 
nature.  The  action  of  the  child,  then,  is  a  re- 
buke of  the  actual  world,  and  our  heart  also 
confesses  it  by  the  satisfaction  which  the  action 
causes  it  to  feel. 

If  a  man  without  knowledge  of  the  world, 
but  otherwise  of  good  capacity,  confesses  his 
secrets  to  another,  who  betrays  him, — but  who 
knows  how  to  artfully  dissimulate,  —  and  by 
this  very  candor  lends  him  the  means  of  doing 
him  an  injury,  we  find  it  naive.  We  laugh  at 
him,  but  yet  we  cannot  resist  for  that  reason 
highly  prizing  him.  For  his  confidence  in  the 
other  results  from  the  honesty  of  his  own  inten- 
tions :  at  least  he  is  naive  only  so  far  as  that  is 
the  case. 

Hence  the  naive  of  reflection  can  never  be  a 
property  of  corrupted  men,  but  can  only  belong 
to  children  and  men  with  childlike  dispositions. 
The  latter  often  act  and  think  naively  in  the 
most  artificial  relations  of  the  great  world.  Out 
of  their  own  fine  humanity  they  forget  that  they 
have  to  do  with  a  corrupted  world,  and  they 
demean  themselves  at  the  courts  of  kings  with 
an  ingenuous  innocence  only  to  be  found  among 
a  race  of  shepherds. 

Now  it  is  not  so  easy  always  correctly  to  dis- 
tinguish childish  from  childlike  innocence,  since 
there  are  actions  which  waver  between  the  ex- 
treme limits  of  both,  and  which  actually  leave 
us  in  doubt,  whether  we  ought  to  laugh  at  sim- 
pleness  or  reverence  a  noble  simplicity.  A  very 
remarkable  instance  of  this  kind  is  found  in  the 
political  history  of  Pope  Adrian  VI.,  which 
SchrOekh  has  described  for  us  with  the  thorough- 
ness and  pragmatic  truth  peculiar  to  himself. 
This  Pope,  a  Netherlander  by  birth,  adminis- 
tered the  pontificate  at  a  critical  moment  for  the 
hierarchy,  when  an  embittered  party  exposed 
without  mercy  the  weak  points  in  the  Roman 
church,  and  the  adverse  party  was  deeply  in- 
terested to  conceal  them.  What  the  truly  naive 
character,  if  such  a  one  ever  strayed  into  the 
holy  chair  of  Peter,  would  have  to  do  in  this 
case,  is  not  the  question:  but  rather,  how  far 
such  a  naivete  of  disposition  might  be  compati- 
ble with  the  function  of  a  Pope.  This,  by  the 
way,  was  something  which  by  no  means  em- 
barrassed the  predecessors  atid  followers  of 
Adrian.  With  perfect  uniformity  they  adhered 
to  the  Romish  system  once  for  all  accepted,  no- 
where to  concede  anything.  But  Adrian  really 
had  the  simple  character  of  his  nation  and  the 


376 


SCHILLER. 


innocence  of  his  former  rank.  He  was  elevated 
from  the  narrow  sphere  of  the  student  to  his 
exalted  post,  and  had  never  been  false  to  the 
simplicity  of  that  character  on  the  eminence  of 
his  new  dignity.  The  abuses  in  the  church 
disturbed  him,  and  he  was  much  too  honest 
openly  to  dissimulate  his  private  convictions. 
In  conformity  to  such  a  mood  he  suffered  him- 
self, in  the  instruction  with  which  he  furnished 
his  legate  to  Germany,  to  fall  into  confessions, 
before  unheard  of  from  any  pope,  and  to  flatly 
impugn  the  principles  of  this  court.  Among 
other  things  it  says :  "  We  know  well  that  for 
many  years  past  much  that  is  odious  has  been 
perpetrated  in  this  holy  chair  :  no  wonder  if  the 
sickness  has  been  transmitted  from  the  head  to 
the  members,  from  the  Pope  to  the  prelates. 
We  have  all  fallen  away,  and  for  a  long  time 
past  there  has  not  been  one  of  us  who  has  done 
a  good  thing,  no,  not  one."  Again,  elsewhere, 
he  enjoins  the  legate  to  declare  in  his  name, 
H  that  he,  Adrian,  cannot  be  blamed  on  account 
of  that  which  happened  through  former  popes, 
and  that  such  excesses  had  always  displeased 
him,  even  when  he  filled  an  inferior  station,"  &c. 
We  can  easily  imagine  what  reception  the  Ro- 
man clerisy  gave  to  such  naivete  on  the  part  of 
the  Pope.  The  least  which  they  imputed  to 
him  was  that  he  had  betrayed  the  church  to  the 
heretics.  Now  this  highly  impolitic  measure 
of  the  Pope  would  compel  our  whole  respect 
and  admiration,  if  we  could  only  be  convinced 
that  he  was  actually  naive,  that  is,  that  he  had 
been  forced  to  it  only  through  the  natural  truth 
of  his  character,  without  any  regard  to  the  pos- 
sible consequences,  and  that  he  would  have 
done  it  none  the  less  if  he  had  anticipated  the 
whole  extent  of  its  unseemliness.  But  we  have 
some  grounds  for  believing,  that  he  did  not 
deem  this  step  so  very  impolitic,  and  in  his  in- 
nocence went  so  far  as  to  hope,  that  he  might 
gain  a  very  important  advantage  for  the  church 
by  his  condescension  toward  the  opposition. 
He  not  only  presumed  that  as  an  honest  man 
he  ought  to  take  this  step,  but  to  be  able  also  as 
Pope  to  justify  it:  and  while  he  forgot,  that  the 
most  artificial  of  all  structures  could  actually  be 
sustained  by  a  systematic  denial  of  the  truth,  he 
committed  the  unpardonable  error  of  using  pre- 
cepts in  a  position  completely  the  reverse  of 
those  natural  relations  in  which  they  might 
have  been  valid.  This  certainly  modifies  our 
judgment  seriously:  and  although  we  cannot 
withhold  our  respect  from  the  honesty  of  heart, 
out  of  which  that  action  flowed,  it  is  not  a  little 
weakened  by  the  reflection,  that  nature  had  in 
art,  and  the  heart  in  the  head,  a  feeble  rival. 

That  is  not  a  true  genius  which  is  not  naive. 
Nothing  but  its  naivete  makes  it  genius  ;  and 
what  it  is  in  taste  and  intellect,  it  cannot  con- 
tradict in  its  morality.  Unacquainted  with  rules, 
the  crutches  of  weakness  and  the  taskmasters 
of  perversity,  guided  only  by  nature  or  by  in- 
stinct, its  guardian  angel,  it  passes  tranquilly 
and  safely  through  all  the  snares  of  a  vicious 


taste,  in  which  the  pseudo-genius  is  inevitably 
caught,  unless  it  is  acute  enough  to  anticipate 
them  from  afar.  It  is  only  granted  to  genius  to 
be  always  at  home  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
familiar,  and  to  extend,  without  transgressing, 
nature.  It  is  true  the  greatest  genius  now  and 
then  commits  the  latter  fault,  but  only  because 
it  also  has  its  moments  of  fantasy,  when  pro- 
tecting nature  leaves  it:  only  because  the  force 
of  example  wins  it,  or  the  corrupt  taste  of  its 
age  seduces  it. 

Genius  must  solve  the  most  complicated 
problems  with  unpretending  simplicity  and 
skill.  The  egg  of  Columbus  is  a  sample  of 
every  method  of  true  spirit.  It  legitimates  itself 
as  genius  only  by  triumphing  through  simplicity 
over  the  most  factitious  art.  It  proceeds  not 
according  to  familiar  principles,  but  by  impulses 
and  feelings.  But  its  impulses  are  suggestions 
of  a  god, —  all  which  healthy  nature  does,  is 
divine, — and  its  feelings  are  laws  for  all  ages 
and  for  every  race  of  men. 

The  childlike  character  which  genius  stamps 
upon  its  works,  it  also  manifests  in  its  manners 
and  its  private  life.  It  is  chaste,  because  nature 
is  always  so  :  but  it  is  not  decent,  because  de- 
cency is  only  native  to  depravity.  It  is  intel- 
ligent, for  nature  can  never  be  the  opposite ; 
but  it  is  not  cunning,  for  only  art  can  be  so.  It 
is  true  to  its  character  and  its  inclinations,  but 
not  so  much  because  it  has  principles,  as  be- 
cause nature  always  returns  through  every 
vacillation  to  its  first  position,  always  restores 
the  old  necessity.  It  is  modest,  even  bashful, 
because  genius  itself  is  always  a  mystery,  but 
it  is  not  anxious,  because  it  does  not  know  the 
perils  of  the  road  on  which  it  travels.  We 
know  little  of  the  private  life  of  the  greatest 
geniuses,  but  even  that  little  which  has  been 
preserved,  for  example,  concerning  Sophocles, 
Archimedes,  Hippocrates,  among  the  ancients, 
and  Ariosto,  Dante  and  Tasso,  Raphael,  Albert 
Diirer,  Cervantes,  Shakspeare,  Fielding,  Sterne, 
and  others  of  modern  times,  confirms  this  asser- 
tion. 

And  even,  a  fact  which  seems  to  present  far 
greater  difficulty,  the  great  statesman  and  gene- 
ral will  exhibit  a  naive  character,  as  soon  as 
their  genius  makes  them  great.  Among  the  an- 
cients, I  will  only  here  allude  to  Epaminondas 
and  Julius  Caesar,  and  to  Henry  IV.  of  France, 
Gustavus  Adolphus  of  Sweden,  and  Peter  the 
Great,  among  the  moderns.  The  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough, Turenne,  Vendome,  all  display  this 
character.  And  in  the  other  sex,  nature  has  in- 
dicated her  highest  perfection  of  naivete.  Fe- 
minine coquetry  strives  for  nothing  so  much  as 
for  the  appearance  of  naivete  :  proof  enough,  if 
we  had  no  other,  that  the  chief  power  of  the 
sex  rests  upon  this  quality.  But  since  the  pre- 
valent principles  of  female  education  are  in 
lasting  opposition  to  this  character,  it  is  as  hard 
for  the  woman  morally,  as  for  the  man  intel- 
lectually, to  maintain  that  noble  gift  of  nature 
with  the  advantages  bestowed  by  generous  cul- 


SCHILLER. 


377 


ture.  The  woman  who  unites  this  naivete  of 
manners  with  a  demeanor  appropriate  to  the 
world,  merits  our  reverence  as  much  as  the 
scholar  who  combines  a  genial  freedom  of 
thought  with  ail  the  severity  of  the  schools. 

A  naive  expression  necessarily  flows  out  of 
naive  reflection,  both  in  words  and  gestures: 
and  it  is  the  most  important  element  of  grace. 
Genius  expresses  thus  naively  its  sublimest  and 
deepest  thoughts :  they  are  oracles  from  the 
mouth  of  a  child.  While  common  sense,  always 
afraid  of  error,  nails  its  words  and  conceptions 
upon  the  cross  of  logic  and  grammar,  while  it  is 
hard  and  stiff"  in  order  to  be  definite,  multiplies 
words  lest  it  say  too  much,  and  prefers  to  ex- 
tract all  the  force  and  keenness  from  its  thought, 
from  dread  of  being  inconsiderate,  Genius, 
with  a  single  happy  dash  of  the  pencil,  gives 
to  its  thought  a  firm,  forever  definite  and  yet 
flowing  outline.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  the  symbol 
and  the  thing  symbolized  remain  forever  foreign 
and  heterogeneous,  on  the  other,  the  speech 
issues  from  the  thought  as  by  an  inward  neces- 
sity, and  is  so  entirely  one  with  it,  that  the 
spirit  seems  exposed  even  under  its  material 
veil.  In  composition,  it  is  expression  of  this 
kind,  where  the  symbol  entirely  vanishes  in 
the  thing  symbolized,  and  where  the  language 
still  leaves  the  thought  which  it  expressed 
naked,  while  another  never  can  present  with- 
out at  the  same  time  concealing  it,  that  we 
style  by  eminence  spirited  and  genial. 

Innocence  of  heart  expresses  itself  freely  and 
naturally  in  daily  life,  like  genius  in  its  works  of 
thought.  It  is  notorious  that  in  social  life  a  man 
eschews  simplicity  and  severe  integrity  of  ex- 
pression in  the  same  proportion  as  he  lacks 
purity  of  intention :  and  where  offence  is  so 
readily  incurred,  and  the  imagination  so  easily 
corrupted,  a  constrained  demeanor  is  a  necessity. 
Without  being  false,  we  often  say  what  we  do 
not  think :  we  invent  circumlocutions  in  order 
to  say  things  which  can  offend  only  a  sickly 
vanity,  or  injure  only  a  corrupt  imagination. 
An  ignorance  of  these  conventional  laws,  united 
with  natural  uprightness,  which  despises  every 
labyrinth  and  show  of  falsehood  (and  not  rude- 
ness, which  only  rejects  those  laws  because 
they  incommode  it),  creates  a  naivete  of  expres- 
sion in  intercourse,  which  consists  in  calling 
things,  which  we  either  may  not  designate  at 
all  or  only  artfully,  by  their  right  names  and  in 
the  curtest  way.  The  customary  expressions 
of  children  are  of  this  kind.  They  create 
laughter  from  their  contrast  with  our  customs ; 
and  yet  in  our  hearts  we  confess  that  the  child 
is  right. 

It  is  true  that,  strictly  speaking,  a  naive  dis- 
position can  be  attributed  to  man  only  as  a  be- 
ing not  positively  subject  to  nature,  though  still 
only  so  far  as  pure  nature  really  acts  in  him. 
And  yet,  by  an  effect  of  the  poetising  imagina- 
tion, it  is  often  transferred  from  the  rational  to 
the  irrational.  Thus  we  often  attribute  a  naive 
character  to  an  animal,  a  landscape,  a  building, 
2x 


and  to  nature  generally,  in  opposition  to  the 
caprice  and  fantasy  of  man.  But  this  always 
demands  that  we  should  subjectively  lend  a 
will  to  that  which  has  none,  and  have  regard 
to  its  strict  direction  according  to  necessary 
laws.  Dissatisfaction  at  our  own  ill  exercised 
moral  freedom,  and  at  the  lack  of  moral  har- 
mony in  our  actions,  easily  induces  that  kind 
of  mood  in  which  we  address  an  irrational 
thing  as  a  person,  and  imagine  its  eternal  uni- 
formity a  merit,  and  envy  its  tranquil  tenor,  as 
if  it  really  had  to  struggle  with  a  temptation  to 
be  otherwise.  At  such  a  moment  it  jumps  with 
our  humor  to  consider  our  prerogative  of  reason 
an  evil  and  a  curse,  and  to  deny  justice  to  our 
capacity  and  destiny,  from  a  vivid  sense  of  the 
meagreness  of  our  actual  execution. 

Then  we  see  in  irrational  nature  only  a  more 
fortunate  sister,  who  remained  in  the  maternal 
house,  from  which  we  stormed  forth  into  the 
distance,  in  the  exuberance  of  our  freedom. 
With  sorrowful  longing  we  yearn  to  be  back 
again,  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  feel  the  oppres- 
siveness of  culture,  and  to  hear  in  the  foreign 
remoteness  of  art  the  winning  voice  of  the 
mother.  While  we  were  only  nature's  children 
we  were  happy  and  perfect ;  we  became  free, 
and  ceased  to  be  both.  Hence  results  a  two- 
fold and  very  dissimilar  longing  for  nature, 
longing  for  her  happiness,  longing  for  her  per- 
fection. The  loss  of  the  former  is  lamented 
only  by  the  sensuous  man ;  but  the  moral  man 
alone  can  mourn  over  the  loss  of  the  latter. 

Ask  yourself  strictly  then,  sympathizing  friend 
of  nature,  does  your  indolence  pine  for  her  re- 
pose? does  your  offended  moral  sense  desire  her 
harmony  ?  Ask  yourself  candidly,  does  art  dis- 
gust you,  and  do  you  take  refuge  in  the  solitude 
of  inanimate  nature  from  the  abuses  of  society? 
do  you  abhor  its  privations,  its  burdens,  its  dif- 
ficulties, or  its  moral  anarchy,  its  disorders,  its 
caprice  ?  You  must  meet  the  former  with  joy 
and  courage,  and  your  compensation  must  be 
the  very  freedom  out  of  which  they  flow.  You 
may  well  propose  the  tranquil  joy  of  nature  for 
your  distant  goal,  but  only  such  as  is  the  prize 
of  your  own  worthiness.  Then  complain  no 
longer  of  the  hardship  of  life,  of  the  inequality 
of  conditions,  of  the  stress  of  circumstances,  of 
the  insecurity  of  property,  of  ingratitude,  oppres- 
sion, persecution.  You  must  submit  to  all  the 
evils  of  culture  with  free  resignation,  you  must 
respect  them  as  the  natural  conditions  of  the 
only  Good :  you  must  lament  only  over  its 
wickedness,  but  not  with  unmanly  tears.  Much 
rather  care  to  act  purely  amid  those  contamina- 
tions, freely  under  that  slavery,  firmly  through  that 
fickle  mutability,  loyally  through  that  anarchy. 
Do  not  fear  external,  but  internal  confusion  : 
strive  for  unity,  but  seek  it  not  in  uniformity: 
strive  for  repose,  but  through  the  equipoise,  not 
through  the  cessation,  of  your  activity.  That 
nature,  which  you  begrudge  to  the  irrational, 
deserves  neither  longing  nor  respect.  It  lies 
behind  you :  it  must  forever  lie  behind  you. 
32* 


378 


SCHILLER. 


When  you  no  longer  feel  the  ladder  which  up- 
held you,  there  remains  for  you  no  choice  but 
to  grasp  the  law  with  free  consciousness  and 
volition,  or  else  to  fall  beyond  deliverance  into 
a  fathomless  abyss. 

But  if  you  become  consoled  for  the  loss  of 
nature's  happiness,  then  let  her  perfection  be 
your  heart's  ideal.  If  you  step  forth  unto  her 
from  your  sphere  of  art,  and  see  her  before  you 
in  her  great  tranquillity,  in  her  naive  beauty,  in 
her  childlike  innocence  and  simplicity,  linger 
before  the  picture,  cherish  that  feeling:  it  is 
worthy  of  your  noblest  manhood.  Do  not  longer 
indulge  the  wish  or  fancy  to  exchange  with  her, 
but  receive  her  into  yourself  and  strive  to  wed 
her  infinite  superiority  to  your  own  infinite  pr- 
erogative, and  create  from  that  union  the  divine. 
Let  her  encompass  you  like  a  tender  Idyll,  in 
which  you  may  always  find  yourself  again  out 
of  the  distractions  of  art,  from  which  you  may 
gather  new  courage  and  confidence  for  the  race, 
and  kindle  afresh  in  your  heart  the  flame  of  the 
Ideal,  which  flickers  and  sinks  so  soon  in  the 
storms  of  life. 

If  we  call  to  mind  the  beautiful  nature  which 
surrounded  the  ancient  Greeks,  if  we  recollect 
how  confidingly  that  people  could  live  under 
their  fortunate  heaven  with  free  nature,  how 
much  nearer  their  conception,  their  sentiment, 
their  manners  lay  to  simple  nature,  and  what  a 
true  reflection  of  her  their  works  of  fancy  are,  it 
must  seem  strange  to  observe  that  we  find  so  few 
traces  among  them  of  that  sentimental  interest 
with  which  we  moderns  can  cling  to  natural 
scenes  and  characters.  It  is  true,  the  Greek  is  in 
the  highest  degree  strict,  true,  circumstantial,  in 
his  description  of  nature,  but  yet  not  a  whit  more 
and  with  no  heartier  sympathy,  than  he  is  also 
in  the  description  of  an  array,  a  shield,  a  suit  of 
armor,  a  domestic  utensil,  or  of  any  product  of 
mechanics.  He  seems  to  make  no  distinction 
in  his  love  for  the  object,  between  that  which 
is  in  itself,  and  that  which  is  through  art  and 
human  will.  Nature  seems  to  interest  his  in- 
tellect and  curiosity  more  than  his  moral  sense  : 
he  does  not  cling  to  her,  as  we  do,  with  hearti- 
ness, with  sensibility,  with  a  sweet  sadness. 
And  even  when  he  personifies  and  deifies  her 
single  manifestations,  and  represents  their  effects 
as  actions  of  a  free  being,  he  abolishes  in  her 
that  tranquil  necessity,  by  which  precisely  she 
is  so  attractive  to  us.  His  impatient  fancy  bears 
him  away  over  her  to  the  drama  of  human  life. 
Nothing  satisfies  him  but  the  free  and  living, 
nothing  but  characters,  actions,  fates  and  man- 
ners. And  while  we,  in  certain  moral  moods  of 
mind,  could  wish  to  give  up  the  superiority  of 
our  free  volition,  which  causes  us  so  much  strife 
with  ourselves,  so  much  unrest  and  confusion, 
for  the  choiceless  but  tranquil  necessity  of  the 
irrational,  the  Greek  fancy,  precisely  the  re- 
verse, is  busy  making  human  nature  inchoate 
even  within  the  inanimate  world,  and  giving 
influence  to  Will  in  the  province  of  blind  ne- 
cessity. 


Whence  indeed  this  diversity  of  spirit?  How 
comes  it  that  we  who  are  so  far  surpassed  by 
the  ancients  in  everything  that  is  nature,  can 
precisely  here  honor  nature  in  a  higher  sense, 
cling  to  her  with  heartfulness,  and  embrace 
even  the  inanimate  world  with  warmest  sensi- 
bility ?  It  is  because  with  us  nature  has  vanished 
out  of  humanity,  and  we  meet  her  again  in  her 
truth  only  beyond  the  latter,  in  the  world  of 
matter.  It  is  not  our  greater  conformity  with 
nature,  but,  quite  the  contrary,  the  incongruity 
of  our  relations,  conditions  and  manners,  which 
impels  us  to  procure  in  the  physical  world  that 
which  is  hopeless  in  the  moral  world,  namely, 
satisfaction  for  the  growing  impulse  for  truth 
and  simplicity,  which  lies  incorruptible  and  in- 
effaceable in  all  human  hearts,  like  the  moral 
disposition  whence  it  flows.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  the  feeling  with  which  we  cling  to  nature 
is  so  nearly  akin  to  the  feeling  which  laments 
the  vanished  age  of  childhood  and  of  childlike 
innocence.  Our  childhood  is  the  only  unmuti- 
lated  nature  which  we  still  find  in  cultivated 
manhood  :  then  it  is  no  wonder  if  every  vestige 
of  external  nature  conducts  us  back  to  our  child- 
hood. 

It  was  very  different  with  the  ancient  Greeks* 
Their  culture  had  not  so  far  degenerated  that 
nature  was  abandoned.  The  whole  structure 
of  their  social  life  was  based  upon  feelings,  and 
not  upon  a  composition  of  art :  their  mythology 
itself  was  the  suggestion  of  a  naive  sentiment, 
the  creation  of  a  joyous  fancy,  and  not  of  a  re- 
fining reason,  like  the  religion  of  later  nations. 
Then  as  the  Greek  had  not  lost  the  nature  in 
humanity,  he  could  not  be  surprised  by  her  be- 
yond the  limits  of  the  latter:  and  so  he  could 
have  no  pressing  necessity  for  objects  in  which 
he  might  recover  her.  In  unison  with  himself, 
and  happy  in  the  feeling  of  his  humanity,  he 
fain  held  silently  to  that  as  his  maximum,  and 
approached  all  else  with  difficulty:  while  we, 
not  in  unison  with  ourselves,  and  unhappy  in 
our  experiences  of  humanity,  have  no  pressing 
interest  except  to  escape  from  it,  and  to  thrust 
from  our  vision  a  form  so  unsuccessful. 

The  feeling  to  which  we  here  allude,  is  not 
then,  that  which  the  ancients  had  :  it  is  rather 
identical  with  that  which  we  have  for  the  an- 


*  But  with  the  Greeks  only :  for  just  such  a  lively  ani- 
mation and  such  a  rich  fulness  of  human  life  as  sur- 
rounded the  Greek,  was  requisite,  in  order  to  transfer  life 
into  the  lifeless  also,  and  to  pursue  with  that  zeal  the 
image  of  humanity.  Ossian's  human  world,  for  example, 
was  needy  and  monotonous  :  the  inanimate  around  him 
was  great,  colossal,  mighty.  Thus  it  was  imperative, 
and  maintained  its  rights  over  man  himself:  and  hence 
inanimate  nature  (in  opposition  to  man)  appears  in  the 
songs  of  this  poet  much  more  as  an  object  of  sentiment. 
But  Ossian  too  laments  a  falling  away  of  humanity :  and 
however  small  was  the  circle  of  his  people's  culture  and 
their  corruptions,  its  experience  was  still  lively  and  im- 
pressive enough,  to  repel  the  singer,  with  his  tenderness 
and  purity,  back  toward  the  inanimate,  and  to  pour  over 
his  songs  that  elegiac  tone  which  we  find  so  moving  and 
attractive. 


SCHILLER. 


379 


cients.  They  perceived  naturally  :  we  perceive 
the  natural.  Without  doubt,  the  feeling  which 
filled  Homer's  soul  when  he  let  his  celestial 
swineherd  entertain  Ulysses,  was  quite  different 
from  that  which  moved  the  soul  of  the  young 
Werter,  when  he  read  the  passage  after  a  te- 
dious company.  Our  sentiment  for  nature  is 
like  the  feeling  of  the  invalid  for  health. 

In  the  same  degree  that  Nature  vanished  out 
of  human  life  as  Experience  and  as  the  (active 
and  perceptive)  Subject,  we  see  her  appearing 
in  the  poetic  world  as  Idea  and  as  Object.  That 
nation  which  has  proceeded  farthest  both  in 
unnature  and  in  reflection  upon  it,  must  have 
been  the  first  to  be  most  strongly  moved  by  the 
phenomenon  of  naivete,  and  to  give  to  it  a  name. 
This  nation,  so  far  as  I  know,  was  the  French. 
But  perception  of,  and  interest  in,  the  naive,  is 
naturally  much  earlier,  and  dates  from  the  very 
commencement  of  moral  and  aesthetic  deprava- 
tion. This  change  in  the  perceptive  mode  is 
extremely  striking  even  so  early  as  Euripides : 
for  example,  when  we  compare  him  with  his 
predecessors  and  with  ^Eschylus  especially, 
and  yet  that  poet  was  the  favorite  of  his  age. 
The  same  revolution  is  apparent  also  among 
the  old  historians.  Horace,  the  poet  of  a  culti- 
vated and  corrupted  age,  extols  tranquil  happi- 
ness in  his  Tibur;  and  we  may  designate  him 
as  the  true  founder  of  this  sentimental  school 
of  poetry,  while  as  a  model  he  has  not  yet  been 
surpassed.  We  also  find  traces  of  this  percep- 
tion in  Propertius,  Virgil,  and  others,  but  few  in 
Ovid,  who  lacked  heartfulness,and  who  mourns, 
in  his  Exile  at  Tomi,  the  loss  of  that  happiness 
which  Horace  so  readily  dispenses  with  in  his 
Tibur. 

Poets  are  universally,  by  their  very  concep- 
tion, the  guardians  of  nature.  Where  they  can 
no  longer  be  so,  and  already  feel  in  themselves 
the  destructive  influence  of  capricious  and  arti- 
ficial forms,  or  at  least  have  had  to  struggle  with 
it,  they  will  then  appear  as  the  witnesses  and  as 
the  avengers  of  nature.  They  will  either  be,  or 
they  will  seek,  a  lost  nature.  Thus  two  very 
different  schools  of  poetry  arise,  which  cover 
and  exhaust  the  whole  province  of  that  art.  All 
who  are  really  poets,  will  belong  either  to  the 
naive  or  to  the  sentimental  school,  according  to 
the  constitution  of  the  age  in  which  they  flou- 
rish, or  as  contingent  circumstances  affect  their 
general  culture  and  predominating  neutral 
tone. 

The  early  poet  of  a  naive  and  spiritual  world, 
and  he,  in  an  age  of  artificial  culture,  who  is 
nearest  to  him,  is  austere  and  coy,  like  the 
virgin  Diana  in  her  forests.  With  no  familiar 
manners,  he  eludes  the  heart  that  seeks  him, 
and  the  longing  that  would  embrace  him.  The 
homely  truthfulness  with  which  he  handles  an 
object  often  seems  like  insensibility.  The  ob- 
ject possesses  him  entirely :  his  heart  does  not 
lie,  like  a  base  metal,  just  beneath  the  surface, 
but  will  be  sought  after  in  the  depths,  like  gold. 
He  stands  behind  his  work  like  the  Infinite  be- 


hind the  structure  of  the  world.  He  is  the  work 
and  the  work  is  him.  We  must  first  be  unwor- 
thy of  the  work,  or  unequal  to  it,  or  weary,  only 
to  ask  for  him. 

So  appears,  for  example,  Homer  among  the 
ancients  and  Shakspeare  among  the  moderns  : 
two  very  different  natures,  separated  by  the 
immeasurable  lapse  of  ages,  but  in  this  particu- 
lar characteristic  completely  one.  When  I  first 
became  acquainted  with  the  latter  poet,  at  a 
very  early  age,  I  was  troubled  at  the  coldness, 
the  insensibility,  which  permitted  him  to  jest  in 
the  deepest  pathos,  to  disturb  with  a  clown  the 
heart-rending  scenes  in  Hamlet,  King  Lear, 
Macbeth,  and  others,  which  now  held  him  fast 
where  my  feelings  hurried  on,  and  now  coldly 
hastened  forward  where  the  heart  would  so 
willingly  have  rested.  Led  by  acquaintance 
with  the  later  writers,  to  seek  for  the  poet  in 
the  work,  to  meet  his  heart,  to  reflect  familiarly 
with  him  concerning  his  object,  in  short,  to  con- 
template the  object  in  the  subject, — it  was  into- 
lerable to  me  that  the  poet  would  nowhere  suf- 
fer contact,  and  never  deign  to  talk  with  me. 
And  for  many  years  he  had  all  my  reverence 
and  my  study  too,  before  I  learned  to  win  his 
personality.  I  was  yet  incapable  of  under- 
standing nature  at  first  hand.  I  could  only 
tolerate  her  image  reflected  through  the  intel- 
lect and  adjusted  by  the  rules;  and  the  senti- 
mental poets  both  of  the  French  and  Germans, 
from  1750  to  1780,  were  just  the  proper  subjects 
for  that  end.  But  I  am  not  ashamed  of  this 
puerile  judgment,  since  the  mature  critic  passed 
a  similar  one,  and  was  naive  enough  to  publish 
it  to  the  world. 

The  same  thing  happened  to  me  with  respect 
to  Homer,  also,  whom  I  knew  at  a  still  later 
period.  I  remember  now  the  remarkable  place 
in  the  sixth  book  of  the  Iliad,  where  Glaucus 
and  Diomed  attack  each  other,  and  after  one 
recognises  the  other  as  his  guest,  exchange  pre- 
sents. This  affecting  picture  of  the  piety  with 
which  the  laws  of  hospitality  were  observed  in 
war  itself,  can  be  matched  with  a  description 
of  knightly  magnanimity  in  Ariosto,  where  two 
knights  and  rivals,  Ferran  and  Rinaldo,  the  one 
a  Saracen,  the  other  a  Christian,  make  peace  after 
being  covered  with  wounds  in  a  violent  con- 
flict, and  mount  the  same  horse  in  order  to  seek 
and  bring  back  the  flying  Angelica.  Different 
as  both  examples  are,  they  still  coincide  in  the 
effect  upon  our  hearts,  since  both  depict  the 
beautiful  triumph  of  manners  over  passion,  and 
affect  us  with  their  naivete  of  disposition.  But 
how  differently  do  the  poets  undertake  the 
description  of  this  same  action.  Ariosto,  the 
citizen  of  a  later  age,  whose  manners  had 
deteriorated  in  simplicity,  cannot  conceal  his 
own  admiration  and  emotion  at  the  relation  of 
this  event.  The  feeling  of  the  remoteness  of 
these  manners  from  those  which  characterise 
his  age,  overpowers  him.  He  abandons  at  once 
the  delineation  of  the  object  and  appears  in  his 
own  person.    The  beautiful  stanzas  are  well 


380 


SCHILLER. 


known,  and  have  always  excited  special  admi- 
ration : 

■  O  noble  minds,  by  knights  of  old  possess'd  ! 
Two  faiths  they  knew,  one  love  their  hearts  profess'd : 
And  still  their  limbs  the  smarting  anguish  feel 
Of  strokes  indicted  by  the  hostile  steel. 
Through  winding  paths  and  lonely  woods  they  go, 
Yet  no  suspicion  their  brave  bosoms  know. 
At  length  the  horse,  with  double  spurring,  drew 
To  where  diverging  ways  appeared  in  view." 

(Hoole.) 

And  now  old  Homer !  Hardly  does  Diomed 
learn  from  the  relation  of  Glaucus,  his  rival, 
that  the  latter  is  a  guest  of  his  family  from  the 
father's  times  downward,  when  he  buries  his 
spear  in  the  ground,  talks  cordially  with  him, 
and  they  agree  in  future  to  avoid  each  other 
during  battle.    But  hear  Homer  himself: 

"Henceforth  let  our  spears 
Avoid  each  other  in  tumultuous  war  ; 
For  many  Trojans  and  renown'd  allies 
Have  I  to  slay,  whom  to  this  arm  some  god 
May  bring,  or  else  my  speed  may  overtake  ; 
And  many  Greeks  there  are  for  thee  to  slay, 
Whome'er  thou  canst ;  but  let  us  arms  exchange, 
That  all  who  see  our  conference  may  know 
We  boast  to  be  hereditary  guests. 
This  said,  both  heroes  leaping  from  their  cars, 
With  mutual  kindness  joined  their  hands  and  pledged 
The  faith  of  friendship  I" 

A  modern  poet  (at  least  one  who  is  so  in  the 
moral  sense  of  that  word)  would  have  hardly 
waited  until  now,  in  order  to  testify  his  plea- 
sure at  the  action.  And  we  should  the  easier 
pardon  him  for  it,  since  our  heart  also  makes  a 
pause  in  the  reading,  and  withdraws  from  the 
object,  in  order  to  contemplate  itself.  But  no 
trace  of  all  this  in  Homer:  he  proceeds  in  his 
barren  truthfulness,  as  if  he  had  announced  an 
every-day  affair,  nay,  as  if  he  bore  no  heart  in 
his  bosom : 

"  Then  Saturaian  love 
Exalted  Glaucus'  liberal  mind,  who  gave 
His  golden  for  Tydides'  brazen  arms, 
Although  a  hundred  oxen  his  were  worth, 
And  those  of  Diomed  no  more  than  nine." 

(Mtmfords'  Translation.) 

Poets  of  this  naive  kind  are  properly  no 
longer  in  their  place  in  an  artificial  age.  In 
fact  they  are  hardly  possible  there,  at  least  only 
if  they  run  wild,  and  are  saved  from  the  crip- 
pling influence  of  their  times  by  a  fortunate 
destiny.  They  can  never  proceed  out  of  society 
itself;  but  they  sometimes  appear  beyond  its 
limits,  yet  rather  as  strangers  who  astonish  us, 
and  as  untamed  children  of  nature  who  scanda- 
lise us.  Beneficial  as  such  phenomena  are  for 
the  artist  who  studies  them,  and  for  the  genuine 
connoisseur  who  knows  how  to  estimate  them, 
they  prosper  little  on  the  whole  with  their 
period.  The  seal  of  ruler  rests  upon  their 
brow ;  but  we  prefer  to  be  rocked  and  carried 
by  the  muses.  The  Critics,  who  are  the  special 
hedge-trimmers  of  taste,  hate  them  as  bound- 
breakers,  and  would  fain  suppress  them.  For 
Homer  himself  need  thank  only  the  power  of 
more  than  a  Millenium  of  evidence,  for  the 
toleration  of  these  aesthetic  judges  :  it  would 
harass  them  not  a  little  to  maintain  their  rules 


against  his  example,  and  his  reputation  against 

their  rules. 

I  said  that  the  poet  either  i6  nature,  or  he 
will  seek  her.  If  the  former,  he  is  naive;  if  the 
latter,  he  is  sentimental. 

The  poetic  spirit  is  immortal  and  inalienable 
in  humanity:  it  cannot  fail  except  simultane- 
ously with  that  and  with  the  poetic  inclination. 
For  when  the  man  removes  himself,  by  the 
freedom  of  his  fancy  and  his  understanding, 
from  the  simplicity,  truth,  and  necessity  of 
nature,  not  only  the  road  to  her  remains  forever 
open  to  him,  but  a  mightier  and  more  inde- 
structible instinct,  the  moral,  also  impels  him 
constantly  back  to  her ;  and  the  poetic  capacity 
stands  in  the  closest  relationship  with  this  very 
instinct.  That,  then,  is  not  also  lost  together 
with  natural  simplicity,  but  only  operates  in 
another  channel. 

Nature  is  still  the  only  flame  which  nourishes 
the  poetic  spirit ;  it  creates  its  whole  energy  out 
of  her  alone,  and  speaks  to  her  even  in  the 
artificial  man  comprised  within  his  culture. 
Every  other  mode  of  operation  is  foreign  to  the 
poetic  spirit;  hence,  by  the  way,  all  so  called 
works  of  humor  are  improperly  styled  poetic, 
although,  guided  by  the  reputation  of  French 
literature,  we  have  for  a  long  time  confounded 
the  two  qualities.  It  is  still  nature,  I  say,  that 
even  in  the  artificial  conditions  of  culture,  gives 
energy  to  the  poetic  spirit;  only  she  stands  in 
a  relation  to  it  entirely  new. 

It  is  evident  that,  while  man  continues  to  be 
pure  and  not  rude  nature,  he  acts  as  an  un- 
divided sensuous  unity  and  as  a  harmonizing 
whole.  Sense  and  reason,  the  receptive  and 
the  creative  faculty,  are  not  yet  separate  in  their 
operations,  much  less  do  they  stand  in  opposi- 
tion. The  perceptions  of  the  one  are  not  the 
formless  sport  of  chance,  the  ideas  of  the  other 
are  not  the  barren  play  of  fancy ;  the  former 
result  from  the  law  of  necessity,  the  latter  from 
reality.  When  man  has  passed  into  the  state 
of  culture,  and  art  has  lain  her  hand  upon  him, 
that  sensuous  harmony  within  him  is  removed, 
and  he  can  only  express  himself  as  a  moral 
unity,  that  is,  as  striving  after  unity.  The  agree- 
ment between  his  perception  and  reflection, 
which  took  place  in  the  first  condition  actually, 
now  exists  only  ideally.  It  is  no  longer  in  him, 
but  out  of  him ;  as  a  thought  which  has  yet  to 
be  realized,  and  no  longer  as  a  fact  of  his  life. 
If  now  we  apply  the  conception  of  poetry, 
which  is  none  other  than  to  give  humanity  its 
completest  possible  expression,  to  both  the  above 
conditions,  the  result  is,  that  in  the  condition  of 
natural  simplicity,  where  the  man  still  acts  with 
all  his  powers  at  once  as  a  harmonious  unity, 
and  where  therefore  the  totality  of  his  nature 
fully  expresses  itself  in  reality,  the  completest 
possible  imitation  of  the  actual  must  make  the 
poet ;  that  on  the  contrary,  in  the  condition  of 
culture,  where  that  harmonious  co-operation  of 
his  whole  nature  is  only  an  idea,  the  elevation 
of  reality  to  the  ideal,  or  what  amounts  to  the 


SCHI 


same  thing,  the  representation  of  the  ideal  must 
make  the  poet.  And  these  are  also  the  two 
only  possible  modes  in  which  the  poetic  genius 
can  find  expression.  They  are,  as  we  see, 
entirely  distinct;  but  there  is  a  higher  concep- 
tion which  comprehends  them  both,  and  we 
l  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  this  conception 
coinciding  with  the  idea  of  humanity. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  pursue  farther  this 
thought,  which  only  a  special  discussion  can 
place  in  its  full  light.  But  whoever  knows  how 
to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  ancient 
and  modern  poets*,  not  only  according  to  acci- 
dental forms,  but  according  to  the  spirit,  can 
easily  be  satisfied  of  its  truth.  The  former  affect 
us  through  their  nature,  through  sensuous  truth, 
through  living  presence :  the  latter  affect  us 
through  ideas. 

Moreover,  this  path  which  the  modern  poets 
travel,  is  the  same  which  man  must  commonly 
pursue,  as  well  in  the  part  as  in  the  whole. 
Nature  makes  him  one  with  himself,  Art  sepa- 
rates and  divides  him,  the  Ideal  restores  his 
unity.  But  since  the  ideal  is  an  infinity  which 
man  never  reaches,  the  cultivated  man  can 
never  become  perfect  in  his  mode,  as  the  na- 
tural man  is  able  to  become  in  his.  Then  he 
must  be  infinitely  inferior  to  the  latter  in  per- 
fection, if  regard  is  had  only  to  the  relation  in 
which  both  stand  to  their  mode  and  their  maxi- 
mum. On  the  contrary,  if  we  compare  together 
the  modes  themselves,  it  is  evident  that  the  goal 
for  which  the  man  strives  through  culture,  is 
infinitely  superior  to  that  which  he  attains 
through  nature.  The  one  then  acquires  his 
value  through  positive  attainment  of  a  finite, 
the  other  desires  it  through  approximation  to 
an  infinite,  magnitude.  But  since  the  latter  has 
only  degree  and  progress,  the  relative  worth  of 
the  cultivated  man,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  never 
determinable,  although  when  partially  regarded 
he  is  found  in  necessary  inferiority  to  him  in 
whom  nature  acts  in  her  whole  perfection.  But 
in  so  far  as  the  final  goal  of  humanity  can  only 
be  reached  through  that  progress,  and  the  na- 
tural man  can  only  proceed  according  as  he 
cultivates  himself,  and  consequently  passes  over 
into  the  other  condition, — there  is  no  question 
to  which  of  the  two  the  preference  is  to  be 
awarded,  with  respect  to  that  final  goal. 

What  has  here  been  said  of  the  two  distinct 
forms  of  humanity,  may  also  be  applied  to  both 
those  poetic  forms  corresponding  to  them. 

For  this  reason  we  ought  not  to  compare  to- 


*  Perhaps  it  is  not  superfluous  to  mention,  that  if  the 
modern  poets  are  here  set  opposite  to  the  ancient,  we 
are  to  understand  not  so  much  the  difference  in  time  as 
the  difference  in  manner.  We  have  also  in  modern  and 
even  in  the  latest  times,  naive  poems  in  all  classes,  though 
no  longer  of  a  style  entirely  pure  ;  and  there  is  no  want 
of  the  sentimental  among  the  old  Latin,  and  even  Grecian 
poets.  We  frequently  find  both  kinds  united,  not  only  in 
the  same  poet,  but  even  in  the  same  work,  as  for  exam- 
ple in  the  Sorrows  of  Werter.  Productions  of  this  kind 
Kill  always  have  a  superior  effect. 


LLER.  381 


gether  ancient  and  modern  —  naive  and  senti- 
mental—  poets,  or,  if  we  do,  only  beneath  a 
higher  conception  common  to  both  :  for  such  an 
one  there  really  is.  For  certainly,  if  we  have 
once  partially  abstracted  the  generic  conception 
of  poetry  from  the  old  poets,  nothing  is  easier, 
but  nothing  also  is  more  trivial,  than  to  under- 
value the  moderns  in  comparison.  If  we  only 
call  that  poetry,  which  has  uniformly  affected 
simple  nature  in  all  times,  the  only  result  will 
be  to  render  dubious  the  name  of  poet  as  ap- 
plied to  moderns  exactly  in  their  highest  and 
most  peculiar  beauty,  because  it  is  precisely 
here  that  they  speak  only  to  the  disciple  of  art, 
and  have  nothing  to  say  to  simple  nature.*  The 
richest  contents  will  be  empty  show,  and  the 
highest  flight  of  poetry  will  be  exaggeration  to 
him  whose  mind  is  not  already  prepared  to 
pass  out  of  reality  into  the  province  of  ideas. 
The  wish  can  never  occur  to  a  reasonable  man, 
to  set  a  modern  side  by  side  with  that  in  which 
Homer  is  great;  and  it  sounds  laughable  enough 
to  hear  a  Milton  or  a  Klopstock  styled  the  mo- 
dern Homer.  And  just  as  little  would  any  an- 
cient poet,  least  of  all  Homer,  be  able  to  main- 
tain a  comparison  with  the  modern  poet  in  his 
characteristics.  The  former,  if  I  may  so  express 
it,  is  powerful  through  the  art  of  limitation ;  the 
latter  through  the  art  of  illimitation. 

And  from  the  fact  that  the  strength  of  the 
ancient  artist  (for  what  has  here  been  said  of 
the  poet,  can  also  be  applied  in  general  to  the 
liberal  artist,  under  the  restrictions  which  na- 
turally occur)  consisted  in  limitation,  we  may 
explain  the  high  superiority  which  the  plastic 
art  of  antiquity  asserts  over  that  of  modern 
times ;  and,  in  general,  the  unequal  relation  of 
value  in  which  modern  poetry  and  modern 
plastic  art  stand  to  both  species  of  art  in  anti- 
quity. A  work  for  the  eye  finds  its  perfection 
only  in  limitation  :  a  work  for  the  imagination 
can  also  attain  it  through  the  unlimited.  Hence 
a  modern's  preponderance  in  ideas  helps  him 
little  in  plastic  works ;  he  is  compelled  here  to 
define  in  space  most  rigidly  the  image  of  his 
fancy,  and  consequently  to  measure  himself 
with  the  ancient  artist  precisely  in  that  quality, 
in  which  the  latter  holds  the  indisputable  palm. 
It  is  otherwise  in  poetic  works ;  and  though  the 
ancient  poets  conquer  here  also  in  the  simplicity 
of  their  means,  and  in  that  which  is  sensuously 

*  It  became  Moliere  at  any  rate,  as  a  naive  poet,  to 
leave  to  the  decision  of  his  maid-servant,  what  should 
stand  in  his  comedies  and  what  should  be  subtracted.  It 
were  to  be  wished  that  the  masters  of  the  French  cothuru 
had  also  tried  that  test  upon  their  tragedies.  But  I  do 
not  mean  to  propose  that  a  similar  test  should  be  applied 
to  the  Odes  of  Klopstock,  to  the  finest  passages  in  the 
Messiah,  in  Paradise  Lost,  in  Nathan  the  Wise,  and 
many  other  pieces.  But  what  do  I  say  ?  This  test  is  ac- 
tually applied,  and  Moliere's  maid  reasons  at  full  sweep, 
in  our  critical  libraries,  philosophical  and  literary  annals 
and  travels,  upon  poetry,  art,  and  the  like ;  only,  as  is 
reasonable,  a  little  more  insipidly  on  German  than  on 
French  soil,  and  in  keeping  with  the  style  in  the  ser- 
vants'-hall  of  German  literature. 


382 


SCHILLER. 


presentable  and  corporeal, — the  moderns  in  their 
turn  leave  them  behind  in  profusion  of  material, 
in  that  which  is  irrepresentable  and  ineffable, 
and  in  short,  in  that  which  we  call  spirit  in  a 
work  of  art. 

As  the  naive  poet  follows  only  simple  nature 
and  perception,  and  confines  himself  only  to 
imitation  of  reality,  he  can  only  hold  a  single 
relation  to  his  subject,  and  in  this  respect,  he 
has  no  choice  in  his  mode  of  handling.  The 
different  impression  of  naive  poems  depends 
(presupposing  that  we  abstract  all  therein  which 
pertains  to  the  contents,  and  regard  that  impres- 
sion only  as  the  pure  effect  of  the  poetic  hand- 
ling), only,  I  remark,  upon  the  different  de- 
gree of  one  and  the  same  perceptive  method. 
Even  the  difference  in  the  external  forms  can 
make  no  alteration  in  the  quality  of  that  aesthe- 
tic impression.  Let  the  form  be  lyric  or  epic, 
dramatic  or  descriptive,  we  may  indeed  ex- 
perience emotions  more  or  less  powerful,  but 
never  of  different  kinds,  supposing  the  contents 
abstracted.  Our  feeling  is  altogether  the  same, 
composed  entirely  of  one  element,  so  that  we 
can  distinguish  in  it  nothing  else.  Even  the 
difference  of  tongues  and  times  makes  no  alter- 
ation in  this  respect;  for  this  pure  unity  of  their 
origin  and  their  effect  is  precisely  one  charac- 
teristic of  naive  poetry. 

The  case  is  entirely  different  with  the  senti- 
mental poet.  He  reflects  upon  the  impression 
which  the  objects  make  upon  him,  and  the  emo- 
tion into  which  he  throws  us  and  is  thrown 
himself,  is  only  based  upon  that  reflection. 


Here  the  object  is  related  to  an  idea,  and  its 
poetic  power  only  rests  upon  that  relation. 
Hence  the  sentimental  poet  is  always  involved 
with  two  conflicting  representations  and  per-  I 
ceptions,  with  reality  as  a  limit  and  with  his 
idea  as  the  unlimited :  and  the  mingled  feeling 
which  he  excites  will  always  betray  this  two- 
fold source.*  Since,  then,  a  plurality  of  princi- 
ples here  occurs,  it  depends  upon  which  of  the 
two  predominates  in  the  poet's  perception  and 
in  his  representation,  and  a  difference  in  the 
handling  is  consequently  possible.  For  now 
the  question  arises,  whether  he  will  be  more 
occupied  with  the  real,  or  more  with  the  ideal, 
whether  he  will  treat  the  former  as  an  object  ' 
of  aversion,  or  the  latter  as  an  object  of  inclina- 
tion. Then  his  representation  will  either  be 
satirical,  or  it  will  be  elegiac  (in  a  wider  signi- 
fication of  this  word,  hereafter  to  be  explained). 
Every  sentimental  poet  will  conform  to  one  of 
these  two  methods  of  perception. 


♦Whoever  notices  the  impression  which  naive  poems 
make  upon  himself,  and  is  able  to  disconnect  therefrom 
the  sympathy  created  by  the  contents,  will  find  this  im- 
pression, even  in  very  pathetic  subjects,  always  cheerful, 
always  pure,  always  tranquil :  while  that  of  sentimental 
poems  is  always  somewhat  grave  and  intensive.  The 
reason  is,  that  while  in  the  case  of  naive  representations, 
be  the  action  what  it  will,  we  always  rejoice  at  the  truth, 
at  the  living  presence  of  the  object  in  our  imagination, 
and  seek  nothing  more  than  this, —  in  the  sentimental, 
on  the  contrary,  we  have  to  unite  the  presentation  of  the 
imagination  with  an  idea  of  the  reason,  which  always 
leaves  us  irresolute  between  two  different  conditions. 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE. 


Bom  17C2.   Died  1814. 


This  brave  and  devoted  spirit  claims  our  in- 
terest as  the  impersonation  of  transcendental 
ethics.  Among-  the  illustrious  four*  whose 
names  are  most  intimately  associated  with  the 
recent  movement  in  German  philosophy,  his 
function  is  that  of  moralist;  a  preacher  of 
righteousness.  As  a  character,  he  is  incom- 
parably the  most  interesting  of  them  all ;  as  a 
writer,  incomparably  the  most  able  and  im- 
pressive. The  eloquence  of  transcendentalism 
found  in  him  its  highest  development. 

Fichte  recalls  more  than  any  modern  the 
heroes  of  the  Stoa.  The  stern  Promethean  vigor 
of  that  ancient  school  flowers  anew  in  his  word 
and  in  his  character,  which  was  no  less  em- 
phatic than  his  word.  Goethe,  with  customary 
aptness  of  characterisation,  calls  him  "  one  of 
the  most  vigorous  personalities"!  that  ever  was 
seen.  Few  philosophers  have  so  honored  their 
theory  with  personal  illustrations.  He  carried 
his  philosophy  into  life  and  his  life  into  philoso- 
phy, acting  as  he  spoke,  from  an  eminence 
above  the  level  of  the  world.  He  created  for 
himself,  out  of  the  fruitful  bosom  of  his  own 
ideality,  a  world  of  his  own, — a  world  of  great 
thoughts  and  lofty  aims,  in  which  he  had  his 
being  and  lived  apart  from  his  contemporaries, 
even  while  he  mingled  with  them  in  the  thick- 
est tumult  of  life,  and  threw  himself  with  all 
his  presence  into  the  sore  conflict  of  his  time. 

In  speculation,  Fichte  was  closely  and  gene- 
tically related  to  Kant.  The  Wissenschaftslehre 
would  never  have  been  conceived,  it  is  probable, 
had  not  the  Kritik  der  reinen  Vernunft  pre- 
ceded. But  he  differed  from  his  predecessor  in 
the  practical  tendency  of  his  nature ;  and  this 
it  is  which  gives  so  decided  a  moral  tone  and 
direction  to  his  philosophy.  Kant  was  satisfied 
with  the  bare  contemplation  of  abstract  truth. 
Fichte  would  fain  realise  the  truth  in  action ; 
he  would  bring  it  to  bear  on  the  civil  and  social 
existence  of  man,  or  at  least,  on  his  own.  He 
would  make  the  word  flesh  in  his  life.  The 
one  resembled  a  mountain-lake  embosomed  in 

*  Kant,  Fichte.  Schelling,  Hegel. 

t  Eine  der  tiichtigsten  (doughtiest)  Pers'dnlichkeiten. 


deep  solitude,  which,  he  who  would  know  it, 
must  make  a  special  pilgrimage  to  visit.  The 
other  was  like  a  river,  which,  springing  from 
that  lake,  precipitates  itself  with  passionate 
force  on  the  plain  below,  and  then,  more  calmly, 
gathers  up  its  channelled  waters  and  hastens 
with  its  full  heart  to  make  glad  the  region 
through  which  it  flows.  Fichte  took  a  lively 
interest  in  the  social  and  political  questions  of 
the  day,  and,  as  far  as  his  function  permitted, 
an  active  part  in  the  great  movements  by  which 
those  questions  were  tried.  He  was  an  apostle 
of  liberty  to  his  countrymen,  and  by  his  "Reden 
an  die  Deutschen"  did  much  to  awaken  that 
resistance  to  Napoleon  which  finally  resulted 
in  their  emancipation  from  his  dominion. 

Notwithstanding  this  strong  practical  bias, 
Fichte  was  a  thorough  idealist  in  philosophy. 
A  more  radical  and  consistent  system  of  ideal- 
ism than  the  Wissenschaftslehre  was  never 
offered  to  the  world.  What  Kant  had  indicated 
critically  and  negatively,  Fichte  endeavored  to 
establish  constructively;  i.  e.  the  subjective- 
ness  of  all  our  cognitions  and  experience.  He 
reascends  the  path  by  which  Kant  had  descend- 
ed in  his  analysis,  and  taking  his  stand  in  the 
conscious  I,  endeavors  thence  to  construct  a 
world.  Nothing  exists  but  the  I ;  and  all  our 
experience,  and  the  external  world,  as  the  ob- 
ject of  that  experience,  is  a  creation  of  the  I, 
but  a  necessary  creation.  Fichte  endeavors  to 
develop  the  laws  by  which  this  creation  pro- 
ceeds. The  idea  of  duty  in  this  system  is  a 
creative  principle.  Beings  exist  for  us  only  as 
we  have  duties  toward  them.  The  fact  of 
moral  obligation  is  the  central  fact  which  de- 
termines all  things  for  moral  agents. 

The  system  was  never  popular,  as,  indeed, 
no  idealistic  system  ever  was  or  can  be.  It 
was  made  the  subject  of  numberless  satires,  of 
which  the  most  remarkable  is  the  Clavis  Fich- 
tiana  of  Jean  Paul.  But  Fichte's  influence  is 
independent  of  his  system ;  the  great  thoughts 
which  he  put  forth  still  heave  the  heart  of  Ger- 
many, and  his  word  is  one  of  the  powers  which 
now  mould  the  world. 

(383) 


FICHTE. 


384 


Fichte  was  the  son  of  a  ribbon-manufacturer 
at  Rammenau,  near  BischofTswerda,  in  Upper 
Lusatia.  The  distinguished  promise  of  his 
childhood  procured  him  a  patron  in  a  certain 
Herr  von  Miltitz,  and,  through  him,  the  means 
of  education  which  his  father's  poverty  would 
not  allow.  He  was  placed  at  the  High  School, 
Schulpforte,  then  a  Saxon  Seminary.  He 
studied  theology  successively  at  Jena,  Leipzig, 
and  Wittenberg.  In  1788,  he  accepted  the 
office  of  private  tutor  to  a  family  in  Zurich. 
Here  he  became  acquainted  with  his  future 
wife  and  was  betrothed.  In  1790,  he  returned 
to  Leipzig,  and  devoted  himself  to  study,  par- 
ticularly the  study  of  the  Kantian  philosophy. 
In  1791,  he  went  to  Warsaw  in  compliance 
with  an  invitation  to  become  a  teacher  in  that 
city.  But  the  situation  did  not  please  him,  and 
he  soon  abandoned  it.  On  his  return,  he  tar- 
ried some  time  in  Konigsberg,  where  he  became 
acquainted  with  Kant,  and  where,  with  the  hope 
of  making  himself  better  known  to  that  great 
philosopher,  he  published  his  "  Kritik  alter 
Offenbarung"  (criticism  of  all  revelation). 
The  work  was  anonymous,  and  was  universally 
believed  to  be  Kant's,  until  he  himself  pointed 
out  the  true  author.  Then  Fichte's  name  blos- 
somed at  once  into  a  wide  and  brilliant  reputa- 
tion, as  the  second  great  philosopher  of  Ger- 
many ;  and  in  1794,  he  was  called  to  succeed 
Reinhold  in  the  Professorial  chair  of  Philoso- 
phy at  Jena.  His  influence  on  the  students 
wras  great  and  beneficent,  but  misunderstand- 
ings between  him  and  his  colleagues,  the  charge 


of  atheism  with  which  it  was  attempted  to  pre- 
judice the  Government  against  him,  together 
with  numerous  other  vexations,  induced  him  to 
resign  his  office;  and  in  1799,  he  went  to  Ber- 
lin, where  he  lived  for  awhile  in  literary  retire- 
ment. He  was  afterwards  made  Professor  of 
Philosophy  in  Erlangen ;  but  the  war-troubles 
of  that  stormy  period  drove  him  to  Konigsberg, 
and  later  to  Copenhagen.  In  1807,  he  return- 
ed to  Berlin  once  more,  and  with  his  "Ad- 
dresses to  the  German  Nation,"  and  his  lec- 
tures, labored  intrepidly  and  indefatigably  for 
the  cause  of  freedom  and  German  indepen- 
dence. In  1809,  he  was  made  Professor  of 
Philosophy  at  the  new  University  of  Berlin,  to 
which  he  rendered  incalculable  service,  both  as 
lecturer  and  as  counsellor  in  its  affairs.  During 
the  "  war  of  liberation,"  as  it  is  called,  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  anew  by  his  courage  and 
his  patriotism,  and  died  January  27th,  1814,  of 
a  fever  contracted  by  assiduous  watching  at  the 
sick-bed  of  his  wife,  who  had  contracted  the 
same  by  her  own  ministrations  to  the  sick  and 
wounded,  in  a  time  of  general  distress. 

In  the  first  church-yard  from  the  Oranien- 
burg  gate,  of  Berlin,  stands  a  tall  obelisk  with 
this  inscription : — 

THE  TEACHERS   SHALL  SHINE 
AS  THE    BRIGHTNESS  OF  THE  FIRMAMENT; 
AND  THEY  THAT  TURN  MANY  TO  RIGHTEOUSNESS 
AS  THE  STARS  FOREVER  AND  EVER. 

It  marks  the  grave  of  Fichte.  The  faithful 
partner  of  his  life  sleeps  at  his  feet 


THE  DESTINATION  OF  MAN. 

INTRODUCTORY  REMARK. 

[This  work  is  intended  to  present,  in  a  popu- 
lar form,  certain  results  of  the  Transcendental 
Philosophy,  or  rather  of  the  last  Fichtean  modi- 
fication of  that  Philosophy.  "Whatever  of  the 
new  philosophy  is  available  out  of  the  School," 
says  the  author  in  his  preface,  "is  to  constitute 
the  subject  of  this  work  ;  presented  in  that  order 
in  which  it  would  naturally  unfold  itself  to  art- 
less reflection." — "The  book  is  not  designed  for 
philosophers  by  profession,  and  they  will  find 
nothing  in  it  which  has  not  already  been  set 
forth  in  the  author's  previous  writings.  It  was 
meant  to  be  intelligible  to  all  readers  who  are 
capable  of  understanding  a  book  at  all.  Un- 
doubtedly, it  will  be  thought  unintelligible  by 
those  who  seek  for  nothing  but  a  repetition,  in 
a  somewhat  different  order,  of  phrases  which 


they  have  already  learned  by  heart,  and  who 
mistake  this  act  of  memory  for  an  act  of  the 
understanding." 

The  plan  of  the  work  is  this.  The  author 
supposes  a  mind. — as  yet  unversed  in  metaphy- 
sical inquiries,  but  otherwise  cultivated, — just 
beginning  to  speculate  on  its  own  nature  and 
destiny,  and  the  grounds  of  all  being  and  know- 
ing. He  follows  what  he  supposes  to  be  the 
natural  course  of  such  a  mind,  through  three 
successive  stages,  which  constitute  the  three 
divisions  of  the  work.  The  first  book  is  headed, 
"Doubt."  It  leaves  the  inquirer  in  a  state  of 
painful  conflict  between  the  instinctive  belief 
of  the  soul  and  the  fatalistic  conclusions  to  which 
his  reasonings  have  brought  him.  The  second 
book,  entitled  "  Knowledge,"  overthrows  the 
whole  fabric  of  sensible  experience,  and  de- 
monstrates that  we  properly  know  nothing  be- 
yond our  momentary  consciousness,  and  that 


FICHTE. 


385 


consciousness,  the  mere  reflection  of  a  reflection, 
"  the  dream  of  a  dream."  I  cannot  say :  / 
feel,  perceive,  think  ;  but  only  :  "  there  appears 
a  thought"  of  somewhat,  that  I  call  me,  feeling, 
perceiving,  thinking.  In  short,  this  stage  lands 
us  in  absolute  Pyrrhonism.  At  the  same  time, 
the  author  refers  us,  for  our  satisfaction,  to  an- 
other "organ"  than  that  of  Knowledge.  That 
other  organ,  "Faith,"  furnishes  the  title  and 
constitutes  the  subject  of  the  third  book.  Faith 
rebuilds,  on  moral  grounds,  the  fabric  which 
speculation  had  destroyed.  Not  speculation, 
but  action,  is  the  end  of  being.  The  call  to  act 
is  instinctive ;  it  is  divine.  If  we  accept  that 
call  in  faith  and  obey  it,  we  resolve  ourselves 
of  our  doubts,  so  far  as  our  act  extends.  We 
assure  ourselves,  at  least,  of  the  topics  of  action. 
Duty  restores  to  us  a  God,  an  external  world, 
our  own  identity  and  continuity  of  being ;  and 
unfolds  to  us,  as  individuals  and  as  a  race,  a 
destination  worthy  all  our  powers  and  all  our 
love. 

Thus  the  inquiry  ends  by  legitimating  the 
innate  convictions  of  the  mind.  It  reconciles 
us  to  all  that  is  or  shall  be,  as  divinely  appointed 
process  and  end ;  and  yields  an  impregnable 
peace,  as  its  practical  result.  Tr.] 

FROM  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 
DOUBT. 

Now  then,  at  length,  I  believe  myself  ac- 
quainted with  a  good  part  of  the  world  which 
surrounds  me !  And  indeed  I  have  bestowed 
sufficient  pains  and  care  in  becoming  so.  I 
have  credited  only  the  consenting  testimony  of 
my  senses,  and  uniform  experience.  What  I 
saw  I  have  touched,  what  I  touched  I  have 
analysed.  I  have  repeated  my  observations 
and  repeated  them  again.  I  have  compared 
different  appearances  with  each  other ;  and  not 
till  I  had  comprehended  their  precise  connec- 
tion,— not  till  I  could  explain  and  derive  the 
one  from  the  other,  could  calculate  beforehand 
the  result  that  was  to  follow,  and  the  observa- 
tion of  the  result  corresponded  to  my  calcula- 
tion,—  have  I  allowed  myself  to  be  satisfied. 
Wherefore  I  am  now  as  sure  of  the  correctness 
of  this  portion  of  my  knowledge,  as  of  my  own 
existence.  I  tread  with  firm  step  the  familiar 
sphere  of  my  world,  and  am  ready  at  any  mo- 
ment to  stake  my  being  and  well-being  on  the 
infallibility  of  my  convictions. 

But,  —  what  am  I  myself,  and  what  is  my 
destination  ? 

Superfluous  question !  It  is  long  ago  since 
my  instruction  on  this  point  was  brought  to  a 
close.  It  would  require  time  to  repeat  to  my- 
self all  that  I  have  heard  in  detail  and  learned 
and  believed  respecting  it. 

And  in  what  way  did  I  arrive  at  this  know- 
ledge which  I  dimly  remember  to  possess  1  Did 
I,  impelled  by  a  burning  thirst  for  knowledge, 
work  my  way  through  uncertainty,  through 
doubt  and  contradiction  ?  Did  I,  when  anything 
credible  offered  itself,  suspend  my  judgment, 
2t 


prove  what  was  probable,  and  prove  it  again, 
illustrate  and  compare  ;  until  an  inward  voice, 
unmistakeable  and  irresistible,  called  to  me:  It 
is  so,  and  only  so !  as  surely  as  thou  livest  and 
hast  thy  being  ?  No  !  I  remember  no  such  state. 
Instruction  on  those  subjects  was  offered  me 
before  I  desired  it.  I  was  answered  before  I 
had  put  the  question.  I  listened  because  I  could 
not  avoid  it.  There  remained  fixed  in  my  me- 
mory so  much  as  it  pleased  Chance  to  preserve. 
Without  examination,  and  without  interest,  I 
let  everything  be  as  it  was  given. 

How  then  can  I  persuade  myself  that  I  pos- 
sess, in  fact,  any  knowledge  on  this  subject?  If 
I  can  know  and  be  convinced  of  that  alone 
which  I  myself  have  discovered, — if  I  am  act- 
ually acquainted  with  that  only  which  I  myself 
have  experienced, — then  I  cannot  say,  in  truth, 
that  I  possess  the  least  knowledge  respecting 
my  own  destination.  I  know  only  what  others 
profess  to  know  concerning  it;  and  all  that  I 
can  really  affirm  is  this,  that  I  have  heard  such 
and  such  things  in  relation  to  it. 

So  then,  while  I  have  investigated  for  my- 
self with  accurate  care  the  less  important,  I 
have  hitherto  relied  on  the  care  and  fidelity  of 
strangers  in  regard  to  the  most  important.  I 
have  imputed  to  others  an  interest  in  the  highest 
concerns  of  Humanity,  an  earnestness,  a  preci- 
sion which  I  had  by  no  means  discovered  in 
myself.  I  have  estimated  them  unspeakably 
higher  than  myself. 

Whatever  truth  they  know,  from  whence 
can  they  know  it  except  from  their  own  reflec- 
tion ?  And  why  may  not  I  discover  the  same 
truth  by  the  same  reflection,  since  I  avail  as 
much  as  they'?  How  have  I  hitherto  underva- 
lued and  despised  myself! 

I  will  that  it  be  so  no  longer.  With  this  mo- 
ment I  will  enter  upon  my  rights  and  take  pos- 
session of  the  dignity  which  belongs  to  me. 
Renounced  be  everything  foreign !  I  will  in- 
vestigate for  myself.  Be  it  that  secret  wishes 
as  to  how  the  investigation  may  terminate, — be 
it  that  a  fore-loving  inclination  to  certain  tenets 
stirs  within  me.  I  forget  and  deny  it.  I  will 
allow  it  no  influence  on  the  direction  of  my 
thoughts.  With  severe  accuracy  I  will  go  to 
work.  With  candor  I  will  confess  to  myself 
the  whole.  Whatever  I  find  to  be  truth,  how- 
ever it  may  sound,  shall  be  welcome  to  me.  I 
will  know.  With  the  same  certainty  with  which 
I  reckon  that  this  ground  will  bear  me  when  I 
tread  upon  it,  that  this  fire  will  burn  me  when 
I  come  in  contact  with  it,  I  will  be  able  to  com- 
pute what  I  am  and  what  I  shall  be.  And  if 
this  shall  be  found  impossible,  I  will  at  least 
know  that  it  is  impossible.  And  even  to  this 
issue  of  my  investigation  I  will  submit  myself, 
if  it  shall  discover  itself  to  me  as  the  Truth. — I 
hasten  to  solve  the  problem  which  I  have  pro- 
posed to  myself. 

I  seize  on-speeding  Nature  in  her  flight,  ar- 
rest her  for  an  instant,  fix  firmly  in  my  eye  the 
33 


386  FICHTE. 


present  moment,  and  reflect  upon  it ! — upon  this 
Nature  by  which  my  power  of  thought  has 
hitherto  been  unfolded,  and  formed  for  those 
conclusions  which  are  valid  in  her  domain. 

I  am  surrounded  by  objects  which  I  am  con- 
strained to  regard  as  wholes,  existing  for  them- 
selves, and  mutually  distinguished  from  each 
other.  I  see  plants,  trees,  animals.  I  ascribe, 
to  each  individual,  qualities  and  characteristics 
by  which  I  distinguish  them  from  each  other ; 
to  this  plant  such  a  form,  to  another  a  different 
one ;  to  this  tree  leaves  of  such  a  figure,  to  an- 
other tree  leaves  of  a  different  figure. 

Each  object  has  its  determinate  number  of 
qualities,  none  over  and  none  under.  To  every 
question  whether  it  be  this  or  that?  one  who 
knows  it  thoroughly  can  always  answer  with  a 
decisive  yes  or  no,  which  puts  an  end  to  all 
vacillation  between  being  and  not  being.  Every- 
thing which  exists  is  this  something  or  it  is  not 
this  something.  It  is  colored  or  it  is  not  colored  ; 
has  this  hue  or  has  it  not,  is  pleasant  to  the 
taste  or  unpleasant,  is  palpable  or  impalpable, 
and  so  on,  indefinitely. 

Each  object  possesses  each  of  these  qualities 
in  a  determinate  degree.  If  there  is  a  scale  for 
a  certain  quality,  and  if  I  can  apply  that  scale, 
I  shall  find  a  certain  measure  of  that  quality 
which  it  does  not  in  the  least  degree  exceed  or 
fall  below.  If  I  measure  the  height  of  this  tree, 
it  is  determined ;  it  is  not  one  line  higher  or 
lower  than  it  is.  If  I  consider  the  green  of  its 
leaves,  it  is  a  determined  green,  not,  in  the  least 
degree,  darker  or  brighter,  fresher  or  more  faded 
than  it  is ;  though  I  may  have  neither  scale  nor 
words  to  define  it.  If  I  cast  my  eye  upon  this 
plant,  it  stands  at  a  certain  stage  between  its 
germination  and  its  maturity ;  not,  in  the  least 
degree,  nearer  to  or  farther  from  either  than  it 
is.  Everything  that  is,  is  thoroughly  deter- 
mined ;  it  is  what  it  is,  and  absolutely  nothing 
else. 

But  Nature  hurries  on  with  her  constant 
changes ;  and  while  I  speak  of  the  moment  on 
which  I  have  seized,  it  is  flown,  and  everything 
has  changed.  And  before  I  had  seized  it,  it 
was  likewise  altogether  different.  As  it  was 
when  I  seized  it,  it  had  not  always  been.  It 
became  such. 

Why  now  and  from  what  cause  did  it  be- 
come precisely  such  as  it  became?  Why, 
among  the  infinitely  various  determinations 
which  Nature  is  capable  of  assuming,  did  she 
assume,  in  this  moment,  precisely  these  which 
she  did  assume,  and  no  other? 

For  this  reason  :  Because  they  were  preceded 
by  precisely  those  which  did  precede  them,  and 
could  not  have  been  preceded  by  any  other ; 
and  because  they  followed  precisely  those,  and 
could  not  possibly  have  followed  any  other.  If, 
in  the  preceding  moment,  anything  had  been, 
in  the  least  degree,  other  than  it  was,  then,  in 
the  present,  also,  something  would  have  been 
other  than  it  is.    And  why,  in  the  preceding 


moment,  was  everything  such  as  it  was?  For 
this  reason :  Because  that  which  preceded  it, 
was  such  as  it  was.  And  that  again  depended 
on  the  one  which  went  before  it,  and  that  again 
on  its  predecessor,  and  so  on,  indefinitely  up- 
ward. Even  so,  in  the  next  following  moment, 
Nature  will  be  determined  as  she  will  be,  be- 
cause, in  the  present,  she  is  determined  as  she 
is.  And  in  this  next  following  moment  some- 
thing would  necessarily  be  otherwise  than  it 
will  be,  if,  in  the  present,  the  least  thing  were 
other  than  it  is.  And,  in  the  moment  which 
shall  follow  that,  everything  will  be  such  as  it 
will  be,  because,  in  this  next  following,  every- 
thing was  as  it  will  be.  And  so,  the  successor 
of  that  will  depend  upon  that,  as  itself  will 
have  depended  on  its  antecedent,  and  so  on, 
indefinitely  downward. 

Nature  travels  through  the  infinite  series  of 
her  possible  determinations  without  pause;  and 
the  changes  in  these  determinations  are  not  law- 
less, but  strictly  lawful.  Whatever  exists  in 
Nature  is  necessarily  what  it  is,  and  it  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  that  it  should  be  otherwise. 
I  enter  into  a  complete  chain  of  phenomena,  in 
which  every  link  is  determined  by  its  prede- 
cessor, and  determines  its  successor ;  a  fixed 
connection  of  things,  in  which,  from  any  given 
moment,  I  might  discover  by  mere  reflection, 
all  possible  states  of  the  universe,  ascending 
(a  parte  ante),  if  I  should  explain  the  given  mo- 
ment, descending  (a  parte  post),  if  I  should 
infer  from  it :  if  ascending,  I  should  seek  the 
causes  by  which  alone  it  could  be  what  it  is : 
if  descending,  I  should  seek  the  consequences 
which  must  necessarily  flow  from  it.  In  every 
part  I  receive  the  whole,  because,  it  is  only  by 
means  of  the  whole,  that  each  part  is  what  it 
is,  and  by  means  of  that,  it  is  necessarily  what 
it  is.  %  ^  %  %  ^ 

In  every  moment  of  her  duration,  Nature  is  a 
connected  whole.  In  every  moment  each  in- 
dividual part  of  her  must  be  what  it  is,  because, 
all  the  other  parts  are  as  they  are  ;  and  you  could 
not  move  a  grain  of  sand  from  its  place,  with- 
out producing  a  change,  invisible  perhaps  to 
your  eyes,  through  all  parts  of  the  immeasurable 
whole.  Every  moment  of  this  duration  is  de- 
termined by  all  the  past  moments  and  deter- 
mines all  the  coming  moments ;  and  you  can- 
not, in  the  moment  that  now  is,  suppose  the 
position  of  a  grain  of  sand  to  be  different,  with- 
out being  obliged  to  suppose  the  whole  past, 
indefinitely  ascending,  and  the  whole  future,  in- 
definitely descending,  to  be  different.  Make 
the  experiment,  if  you  will,  with  this  grain  of 
sea-sand,  which  you  behold.  Imagine  it  lying 
some  paces  farther  toward  the  interior.  Then, 
the  storm-wind  which  drove  it  hither  from  the 
sea,  must  have  been  stronger  than  it  actually 
was.  But  then,  too,  the  preceding  weather  by 
which  this  storm-wind  and  the  degree  of  its 
strength  were  determined,  must  have  been 
other  than  it  was ;  and  the  weather  by  which 
that,  in  like  manner,  was  preceded  and  deter- 


FICHTE. 


387 


mined.  And  so  you  have,  in  an  unlimited  and 
indefinitely  ascending  series,  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent temperature  of  the  air,  than  that  which 
actually  existed,  and  an  entirely  different  cha- 
racter of  the  bodies  which  influence  that  tem- 
perature and  are  influenced  by  it.  This  tem- 
perature has  unquestionably  a  very  decided 
influence  on  the  fruitfulness  or  unfruitfulness 
of  countries,  and  by  means  of  these,  and  even 
immediately,  on  the  duration  of  human  life. 
How  can  you  know, —  for,  since  it  is  not  per- 
mitted us  to  penetrate  into  the  interior  of  Na- 
ture, it  is  sufficient,  here,  to  indicate  possibili- 
ties.— how  can  you  know  but  that,  with  such  a 
quality  of  weather  as  would  have  been  required 
to  cast  this  grain  of  sand  farther  inward,  one 
of  your  forefathers  might  have  perished  with 
hunger,  or  cold,  or  heat,  before  he  begat  the  son 
from  whom  you  have  descended,  accordingly, 
that  you  could  not  be,  and  that  all  which  you 
think  to  effect,  in  the  present  and  for  the  future, 
could  not  be,  because  a  grain  of  sand  lies  in  a 
different  place  ? 

I  myself,  with  all  that  I  call  mine,  am  a  link 
in  this  chain  of  Nature's  strict  necessity.  There 
was  a  time  —  so  others  who  lived  in  that  time 
inform  me,  and  I  myself  am  necessitated,  by 
reasoning,  to  suppose  such  a  time,  of  which  I 
am  not  directly  conscious, — there  was  a  time  in 
which  as  yet  I  was  not,  and  a  moment  in  which 
I  began  to  be.  I  existed  only  for  others,  not  yet 
for  myself.  Since  then,  my  self-consciousness 
has  gradually  unfolded  itself,  and  I  have  dis- 
covered in  myself  certain  faculties  and  dis- 
positions, necessities  and  natural  cravings.  I 
am  a  determinate  existence,  which  at  some  time 
or  other  began  to  be. 

I  did  not  originate  of  myself.  It  would  be 
the  greatest  contradiction  to  suppose  that  I  was 
before  I  was,  in  order  to  bring  myself  into 
being.  I  became  actual,  by  means  of  another 
power,  exterior  to  myself.  And  by  what  other 
power  but  the  universal  power  of  Nature, 
since  I  am  a  part  of  Nature  ?  The  time  of  my 
origin,  and  the  qualities  with  which  I  originated, 
were  determined  by  this  universal  power  of 
Nature :  and  all  the  forms,  under  which  these 
inborn  ground-qualities  have  since  manifested 
themselves,  and  will  manifest  themselves,  so 
long  as  I  shall  continue  to  be,  are  determined 
by  the  same  power  of  Nature.  It  was  impos- 
sible that  another  than  me  should  have  origi- 
nated in  my  place.  It  is  impossible  that  the 
being  which  has  so  originated,  can,  in  any  mo- 
ment of  his  existence,  be  other  than  he  is  and 
shall  be. 

******* 
It  is  true  I  am  conscious  of  myself,  in  my  in- 
nermost being,  as  self-subsisting  and  free  in 
various  particulars  of  my  life.  But  this  con- 
sciousness may  be  easily  explained  by  the  prin- 
ciples which  have  been  established, and  be  made 
to  appear  perfectly  consistent  with  the  conclu- 
sions which  have  just  been  drawn.  My  im- 
mediate consciousness, — the  real  apperception, 


— does  not  extend  beyond  myself  and  my  con- 
ditions. I  know  nothing  immediately,  except 
my  own  states.  Whatever  I  am  enabled  to 
know,  beyond  these,  I  know  only  by  inference, 
in  the  same  way  in  which  I  have  just  now  in- 
ferred original  forces  in  Nature,  which,  by  no 
means,  come  within  the  circle  of  my  percep- 
tions. But  I — that  which  I  call  me, — my  per- 
son— am  not  the  man-making  power  of  Nature 
itself,  but  only  one  of  its  manifestations.  And 
only  of  this  manifestation  am  I  conscious,  as  of 
myself;  not  of  that  power.  That  is  only  an 
inference  to  which  I  am  led  by  the  necessity  of 
accounting  for  my  existence.  This  manifesta- 
tion, however,  in  its  proper  essence,  is  indeed 
the  product  of  an  original  and  self-subsisting 
power ;  and  must  be  found  such  in  conscious- 
ness. Hence  I  appear  to  myself  altogether  as 
a  self-subsisting  being.  For  the  same  reason,  I 
appear  to  myself  free,  in  particular  passages  of 
my  life,  when  these  passages  are  manifestations 
of  that  self-subsisting  power  which  has  fallen 
to  my  share  as  an  individual.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  appear  to  myself  restrained  and  limited, 
when,  owing  to  a  concatenation  of  external  cir- 
cumstances, originating  in  time, — not,  however, 
lying  in  the  original  determination  of  my  in- 
dividuality,—  I  cannot  do  that  which  I  might 
do,  so  far  as  my  individual  capacity  is  concern- 
ed. I  appear  to  myself  to  be  coerced  when 
this  individual  capacity  is  compelled,  by  a  su- 
perior power  opposed  to  it,  to  manifest  itself 
contrary  to  its  own  law. 

Give  a  tree  consciousness,  and  let  it  grow  un- 
obstructed, spread  forth  its  boughs  and  produce 
leaves,  buds,  blossoms,  fruits,  according  to  its 
kind.  It  certainly  will  not  feel  itself  restrain- 
ed, because  it  happens  to  be  a  tree,  and  one  of 
this  particular  species,  and  this  particular  in- 
dividual of  that  species.  It  will  feel  itself  free, 
because,  in  all  those  manifestations,  it  does 
nothing  but  what  its  nature  requires.  It  will 
not  choose  to  do  anything  else,  because  it  can 
only  choose  what  that  nature  requires.  But  let 
its  growth  be  restrained  by  unfavorable  wea- 
ther, by  want  of  nourishment,  or  other  causes  : 
it  will  feel  itself  limited  and  thwarted,  because 
an  impulse,  which  actually  resides  in  its  nature, 
is  not  satisfied.  Bind  its  freely  on  all  sides 
striving  limbs  to  a  trellis ;  force  strange  shoots 
upon  it  by  grafting;  and  it  will  feel  itself  co- 
erced in  its  action.  Its  limbs  indeed  continue 
to  grow,  but  not  in  that  direction  which  its 
forces  would  have  taken,  if  left  to  themselves. 
It  produces  fruits,  indeed,  but  not  those  which 
its  original  nature  required.  In  my  immediate 
consciousness  I  appear  to  myself  free.  When  I 
reflect  on  the  whole  of  Nature,  I  find  that  free- 
dom is  absolutely  impossible.  The  former 
must  be  subordinated  to  the  latter,  for  only  by 
means  of  the  latter  can  it  be  explained. 

What  high  satisfaction  does  this  system  give 
to  my  understanding!  What  order,  what  firm 
connection,  what  am  easy  oversight  does  it  in- 
troduce into  all  my  knowledge.  Consciousness, 


388 


FICHTE. 


according  to  this  system,  is  not  that  stranger  in 
Nature,  whose  connection  with  being  is  so  in- 
comprehensible. It  is  at  home  there,  and  even 
constitutes  one  of  Nature's  necessary  conditions. 
Nature  rises  gradually  in  the  fixed  gradation  of 
her  productions.  In  rude  matter  she  is  simple 
being.  In  organization  she  returns  into  herself 
in  order  to  act  upon  herself  internally; — in  the 
plant  to  shape  herself,  in  the  animal  to  move 
herself,  and  in  man,  as  her  highest  masterpiece, 
she  returns  into  herself  to  behold  and  contem- 
plate herself.  She  redoubles  herself,  as  it  were, 
in  him,  and  from  simple  being,  becomes  being 
and  consciousness  in  one. 

It  is  easy  to  explain,  in  this  connexion,  how 
I  should  know  of  my  own  being  and  its  condi- 
tions. My  being  and  knowing  have  one  com- 
mon ground, — my  nature  in  general.  There  is 
in  me  no  being  which  does  not  know  of  itself, 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  my  being. 

******* 

In  each  individual,  Nature  beholds  herself 
from  a  different  point  of  view.  I  call  myself  i, 
and  you  you.  You  call  yourself  I,  and  me  you. 
I  am  external  to  you,  as  you  are  external  to  me. 
Of  that  which  is  external  to  me,  I  comprehend 
first  my  nearest  limits.  You  comprehend  your 
nearest  limits.  Starting  from  this  point  we 
proceed,  each  through  the  next  succeeding  links, 
and  pass  on.  We  describe  very  different  series, 
which  here  and  there  perhaps  intersect  each 
other,  but  nowhere  run  side  by  side,  in  the 
same  direction.  All  possible  individuals,  and, 
accordingly,  all  possible  view -points  of  con- 
sciousness, become  actual.  This  consciousness 
of  all  individuals  combined,  constitutes  the  per- 
fected self-consciousness  of  the  universe.  And 
there  is  no  other ;  for  only  in  the  individual,  is 
there  perfect  determinateness  and  actuality. 

The  testimony  of  each  individual  conscious- 
ness is  infallible,  provided  only,  it  is  actually 
the  consciousness  hitherto  described.  For  this 
consciousness  unfolds  itself  out  of  the  entire 
course  of  Nature,  proceeding  according  to  fixed 
laws ;  and  Nature  cannot  contradict  herself. 
Wherever  there  is  a  mental -representation,  there 
must  be  also  a  being  corresponding  thereto. 
For  the  representations  in  the  mind  are  gene- 
rated only  contemporaneously  with  the  being 
which  corresponds  to  them.  In  each  individual 
his  particular  consciousness  is  throughout  deter- 
mined, for  it  is  a  product  of  his  own  nature. 
No  one  has  other  cognitions,  or  has  them  in  any 
other  degree  of  vividness  than  he  actually  has. 
The  contents  of  his  cognitions  are  determined 
by  the  standpoint  which  he  occupies  in  the 
universe.  Their  clearness  and  vividness  are 
determined  by  the  more  or  less  of  energy,  with 
which  the  power  of  Humanity  can  manifest  it- 
self in  his  person.  Give  Nature  a  single  con- 
dition of  a  single  person,  be  it  never  so  insigni- 
ficant, the  course  of  a  single  muscle,  the  flexure 
of  a  hair,  and  she  would  tell  you — if  she  pos- 
sessed general  consciousness,  and  could  answer 


— all  the  thoughts  which  this  person  will  think 
during  the  whole  period  of  his  conscious  exist- 
ence. 

Equally  intelligible,  according  to  this  system, 
is  that  well-known  phenomenon  in  our  con- 
sciousness which  we  call  the  will.  A  volition 
is  the  immediate  consciousness  of  the  activity 
of  our  internal  powers  of  Nature.  The  imme- 
diate consciousness  of  a  striving  of  these  powers, 
which  is  not  yet  effective,  because  hampered 
by  opposing  powers,  is  conscious  inclination  or 
desire.  The  struggle  of  conflicting  powers  is 
irresolution  ;  the  victory  gained  by  one  of  them, 
a  resolve  of  the  will.  If  the  endeavoring  power 
is  merely  one  which  is  common  to  us  with  the 
plant  or  the  brute,  there  has  already  ensued,  in 
our  inner  being,  a  division  and  a  degradation. 
The  craving  is  not  consistent  with  our  rank  in 
the  order  of  things,  but  beneath  it;  and  may, 
with  propriety,  be  called,  according  to  a  certain 
custom  of  speech,  a  low  one.  If  that  which 
endeavors,  is  the  whole  undivided  power  of  our 
Humanity,  then  the  craving  is  in  harmony  with 
our  nature,  and  may  be  called  a  higher.  The 
endeavor  of  this  latter  power,  considered  gene- 
rally, may  properly  be  termed  a  moral  law. 
Its  effective  action  is  a  virtuous  will,  and  the 
act  which  flows  from  it,  virtue.  The  triumph 
of  the  former,  without  harmony  with  the  latter, 
is  want  of  virtue.  Its  victory  over  the  latter, 
and  against  the  opposition  of  the  latter,  is  vice. 

The  power  which  overcomes,  in  each  case, 
overcomes  necessarily.  Its  overweight  is  de- 
termined by  the  connection  of  the  universe. 
Accordingly,  the  virtue,  the  want  of  virtue,  the 
vice,  of  each  individual,  is  also  irrevocably  de- 
termined by  the  same  connection.  Give  Nature 
again,  the  course  of  a  muscle,  the  flexure  of  a 
hair,  in  a  certain  individual,  and  if  she  could 
think  in  the  whole,  and  could  answer  your  in- 
quiry, she  would  disclose  to  you  all  the  good 
actions  and  all  the  evil  actions  of  his  life,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end.  But  virtue  does  not 
therefore  cease  to  be  virtue,  and  vice  vice.  The 
virtuous  is  a  noble,  the  vicious,  an  ignoble  and 
abominable  nature ;  but  one  which  necessarily 
flows  from  the  connection  of  the  universe. 

There  is  remorse.  It  is  the  consciousness  of 
the  still  continuing  struggle  of  Humanity  in  me, 
even  after  it  has  been  vanquished  ;  combined 
with  the  unpleasant  feeling,  that  it  has  been 
vanquished.  A  disquieting,  but  still  a  precious 
pledge  of  our  nobler  nature.  From  this  con- 
sciousness of  our  radical  impulse,  springs  con- 
science also,  and  its  greater  or  less  acuteness  and 
sensitiveness, — down  to  the  absolute  want  of  it, 
— in  different  individuals.  The  less  noble  are 
incapable  of  remorse,  because  Humanity,  in 
them,  has  not  even  power  enough  to  contend 
against  the  lower  appetites.  Reward  and  pun- 
ishment are  the  natural  consequences  of  virtue 
and  vice,  which  tend  to  produce  new  virtue 
and  new  vice.  By  often  and  important  victo- 
ries, namely,  our  individual  power  is  extended 
and  confirmed.    From  want  of  effectiveness 


FICHTE. 


389 


and  from  frequent  defeats  it  becomes  weaker 
and  weaker. 

Only  the  ideas  of  blame  and  imputation  have 
no  meaning,  except  in  relation  to  external  jus- 
tice. He  has  incurred  blame,  and  to  him  his 
transgression  is  imputed,  who  forces  Society  to 
use  external,  artificial  forces,  in  order  to  hinder 
the  activity  of  those  impulses  which  are  preju- 
dicial to  the  general  safety. 

My  examination  is  concluded,  and  my  desire 
for  knowledge  satisfied.  I  know  what  I  am  in 
general,  and  wherein  consists  the  essence  of 
my  kind.  I  am  a  manifestation,  conditioned 
by  the  entire  universe,  of  a  self  -  determining 
power  of  Nature.  My  particular,  personal  con- 
ditions it  is  impossible  to  discover  by  means  of 
their  causes,  for  I  cannot  penetrate  into  the  inte- 
rior of  Nature.  But  I  become  directly  conscious 
of  them  in  myself.  I  know  very  well  what  1 
am  at  the  present  moment.  I  can  remember 
pretty  well  what  I  was  formerly,  and  I  shall 
certainly  experience  what  I  am  to  be  when  I 
am  it. 

It  cannot  occur  to  me  to  make  any  use  of  this 
discovery,  in  action.  For  it  is  not  I  that  act, 
but  Nature  acts  in  me.  I  cannot  think  of  un- 
dertaking to  make  myself  aught  else  than  I  am 
destined  by  Nature  to  be.  For  it  is  not  I  that 
make  myself,  but  Nature  that  makes  me,  and 
all  that  I  shall  be.  I  may  repent  and  be  glad 
and  make  good  resolutions,  (although  strictly 
speaking  /  cannot  even  do  this,  since  everything 
must  come  to  me  of  itself,  if  it  is  destined  to 
come  at  all :)  but  I  may  be  sure  that  all  my  re- 
pentance and  all  my  resolutions  cannot  effect 
the  least  alteration  in  that  which  I  am,  once  for 
all,  destined  to  be.  I  am  subject  to  the  inexo- 
rable power  of  strict  Necessity.  If  that  deter- 
mines me  to  be  a  fool  or  vicious,  without  doubt, 
I  shall  be  a  fool  and  vicious.  If  that  deter- 
mines me  to  be  wise  and  good,  without  doubt, 
I  shall  be  wise  and  good.  It  is  not  Necessity's 
fault  or  merit,  nor  mine.  Necessity  is  subject 
to  its  own  laws,  and  I  to  its.  Since  I  am  aware 
of  this,  it  will  be  best  for  my  peace  of  mind  that 
I  should  subordinate  my  wishes  also  to  this 
power,  to  which  my  being  is,  once  for  all,  en- 
tirely subject. 

0,  these  opposing  wishes !  For  why  should 
I  longer  conceal  the  sorrow,  the  abhorrence,  the 
terror  which  has  seized  my  inner  man,  from 
the  moment  that  I  perceived  how  the  inquiry 
must  terminate.  I  had  made  a  sacred  covenant 
with  myself,  that  inclination  should  have  no 
influence  on  the  direction  of  my  thought;  and 
indeed  I  have,  consciously,  allowed  it  none. 
But  shall  I  not  therefore,  at  the  conclusion,  con- 
fess to  myself,  that  this  result  contradicts  my 
deepest,  innermost  presentiments,  wishes,  de- 
mands ?  And  how  can  I,  notwithstanding  the 
correctness  and  the  trenchant  sharpness  of  the 
proofs  which  appear  to  me  in  this  deliberation,, 
believe  in  an  interpretation  of  my  existence 


which  so  decidedly  conflicts  with  the  most  inti- 
mate root  of  that  existence,  and  with  the  ends 
for  whose  sake  alone  1  wish  to  be,  and  without 
which,  I  count  my  existence  a  curse? 

Wherefore  must  my  heart  sorrow  and  be  rent 
for  that  which  so  completely  satisfies  my  under- 
standing1? While  nothing  in  Nature  contradicts 
itself,  is  man  alone  a  contradictory  being? — or, 
perhaps,  not  man,  but  only  I  and  those  who  re- 
semble me.  Ought  I  perhaps  to  have  gone  on 
in  the  pleasant  conceit  which  environed  me, 
to  have  kept  within  the  circle  of  my  being's 
immediate  consciousness,  and  never  to  have 
raised  the  question  concerning  the  grounds  of 
that  being,  the  answer  to  which  has  now  ren- 
dered me  miserable?  But  if  my  answer  is  cor- 
rect, I  could  but  raise  that  question.  It  was 
not  I  that  raised  it,  but  thinking  Nature  in  me. 
I  was  doomed  to  misery,  and  I  mourn  in  vain 
the  lost  innocence  of  my  mind,  which  can  never 
return. 

But  courage !  Let  everything  else  forsake  me, 
if  only  this  forsake  me  not.  For  the  sake  of  a 
mere  preference,  however  deep  in  my  interior 
that  preference  may  lie,  and  however  sacred  it 
may  seem  to  me,  I  cannot  indeed  relinquish 
what  follows  from  incontrovertible  reasons.  But 
perhaps  I  have  erred  in  my  investigation.  Per- 
haps I  have  but  half  considered  the  sources 
from  which  I  was  compelled  to  draw  in  con- 
ducting it,  and  have  looked  at  them  only  from 
one  side.  I  ought  to  repeat  the  investigation 
from  the  opposite  end,  that  I  may  have  a  point 
from  which  to  begin  it.  What  is  it  then  that  so 
mightily  repels  and  offends  me  in  that  decision  ? 
What  is  it  that  I  wished  to  find  instead  of  it? 
Let  me,  before  all  things,  make  clear  to  myself 
that  preference  to  which  I  appeal. 

That  I  should  be  destined  to  be  wise  or  good, 
a  fool  or  vicious,  that  I  should  be  unable  to 
effect  any  change  in  that  destination,  that  I 
should  be  without  merit  in  the  former  case,  and 
without  blame  in  the  latter, — this  it  was  that 
filled  me  with  loathing  and  horror.  That 
ground  of  my  being  and  of  the  conditions  of 
my  being  external  to  myself,  whose  manifesta- 
tion, in  turn,  is  determined  by  other  grounds 
external  to  itself, — that  it  was  that  so  violently 
repelled  me.  That  freedom  which  is  not  my 
own,  but  belongs  to  a  foreign  power  without 
me,  and  which,  even  in  that  power,  is  only  a 
conditioned,  only  a  half-freedom, — that  it  was 
that  failed  to  satisfy  me.  /  myself,  that  of 
which  I  am  conscious  as  of  a  self,  as  of  my 
own  person,  and  which,  in  that  system,  appears 
only  as  the  manifestation  of  a  higher  power, 
I  myself  would  be  self-subsisting,  I  would  be 
something,  not  in  another  and  by  means  of  an- 
other, but  for  myself.  I  would  be,  in  myself, 
as  such,  the  ultimate  ground  of  my  conditions. 
The  rank,  which,  in  that  system,  is  occupied  by 
an  original  power  of  Nature,  I  would  occupy, 
myself;  but  with  this  difference,  that  the  mode 
I  in  which  I  manifest  myself,  shall  not  be  de- 
o<3  * 


390 


FICHTE. 


termined  by  foreign  powers.  I  would  possess 
an  inward  power  peculiar  to  myself,  of  mani- 
festing myself  in  an  infinite  variety  of  ways, 
like  those  powers  of  Nature ;  a  power  which 
should  manifest  itself  exactly  as  it  does,  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  it  manifests  itself  thus; 
and  not,  like  those  powers  of  Nature,  because 
it  is  subject  to  such  or  such  external  conditions. 

Where  now,  according  to  this  my  wish,  should 
be  the  proper  seat  and  centre  of  that  peculiar 
power  of  the  I?  Evidently,  not  in  my  body,  which 
I  am  quite  willing  should  pass — at  least  so  far 
as  its  being  is  concerned,  if  not  in  its  ulterior 
conditions — for  a  manifestation  of  the  powers  of 
Nature ;  neither  in  my  sensual  appetites,  which 
I  regard  as  a  referring  of  those  powers  to  my 
consciousness  :  consequently,  in  my  thinking  and 
willing.  I  would  will  with  freedom,  accord- 
ing to  a  freely  proposed  aim.  And  this  will, 
as  absolute,  ultimate  ground,  determined  by  no 
possible  higher  than  itself,  should  move  and 
shape,  first  my  body,  and  then,  by  means  of 
that,  the  world  which  surrounds  me.  My  ac- 
tive, natural  power  should  be  subject  only  to 
my  will,  and  not  be  put  in  motion  by  anything 
else  but  that.  So  should  it  be.  There  should 
be  a  supreme  good,  according  to  spiritual  laws. 
I  would  be  able  to  seek  this  with  freedom  until 
I  find  it,  to  acknowledge  it  as  such  when  I  have 
found  it ;  and  it  should  be  my  fault  if  I  found  it 
not.  This  supreme  good  I  would  be  able  to 
will,  simply  because  I  will  it;  and  if  I  willed 
anything  else  in  its  stead,  it  should  be  my 
fault. 

***** 
Freedom,  such  as  that  which  has  been  de- 
manded above,  is  conceivable  only  in  Intelli- 
gences ;  but  without  doubt,  it  is  conceivable  in 
them.  On  this  supposition,  also,  man  as  well 
as  Nature  is  perfectly  intelligible.  My  body 
and  my  power  of  operating  in  the  world  of  the 
senses,  in  this  as  in  the  other  system,  are  a 
manifestation  of  limited  natural  powers  ;  and 
my  natural  inclinations  are  the  relations  of  this 
manifestation  to  my  consciousness.  The  mere 
cognition  of  that  which  exists  without  my  ac- 
tion, originates  in  the  same  way,  on  the  suppo- 
sition of  freedom,  as  in  the  opposite  system; 
and  up  to  this  point  they  both  agree.  But  ac- 
cording to  that, — and  here  begins  the  conflict  of 
the  two  systems — according  to  that,  my  capacity 
of  sensuous  action  continues  subject  to  Nature, 
and  is  still  put  in  motion  by  the  same  power 
which  produced  it;  and  thought  has  nothing  to 
do  in  the  matter  but  to  look  on.  According  to 
this,  on  the  contrary,  this  capacity,  when  once 
it  exists,  is  under  the  dominion  of  a  power 
exalted  above  all  Nature,  and  entirely  inde- 
pendent of  Nature's  laws,  the  power  of  con- 
ceived purposes  and  of  the  will.  Thought  in 
this  case  is  not  a  mere  spectator,  but  itself  the 
original  of  the  action.  There,  it  is  external 
powers,  invisible  to  me,  which  put  an  end  to 
my  irresolution  and  limit  my  activity,  as  well 
as  the  immediate  consciousness  of  that  acti- 


vity, my  will,  to  a  single  point;  just  as  the  ac- 
tivity of  a  plant,  undetermined  in  itself,  is 
limited.  Here,  it  is  /  myself,  independent  and 
free  from  the  influence  of  all  external  forces, 
who  put  an  end  to  my  irresolution  and  deter- 
mine myself  by  a  recognition,  freely  produced 
in  myself,  of  the  supreme  good. 

Which  of  these  two  opinions  shall  I  embrace? 
Am  I  free  and  self-subsisting,  or  am  I  nothing 
in  myself,  and  merely  the  apparition  of  a  fo- 
reign power  ? 

******* 

The  system  of  liberty  satisfies ;  the  opposite 
deadens  and  annihilates  my  heart.  To  stand 
there  cold  and  dead,  a  mere  spectator  of  chang- 
ing events,  an  idle  mirror  of  fleeting  forms, — 
such  an  existence  is  intolerable  to  me.  I  scorn 
and  curse  it.  I  would  love,  I  would  lose  my- 
self in  sympathy ;  I  would  rejoice  and  be  sad. 
*  *  *  I  would  do  everything  for  the  best; 
would  rejoice  in  myself  when  I  have  done  right, 
and  would  sorrow  for  myself  when  I  have  done 
wrong.  And  even  this  sorrow  should  be  sweet 
to  me,  for  it  is  interest  in  myself,  and  pledge  of 
future  amendment.  Only  in  love  there  is  life ; 
without  it  is  death  and  annihilation. 

But  cold  and  impertinent  the  opposite  system 
steps  in  and  mocks  at  this  love.  I  am  not  and 
I  act  not,  when  I  listen  to  that.  The  object  of 
my  intensest  desire  is  a  phantom  of  the  brain, 
a  palpably  demonstrable,  coarse  illusion.  In- 
stead of  me  there  is  and  acts  a  foreign,  to  me 
quite  unknown  power;  and  it  becomes  a  mat- 
ter of  perfect  indifference  to  me  how  that  power 
may  unfold  itself.  Ashamed  I  stand  there,  with 
my  heartfelt  affection  and  my  good  will,  and 
blush  at  that  which  I  know  to  be  the  best  in 
me,  and  for  whose  sake  alone  I  wish  to  be, 
as  it  were  a  laughable  folly.  My  holiest  is  de- 
livered up  to  mockery.         *       *       *  * 

*  *  *  The  same  system,  dry  and  heart- 
less, but  inexhaustible  in  explaining,  explains 
even  this,  my  interest  in  liberty,  my  abhorrence 
for  the  opposite  opinion.  It  explains  everything 
which  I  bring  forward  against  it  out  of  my  con- 
sciousness ;  and  as  often  as  I  say  it  is  so  and  so, 
it  answers  me  in  the  same  dry  and  imperturba- 
ble manner:  "That  is  precisely  what  I  say  too; 
and  I  tell  thee,  moreover,  the  reasons  why  it 
must  necessarily  be  so."  *  *  *  "Thouad- 
mittest,  without  controversy,  that  notwithstand- 
ing there  is,  in  the  plant,  an  instinct  peculiar  to 
itself  to  grow  and  shape  itself,  yet  the  determi- 
nate activity  of  this  instinct  depends  on  forces 
external  to  itself.  Give  this  plant  consciousness 
for  a  moment,  and  it  will  feel  in  itself  this  in- 
stinct to  grow,  with  interest  and  love.  Convince 
it  by  arguments  drawn  from  reason,  that  this 
instinct  cannot  effect  the  least  thing  for  itself; 
but  that  the  measure  of  its  manifestation  is  al- 
ways determined  by  something  external  to 
itself,  and  perhaps  it  will  talk  exactly  as  thou 
hast  just  been  talking.  It  will  behave  in  a  man- 


FICHTE. 


391 


ner  which  may  be  pardoned  in  a  plant,  but 
which  is  altogether  unbecoming  in  tkee,  as  a 
higher  product  of  Nature,  capable  of  embracing 
the  whole  of  Nature  in  thy  thought." 

What  can  I  object  to  such  representations'? 
*  *  *  Undecided  I  cannot  remain.  All  my 
peace  and  all  my  dignity  depends  on  the  an- 
swer to  this  question.  Just  as  impossible  is  it 
for  me  to  come  to  a  decision.  I  have  absolutely 
no  ground  for  deciding,  one  way  or  the  other. 

Intolerable  state  of  uncertainty  and  irresolu- 
tion, into  which  I  have  been  forced  by  the  best 
and  most  courageous  resolve  of  my  life  !  What 
power  can  deliver  me  from  thee  1  What  power 
can  deliver  me  from  myself? 

FROM  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 
FAITH. 

*  *  *  «  Not  merely  to  know,  but  to  act 
according  to  thy  knowledge,  is  thy  destination." 
So  says  the  voice  which  cries  to  me  aloud  from 
my  innermost  soul,  so  soon  as  I  collect  and  give 
heed  to  myself,  for  a  moment.  "  Not  idly  to  in- 
spect and  contemplate  thyself,  nor  to  brood  over 
devout  sensations  ;  —  no  !  thou  existest  to  act. 
Thine  act,  and  only  thine  act,  determines  thy 
worth."  * 

*  *  *  Shall  I  refuse  obedience  to  that  in- 
ward voice?  I  will  not  do  it.  I  will  give  my- 
self voluntarily  the  determination  which  that 
impulse  imputes  to  me.  And  I  will  embrace, 
together  with  this  resolution,  the  thought  of  its 
reality  and  truth,  and  of  the  reality  of  all  that 
it  presupposes.  I  will  hold  to  the  stand-point 
of  natural  thinking,  which  this  impulse  assigns 
to  me,  and  renounce  all  those  morbid  specula- 
tions and  refinements  of  the  understanding  which 
alone  could  make  me  doubt  its  truth.  I  under- 
stand thee  now,  sublime  Spirit!*  I  have  found 
the  organ  with  which  I  embrace  this  reality,  and 
with  it,  probably,  all  other  reality.  Knowledge 
is  not  that  organ.  No  knowledge  can  ground 
and  demonstrate  itself.  Every  knowledge  pre- 
supposes a  higher  as  its  ground,  and  this  up- 
ward process  has  no  end.  It  is  Faith,  that  vo- 
luntary reposing  in  the  view  which  naturally 
presents  itself,  because  it  is  the  only  one  by 
which  we  can  fulfil  our  destination, — this  it  is 
that  first  gives  assent  to  knowledge,  and  exalts 
to  certainty  and  conviction  what  would  other- 
wise be  mere  illusion.  It  is  not  knowledge,  but 
a  determination  of  the  will  to  let  knowledge 
pass  for  valid.  I  hold  fast,  then,  forever  to  this 
expression.  It  is  not  a  mere  difference  of  terms, 
but  a  real  deep-grounded  distinction,  exercising 
a  very  important  influence  on  my  whole  mental 
disposition.  All  my  conviction  is  only  faith, 
and  is  derived  from  a  disposition  of  the  mind, 
not  from  the  understanding.  *       *  * 

*  *  *  There  is  only  one  point  to  which  I 
have  to  direct  incessantly  all  my  thoughts : 
What  I  must  do,  and  how  I  shall  most  effectu- 

*  This  refers  to  the  second  Book,  which  takes  the  form 
of  a  dialogue  between  the  inquirer  and  a  Spirit. 


ally  accomplish  what  is  required  of  me.  All 
my  thinking  must  have  reference  to  my  doing, 
—  must  be  considered  as  means,  however  re- 
mote, to  this  end.  Otherwise,  it  is  an  empty, 
aimless  sport,  a  waste  of  time  and  power,  and 
perversion  of  a  noble  faculty  which  was  given 
me  for  a  very  different  purpose. 

I  may  hope,  I  may  promise  myself  with  cer- 
tainty, that  when  I  think  after  this  manner,  my 
thinking  shall  be  attended  with  practical  results. 
Nature,  in  which  I  am  to  act,  is  not  a  foreign 
being,  created  without  regard  to  me.  It  is  fa- 
shioned by  the  laws  of  my  own  thought,  and 
must  surely  coincide  with  them.  It  must  be 
everywhere  transparent,  cognisable,  permeable 
to  me,  in  its  innermost  recesses.  Everywhere 
it  expresses  nothing  but  relations  and  references 
of  myself  to  myself;  and  as  certainly  as  I  may 
hope  to  know  myself,  so  certainly  I  may  pro- 
mise myself  that  I  shall  be  able  to  explore  that. 
Let  me  but  seek  what  I  have  to  seek,  and  I  shall 
find.  Let  me  but  inquire  whereof  I  have  to  in- 
quire, and  I  shall  receive  answer. 

t 

That  voice  in  my  interior,  which  I  believe, 
and  for  the  sake  of  which  I  believe  all  else  that 
I  believe,  commands  me  not  merely  to  act  in 
general.  That  is  impossible.  All  these  general 
propositions  are  formed  only  by  my  voluntary 
attention  and  reflection  directed  to  various  facts ; 
but  they  do  not  express  a  single  fact  of  them- 
selves. This  voice  of  my  conscience  prescribes 
to  me  with  certainty,  in  each  particular  situa- 
tion of  my  existence,  what  I  must  do  and  what 
I  must  avoid  in  that  situation.  It  accompanies 
me,  if  I  will  but  listen  to  it  with  attention, 
through  all  the  events  of  my  life,  and  never  re- 
fuses its  reward  where  I  am  called  to  act.  It 
establishes  immediate  conviction,  and  irresisti- 
bly compels  my  assent.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
to  contend  against  it. 

To  hearken  to  that  voice,  honestly  and  undis- 
turbedly, without  fear  and  without  useless  spe- 
culation, to  obey  it, — this  is  my  sole  destination, 
this  the  whole  aim  of  my  existence.  My  life 
ceases  to  be  an  empty  sport,  without  truth  or 
meaning.  There  is  something  to  be  done,  sim- 
ply because  it  must  be  done.  That  that  which 
conscience  demands  of  me  in  particular, — of  me 
who  have  come  into  this  situation, — may  be  ful- 
filled,— for  this  purpose  alone  do  I  exist.  To 
perceive  it,  I  have  understanding;  to  do  it, 
power. 

Through  these  commandments  of  conscience 
alone  come  truth  and  reality  into  my  concep- 
tions. I  cannot  refuse  attention  and  obedience 
to  them,  without  renouncing  my  destination. 

I  cannot,  therefore,  withhold  my  belief  in  the 
reality  which  they  bring  before  me,  without,  at 
the  same  time,  denying  my  destination.  It  is 
absolutely  true,  without  farther  examination  and 
demonstration, —  it  is  the  first  true,  and  the 
ground  of  all  other  truth  and  certainty, — that  I 
must  obey  that  voice.   Consequently,  according 


392 


FICHTE. 


to  this  way  of  thinking,  everything  becomes  true 
and  real  for  me,  which  the  possibility  of  such 
obedience  presupposes. 

There  hover  before  me  appearances  in  space, 
to  which  I  transfer  the  idea  of  my  own  being. 
I  represent  them  to  myself  as  beings  of  my  own 
kind.  Speculation,  carried  out,  has  taught  me 
or  will  teach  me  that  these  supposed  rational 
beings,  without  me,  are  only  products  of  my 
own  conception ;  that  I  am  necessitated,  once 
for  all,  by  laws  of  thought  which  can  be  shown 
to  exist,  to  represent  the  idea  of  myself  out  of 
myself,  and  that,  according  to  the  same  laws, 
this  representation  can  be  transferred  only  to 
certain  determinate  intuitions.  But  the  voice 
of  my  conscience  cries  to  me  :  "  Whatever  these 
beings  may  be  in  and  for  themselves,  thou  shalt 
treat  them  as  subsisting  for  themselves,  as  free, 
self-existent  beings,  entirely  independent  of 
thyself.  Take  it  for  granted  that  they  are 
capable  of  proposing  to  themselves  aims  inde- 
pendently of  thee,  by  themselves  alone.  Never 
disturb  the  execution  of  these,  their  designs,  but 
further  them  rather,  with  all  thy  might.  Re- 
spect their  liberty.  Embrace  with  love  their 
objects  as  thine  own."  So  must  I  act.  And 
to  such  action  shall,  will,  and  must  all  my 
thinking  be  directed,  if  I  have  but  formed  the 
purpose  to  obey  the  voice  of  my  conscience. 
Accordingly,  I  shall  ever  consider  those  beings, 
as  beings  subsisting  for  themselves,  and  forming 
and  accomplishing  aims  independently  of  me. 
From  this  stand-point,  I  cannot  consider  them 
in  any  other  light;  and  the  above-mentioned 
speculation  will  vanish  like  an  empty  dream 
before  my  eyes.  "  I  think  of  them  as  beings  of 
my  own  species :"  said  I  just  now  •  but  strictly, 
it  is  not  a  thought  by  which  they  are  first  repre- 
sented to  me  as  such.  It  is  the  voice  of  con- 
science ;  the  command :  "  here  restrain  thy 
liberty,  here  suppose  and  respect  foreign  aims  ;" 
this  it  is  which  is  first  translated  into  the 
thought :  "  here  is  surely  and  truly,  subsisting 
for  itself,  a  being  like  me."  To  consider  them 
otherwise,  I  must  first  deny  the  voice  of  my 
conscience  in  life,  and  forget  it  in  speculation. 

There  hover  before  me  other  appearances, 
which  I  do  not  consider  as  beings  like  myself, 
but  as  irrational  objects.  Speculation  finds  it 
easy  to  show  how  the  conception  of  such  ob- 
jects develops  itself  purely  from  my  power  of 
conception,  and  its  necessary  modes  of  action. 
But  I  embrace  these  same  things  also  with 
necessity  and  craving  and  fruition.  It  is  not  the 
conception,  no,  it  is  hunger  and  thirst  and  the 
satisfaction  of  these  that  makes  anything  food 
and  drink  to  me.  Of  course,  I  am  constrained 
to  believe  in  the  reality  of  that  which  threatens 
my  sensuous  existence,  or  which  alone  can  pre- 
serve it.  Conscience  comes  in,  at  once  hallow- 
ing and  limiting  this  impulse  of  Nature.  "  Thou 
shalt  preserve,  exercise  and  strengthen  thyself, 
and  thy  sensuous  power :  for  this  sensuous 
power  forms  a  part  of  the  calculation,  in  the 
plan  of  reason.    But  thou  canst  preserve  it  only 


by  a  suitable  use,  agreeable  to  the  peculiar  in- 
terior laws  of  such  matters.  And  beside  thy- 
self, there  are  also  others  like  thee,  whose  pow- 
ers are  calculated  upon  like  thine  own,  and  who 
can  be  preserved  only  in  the  same  way.  Allow 
to  them  the  same  use  of  their  portion  which  it 
is  commanded  thee  to  make  of  thine  own  por- 
tion. Respect  what  comes  to  them,  as  their 
property.  Use  what  comes  to  thee  in  a  suit- 
able manner,  as  thy  property."  So  must  I  act, 
and  I  must  think  conformably  to  such  action. 
Accordingly,  I  am  necessitated  to  regard  these 
things  as  standing  under  their  own  natural  laws, 
independent  of  me,  but  which  I  am  capable  of 
knowing  ;  that  is,  to  ascribe  to  them  an  existence 
independent  of  myself.  I  am  constrained  to 
believe  in  such  laws,  and  it  becomes  my  busi- 
ness to  ascertain  them  ;  and  empty  speculation 
vanishes  like  mist  when  the  warming  sun  ap- 
pears. 

In  short,  there  is  for  me,  in  general,  no  pure, 
naked  existence,  with  which  I  have  no  concern, 
and  which  I  contemplate  solely  for  the  sake  of 
contemplation.  Whatever  exists  for  me,  exists 
only  by  virtue  of  its  relation  to  me.  But  there 
is  everywhere  but  one  relation  to  me  possible, 
and  all  the  rest  are  but  varieties  of  this ;  that 
is  my  destination  as  a  moral  agent.  My  world 
is  the  object  and  sphere  of  my  duties,  and  ab- 
solutely nothing  else.  There  is  no  other  world, 
no  other  attributes  of  my  world,  for  me.  My 
collective  capacity,  and  all  finite  capacity  is  in- 
sufficient to  comprehend  any  other.  Everything 
which  exists  for  me  forces  its  existence  and  its 
reality  upon  me,  solely  by  means  of  this  rela- 
tion;  and  only  by  means  of  this  relation,  do  I 
grasp  it.  There  is  utterly  wanting  in  me  an 
organ  for  any  other  existence. 

To  the  question,  whether  then  in  fact  such  a 
world  exists  as  I  represent  to  myself?  I  can 
answer  nothing  certain,  nothing  which  is  raised 
above  all  doubt,  but  this :  I  have  assuredly  and 
truly  these  definite  duties,  which  represent  them- 
selves to  me  as  duties  toward  such  and  such 
persons,  concerning  such  and  such  objects. 
These  definite  duties  I  cannot  represent  to  my- 
self otherwise,  nor  can  I  execute  them  other- 
wise, than  as  lying  within  the  sphere  of  such 
a  world  as  I  conceive.  Even  he  who  has 
never  thought  of  his  moral  destination,  if  any 
such  there  could  be,  or  who,  if  he  has  thought 
about  it  generally,  has  never  entertained  the 
slightest  purpose  of  ever,  in  the  indefinite  future, 
fulfilling  it;  even  he  derives  his  world  of  the 
senses  and  his  belief  in  the  reality  of  such  a 
world,  no  otherwise  than  from  his  idea  of  a 
moral  world.  If  he  does  not  embrace  it  with 
the  idea  of  his  duties,  he  certainly  does  so  with 
the  requisition  of  his  rights.  What  he  does  not 
require  of  himself,  he  yet  requires  of  others,  in 
relation  to  himself;  that  they  treat  him  with 
care  and  consideration,  agreeably  to  his  nature, 
not  as  an  irrational  thing,  but  as  a  free  and  self- 
subsisting  being.  And  so  he  is  constrained,  in 
order  that  they  may  comply  with  this  demand, 


FICHTE. 


393 


to  think  of  them  also,  as  rational,  free,  and  self- 
subsisting,  and  independent  of  the  mere  force 
of  Nature.  And  even  though  he  should  never 
propose  to  himself  any  other  aim  in  the  use  and 
fruition  of  the  objects  which  surround  him,  than 
that  of  enjoying  them,  he  still  demands  this  en- 
joyment as  a  right,  of  which  others  must  leave 
him  in  undisturbed  possession.  Accordingly, 
he  embraces  even  the  irrational  world  of  the 
senses  with  a  moral  idea.  No  one  who  lives  a 
conscious  life  can  renounce  these  claims  to  be 
respected  as  rational  and  self-subsisting.  And 
with  these  claims  at  least  there  connects  itself 
in  his  soul,  a  seriousness,  an  abandonment  of 
doubt,  a  belief  in  reality ;  if  not  with  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  a  moral  law  in  his  interior. 
Do  but  assail  him  who  denies  his  own  moral 
destination  and  your  existence  and  the  exist- 
ence of  a  corporeal  world,  except  in  the  way 
of  experiment,  to  try  what  speculation  can  do, 
— assail  him  actively,  carry  his  principles  into 
life,  and  act  as  if  he  either  did  not  exist,  or  as 
if  he  were  a  piece  of  rude  matter,  and  he  will 
soon  forget  the  joke;  he  will  become  seriously 
angry  with  you,  he  will  seriously  reprove  you 
for  treating  him  so,  and  maintain  that  you  ought 
not  and  must  not  do  so  to  him;  and,  in  this 
way,  he  will  practically  admit,  that  you  possess 
indeed  the  power  of  acting  upon  him,  that  he 
exists,  that  you  exist,  and  that  there  exists  a 
medium  through  which  you  act  upon  him;  and 
ihat  you  have  at  least  duties  toward  him. 

Hence  it  is  not  the  action  of  supposed  objects 
without  us,  which  exist  for  us  only,  and  for 
which  we  exist  only,  so  far  as  we  already  know 
of  them,  just  as  little  is  it  an  empty  fashioning, 
by  means  of  our  imagination  and  our  think- 
ing,—  whose  products  would  appear  to  us  as 
such,  as  empty  pictures ; — it  is  not  these,  but 
the  necessary  faith  in  our  liberty  and  our  power, 
in  our  veritable  action  and  in  certain  laws  of 
human  action,  which  serves  as  the  foundation 
of  all  consciousness  of  a  reality  without  us,  a 
consciousness  which  is  itself  but  a  belief,  since 
it  rests  on  a  belief,  but  one  which  follows  ne- 
cessarily from  that  belief.  We  are  compelled 
to  assume  that  we  act  in  general,  and  that  we 
ought  to  act  in  a  certain  way  ;  we  are  compelled 
to  assume  a  certain  sphere  of  such  action :  this 
sphere  is  the  truly  and  actually  existing  world 
as  we  find  it.  And  vice  versa,  this  world  is  ab- 
solutely nothing  but  that  sphere,  and  by  no 
means  extends  beyond  it.  The  consciousness 
of  the  actual  world  proceeds  from  the  necessity 
of  action,  and  not  the  reverse, — i.  e.  the  neces- 
sity of  action  from  the  consciousness  of  such  a 
world.  The  necessity  is  first  not  the  conscious- 
ness ;  that  is  derived.  We  do  not  act  because 
we  agnize,  but  we  agnize  because  we  are  des- 
tined to  act.  Practical  reason  is  the  root  of  all 
reason.  The  laws  of  action  for  rational  beings 
are  immediately  certain ;  their  world  is  certain, 
only  because  they  are  certain.  Were  we  to  re- 
nounce the  former,  the  world,  and,  with  it,  we 
ourselves,  should  sink  into  absolute  nothing. 
2z 


We  raise  ourselves  out  of  this  nothing,  and  sus- 
tain ourselves  above  this  nothing,  solely  by 
means  of  our  morality. 

II. 

******** 

When  I  contemplate  the  world  as  it  is,  inde- 
pendently of  any  injunction,  there  manifests  it- 
self in  my  interior  the  wish,  the  longing,  no  ! 
not  a  longing  merely, — the  absolute  demand  for 
a  better  world.  I  cast  a  glance  at  the  relations 
of  men  to  each  other  and  to  Nature,  at  the 
weakness  of  their  powers,  at  the  strength  of 
their  appetites  and  passions.  It  cries  to  me 
irresistibly  from  rny  innermost  soul :  "  thus  it 
cannot  possibly  be  destined  always  to  remain. 
It  must,  0  !  it  must  all  become  other  and  better !" 

I  can  in  nowise  imagine  to  myself  the  present 
condition  of  man  as  that  which  is  designed  to 
endure.  I  cannot  imagine  it  to  be  his  whole 
and  final  destination.  If  so,  then  would  every- 
thing be  dream  and  delusion,  and  it  would  not 
be  worth  the  trouble  to  have  lived  and  to  have 
taken  part  in  this  ever-recurring,  unproductive 
and  unmeaning  game.  Only  so  far  as  I  can 
regard  this  condition  as  the  means  of  something 
better,  as  a  point  of  transition  to  a  higher  and 
more  perfect,  does  it  acquire  any  value  for  me. 
Not  on  its  own  account,  but  on  account  of  some- 
thing better  for  which  it  prepares  the  way,  can 
I  bear  it,  honor  it,  and  joyfully  fulfil  my  part  in 
it.  My  mind  can  find  no  place,  nor  rest  a  mo- 
ment, in  the  present;  it  is  irresistibly  repelled 
by  it.  My  whole  life  streams  irrepressibly  on 
toward  the  future  and  better. 

Am  I  only  to  eat  and  to  drink  that  I  may 
hunger  and  thirst  again,  and  again  eat  and  drink, 
until  the  grave,  yawning  beneath  my  feet,  swal- 
lows me  up,  and  I  myself  spring  up  as  food 
from  the  ground  ?  Am  I  to  beget  beings  like 
myself,  that  they  also  may  eat  and  drink  and 
die,  and  leave  behind  them  beings  like  them- 
selves, who  shall  do  the  same  that  I  have  done  ? 
To  what  purpose  this  circle  which  perpetually 
returns  into  itself;  this  game  for  ever  re-com- 
mencing, after  the  same  manner,  in  which 
everything  is  born  but  to  perish,  and  perishes 
but  to  be  born  again  as  it  was  1  This  monster 
which  forever  devours  itself,  that  it  may  pro- 
duce itself  again,  and  which  produces  itself  that 
it  may  again  devour  itself? 

Never  can  this  be  the  destination  of  my  being 
and  of  all  being.  There  must  be  something 
which  exists  because  it  has  been  brought  forth, 
and  which  now  remains  and  can  never  be 
brought  forth  again,  after  it  has  been  brought 
forth  once.  And  this,  that  is  permanent,  must 
beget  itself  amid  the  mutations  of  the  perishing, 
and  continue  amid  those  mutations,  and  be 
borne  along  unhurt  upon  the  waves  of  time. 

As  yet  our  race  wrings  with  difficulty  its  sus- 
tenance and  its  continuance  from  opposing  Na- 
ture. As  yet  the  larger  portion  of  mankind  are 
bowed  down  their  whole  life  long  by  hard 
labor,  to  procure  sustenance  for  themselves  and 


394 


FICHTE. 


the  few  who  think  for  them.  Immortal  spirits 
are  compelled  to  fix  all  their  thinking  and 
scheming,  and  all  their  efforts,  on  the  soil  which 
bears  them  nourishment.  It  often  comes  to 
pass  as  yet,  that  when  the  laborer  has  ended, 
and  promises  himself,  for  his  pains,  the  conti- 
nuance of  his  own  existence  and  of  those  pains  ; 
that  then  hostile  elements  destroy  in  a  moment 
what  he  had  been  slowly  and  carefully  prepar- 
ing for  years,  and  delivers  up  the  industrious 
pains-taking  man,  without  any  fault  of  his  own, 
to  hunger  and  misery.  It  often  comes  to  pass 
as  yet,  that  inundations,  storm-winds,  volcanoes, 
desolate  whole  countries,  and  mingle  works 
which  bear  the  impress  of  a  rational  mind,  as 
well  as  their  authors,  with  the  wild  chaos  of 
death  and  destruction.  Diseases  still  hurry 
men  into  a  premature  grave,  men  in  the  bloom 
of  their  powers,  and  children  whose  existence 
passes  away  without  fruit  or  result.  The  pes- 
tilence still  stalks  through  blooming  states,  and 
leaves  the  few  who  escape  it,  bereaved  and 
alone,  deprived  of  the  accustomed  aid  of  their 
companions ;  and  does  all  in  its  power  to  give 
back  to  the  wilderness  the  land  which  the  in- 
dustry of  man  had  already  conquered  for  its 
own. 

So  it  is,  but  so  it  cannot  surely  have  been  in- 
tended always  to  remain.  No  work  which 
bears  the  impress  of  reason,  and  which  was 
undertaken  for  the  purpose  of  extending  the 
dominion  of  reason,  can  be  utterly  lost  in  the 
progress  of  the  times.  The  sacrifices  which 
the  irregular  violence  of  Nature  draws  from 
reason,  must  at  least  weary,  satisfy  and  recon- 
cile that  violence.  The  force  which  has  caused 
injury  by  acting  v/ithout  rule,  cannot  be  intended 
to  do  so  more  in  that  way,  it  cannot  be  destined 
to  renew  itself;  it  must  be  used  up,  from  this 
time  forth  and  forever,  by  that  one  outbreak. 
All  those  outbreaks  of  rude  force,  before  which 
human  power  vanishes  into  nothing,  —  those 
desolating  hurricanes,  earthquakes,  volcanoes, 
can  be  nothing  else  but  the  final  struggle  of  the 
wild  mass  against  the  lawfully  progressive,  life- 
giving,  systematic  course  to  which  it  is  com- 
pelled, contrary  to  its  own  impulse.  They  can 
be  nothing  but  the  last  concussive  strokes  in  the 
formation  of  our  globe,  now  about  to  perfect  it- 
self. That  opposition  must  gradually  become 
weaker,  and  at  last  exhausted,  since,  in  the 
lawful  course  of  things,  there  can  be  nothing 
that  should  renew  its  power.  That  formation 
must  at  last  be  perfected,  and  our  destined 
abode  complete.  Nature  must  gradually  come 
into  a  condition  in  which  we  can  count  with 
certainty  upon  her  equal  step,  and  in  which  her 
power  shall  keep  unaltered  a  determinate  rela- 
tion with  that  power  which  is  destined  to  govern 
it,  that  is,  the  human.  So  far  as  this  relation 
already  exists,  and  the  systematic  cultivation 
of  Nature  has  gained  firm  footing;  the  work- 
manship of  man,  by  its  mere  existence  and  its 
effects,  independent  of  any  design  on  the  part 
of  the  author,  is  destined  to  react  upon  Nature, 


and  to  represent  in  her  a  new  and  life-giving 
principle.  Cultivated  lands  are  to  quicken  and 
mitigate  the  sluggish,  hostile  atmosphere  of  the 
eternal  forests,  wildernesses,  and  morasses. 
Well-ordered  and  diversified  culture  is  to  diffuse 
through  the  air  a  new  principle  of  life  and  fruc- 
tification ;  and  the  sun  to  send  forth  its  most 
animating  beams  into  that  atmosphere  which 
is  breathed  by  a  healthy,  industrious,  and  in- 
genious people.  Science,  awakened,  at  first,  by 
the  pressure  of  necessity,  shall  hereafter  pene- 
trate deliberately  and  calmly  into  the  unchange- 
able laws  of  Nature,  overlook  her  whole  power, 
and  learn  to  calculate  her  possible  develop- 
ments;— shall  form  for  itself  a  new  Nature  in 
idea,  attach  itself  closely  to  the  living  and  ac- 
tive, and  follow  hard  upon  her  footsteps.  And 
all  knowledge  which  reason  has  wrung  from 
Nature,  shall  be  preserved  in  the  course  of  the 
times,  and  become  the  foundation  of  further 
knowledge,  for  the  common  understanding  of 
our  race.  Thus  shall  Nature  become  ever  more 
transparent  and  penetrable  to  human  percep- 
tion, even  to  its  innermost  secrets.  And  human 
power,  enlightened  and  fortified  with  its  inven- 
tions, shall  rule  her  with  ease,  and  peacefully 
maintain  the  conquest  once  effected.  By  de- 
grees, there  shall  be  needed  no  greater  outlay 
of  mechanical  labor  than  the  human  body  re- 
quires for  its  development,  cultivation  and 
health.  And  this  labor  shall  cease  to  be  a  bur- 
den ;  for  the  rational  being  is  not  destined  to 
be  a  bearer  of  burdens. 

But  it  is  not  Nature,  it  is  liberty  itself,  that 
occasions  the  most  numerous  and  the  most  fear- 
ful disorders  among  our  kind.  The  direst  enemy 
of  man  is  man. 

*        *        *        *       *       *  * 

It  is  the  destination  of  our  race  to  unite  in  one 
body,  thoroughly  acquainted  with  itself  in  all 
its  parts,  and  uniformly  cultivated  in  all.  Na- 
ture, and  even  the  passions  and  vices  of  man- 
kind, have,  from  the  beginning,  drifted  towards 
this  goal.  A  large  part  of  the  road  which  leads 
to  it  is  already  put  behind  us,  and  we  may  count 
with  certainty  that  this  goal,  which  is  the  con- 
dition of  further,  united  progress,  will  be  reached 
in  due  season.  Do  not  ask  History  whether 
mankind,  on  the  whole,  have  grown  more 
purely  moral !  They  have  grown  to  extended, 
comprehensive,  forceful  acts  of  arbitrary  will; 
but  it  was  almost  a  necessity  of  their  condition 
that  they  should  direct  that  will  exclusively  to 
evil. 

Neither  ask  History  whether  the  aesthetic 
education  and  the  culture  of  the  understanding, 
of  the  fore-world,  concentrated  upon  a  few  sin- 
gle points,  may  not  have  far  exceeded,  in  de- 
gree, that  of  modern  times.  It  might  be  that 
the  answer  would  put  us  to  shame,  and  that 
the  human  race  would  appear,  in  this  regard, 
not  to  have  advanced,  but  to  have  lost  ground. 

But  ask  History  in  what  period  the  existing 
culture  was  most  widely  diffused  and  distri- 


FICHTE. 


395 


buted  among  the  greatest  number  of  individu- 
als? Undoubtedly,  it  will  be  found,  that  from 
the  beginning  of  history  down  to  our  own  day, 
the  few  light-points  of  culture  have  extended 
their  rays  farther  and  farther  from  their  centres, 
have  seized  one  individual  after  another,  and 
one  people  after  another ;  and  that  this  diffusion 
of  culture  is  still  going  on  before  our  eyes. 

And  this  was  the  first  goal  of  Humanity,  on 
its  infinite  path.  Until  this  is  attained,  until 
the  existing  culture  of  an  age  is  diffused  over 
the  whole  habitable  globe,  and  our  race  is  made 
capable  of  the  most  unlimited  communication 
with  itself,  one  nation,  one  quarter  of  the 
globe  must  await  the  other,  on  their  common 
path,  and  each  must  bring  its  centuries  of  ap- 
parent stationariness  or  retrogradation,  as  a  sa- 
crifice to  the  common  bond,  for  the  sake  of 
which,  alone,  they  themselves  exist. 

When  this  first  goal  shall  be  attained,  when 
everything  useful  that  has  been  discovered  at 
one  end  of  the  earth,  shall  immediately  be  made 
known  and  imparted  to  all,  then  Humanity, 
without  interruption,  without  cessation,  and 
without  retrocession,  with  united  force,  and  with 
one  step,  shall  raise  itself  up  to  a  degree  of  cul- 
ture which  we  want  power  to  conceive. 

******* 

*  *  *  By  the  institution  of  this  one  true 
State,  and  the  firm  establishment  of  this  internal 
peace,  external  war  also,  at  least  with  true 
States,  will,  at  the  same  time,  be  rendered  im- 
possible. Even  for  the  sake  of  its  own  advan- 
tage,— in  order  that  no  thought  of  injustice,  plun- 
der and  violence  may  spring  up  in  its  own  sub- 
jects, and  no  possible  opportunity  be  afforded 
them  for  any  gain,  except  by  labor  and  indus- 
try, in  the  sphere  assigned  by  law  ; — every  State 
must  forbid  as  strictly,  must  hinder  as  carefully, 
must  compensate  as  exactly,  and  punish  as  se- 
verely, an  injury  done  to  the  citizen  of  a  neigh- 
bor State,  as  if  it  were  inflicted  upon  a  fellow- 
citizen.  This  law  respecting  the  security  of  its 
neighbors  is  necessary  to  every  State  which  is 
not  a  community  of  robbers.  And  herewith  the 
possibility  of  every  just  complaint,  of  one  State 
against  another,  and  every  case  of  necessary  de- 
fence is  done  away. 

There  are  no  necessary,  continuous,  immedi- 
ate relations  of  States,  as  such,  to  each  other, 
that  could  engender  warfare.  As  a  general  rule, 
it  is  only  through  the  relations  of  single  citizens 
of  one  State  with  the  citizens  of  another, — it  is 
only  in  the  person  of  one  of  its  members,  that 
a  State  can  be  injured.  But  this  injury  will  be 
instantly  redressed,  and  the  offended  State  sa- 
tisfied. ******* 

*  *  *  That  a  whole  nation  should  deter- 
mine, for  the  sake  of  plunder,  to  attack  a  neigh- 
boring country  with  war,  is  impossible.  Since, 
in  a  State,  in  which  all  are  equal,  the  plunder 
would  not  become  the  booty  of  a  few,  but  must 
be  divided  equally  among  all,  and  so  divided, 
the  portion  of  each  individual  would  never  re- 


pay him  for  the  trouble  of  a  war.  Only,  then, 
when  the  advantage  to  be  gained  falls  to  the  lot 
of  a  few  oppressors,  but  the  disadvantages,  the 
trouble,  the  cost  fall  upon  a  countless  army  of 
slaves, — only  then  is  a  war  of  plunder  possible 
or  conceivable.  Accordingly,  these  States  have 
no  war  to  fear  from  States  like  themselves,  but 
only  from  savages  or  barbarians,  tempted  to 
prey  by  want  of  skill  to  enrich  themselves  by 
industry;  or  from  nations  of  slaves,  who  are 
driven  by  their  masters  to  plunder,  of  which 
they  are  to  enjoy  no  part  themselves.  As  to  the 
first,  each  single  State  is  undoubtedly  superior 
to  them  in  strength,  by  virtue  of  the  arts  of  cul 
ture.  As  to  the  last,  the  common  advantage  of 
all  the  States  will  lead  them  to  strengthen  them- 
selves by  union  with  each  other.  No  free  State 
can  reasonably  tolerate,  in  its  immediate  vici- 
nity, Polities  whose  rulers  find  their  advantage 
in  subjecting  neighbor  nations,  and  which,  there- 
fore, by  their  mere  existence,  perpetually  threat- 
en their  neighbors'  peace.  Care  for  their  own 
security  will  oblige  all  free  States  to  convert  all 
around  them  into  free  States  like  themselves, 
and  thus,  for  the  sake  of  their  own  well-being, 
to  extend  the  dominion  of  culture  to  the  savages, 
and  that  of  liberty  to  the  slave  nations  round 
about  them.  And  so,  when  once  a  few  free 
States  have  been  formed,  the  empire  of  culture, 
of  liberty,  and,  with  that,  of  universal  peace, 
will  gradually  embrace  the  globe.  *  *  * 
*  *  *  In  this  only  true  State,  all  tempta- 
tion to  evil  in  general,  and  even  the  possibility 
of  deliberately  determining  upon  an  evil  act, 
will  be  cut  off,  and  man  be  persuaded  as  pow- 
erfully as  he  can  be  to  direct  his  will  to  the 
good.  There  is  no  man  who  loves  evil  because 
it  is  evil.  He  loves  in  it  only  the  advantages 
and  enjoyments  which  it  promises,  and  which, 
in  the  present  state  of  Humanity,  it,  for  the  most 
part,  actually  affords.  As  long  as  this  state 
continues,  as  long  as  a  price  is  set  upon  vice,  a 
thorough  reformation  of  mankind,  in  the  whole, 
is  scarcely  to  be  hoped  for.  But  in  a  civil  Po- 
lity such  as  it  should  be,  such  as  reason  de- 
mands, and  such  as  the  thinker  easily  describes, 
although  as  yet  he  nowhere  finds  it,  and  such 
as  will  necessarily  shape  itself  with  the  first  na- 
tion that  is  truly  disenthralled ; — in  such  a  Po- 
lity evil  will  offer  no  advantages,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  the  most  certain  disadvantages ;  and 
the  aberration  of  self-love  into  acts  of  injustice, 
will  be  suppressed  by  self-love  itself.  Accord- 
ing to  infallible  regulations,  in  such  a  State,  all 
taking  advantage  and  oppressing  of  others,  every 
act  of  self-aggrandizement  at  another's  expense, 
is  not  only  sure  to  be  in  vain, — labor  lost, — but 
it  reacts  upon  the  author,  and  he  himself  inevi- 
tably incurs  the  evil  which  he  would  inflict  upon 
others.  Within  his  own  State  and  without  it, 
on  the  whole  face  of  the  earth,  he  finds  no  one 
whom  he  can  injure  with  impunity.  It  is  not, 
however,  to  be  expected  that  any  one  will  re- 
solve upon  evil  merely  for  evil's  sake,  notwith- 
standing he  cannot  accomplish  it,  and  nothing 


396 


FICHTE. 


but  his  own  injury  can  result  from  the  attempt. 
The  use  of  liberty  for  evil  ends  is  done  away. 
Man  must  either  resolve  to  renounce  his  liberty 
entirely, — to  become,  with  patience,  a  passive 
wheel  in  the  great  machine  of  the  whole,— or 
he  must  apply  his  liberty  to  that  which  is  good. 

And  thus,  then,  in  a  soil  so  prepared,  the 
good  will  easily  nourish.  When  selfish  aims 
no  longer  divide  mankind,  and  their  powers 
can  no  longer  be  exercised  in  destroying  one 
another  in  battle,  nothing  will  remain  to  them 
but  to  turn  their  united  force  against  the  com- 
mon and  only  adversary  which  yet  remains, 
resisting,  uncultivated  Nature.  No  longer  sepa- 
rated by  private  ends,  they  will  necessarily 
unite  in  one  common  end,  and  there  will  grow 
up  a  body  everywhere  animated  by  one  spirit 
and  one  love.  Every  disadvantage  of  the  indi- 
vidual, since  it  can  no  longer  be  a  benefit  to  any 
one,  becomes  an  injury  to  the  whole,  and  to  each 
particular  member  of  the  same ;  and  is  felt  in 
each  member  with  equal  pain,  and  with  equal 
activity  redressed.  Every  advance  which  one 
man  makes,  human  nature,  in  its  entireness, 
makes  with  him. 

Here,  where  the  petty,  narrow  self  of  the  per- 
son is  already  annihilated  by  the  Polity,  every 
one  loves  every  other  one  truly,  as  himself,  as 
a  component  part  of  that  great  Self  which  alone 
remains  to  his  love,  and  of  which  he  is  nothing 
but  a  component  part,  that  only  through  the 
Whole  can  gain  or  lose.  Here  the  conflict  of 
evil  with  good  is  done  away,  for  no  evil  can 
any  longer  spring  up.  The  contest  of  the  good 
with  each  other,  even  concerning  the  good,  va- 
nishes, now  that  it  has  become  easy  to  them  to 
love  the  good  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  for  their 
sakes,  as  the  authors  of  it ;  —  now  that  the  only 
interest  they  can  have  is  that  it  come  to  pass, 
that  truth  be  discovered,  that  the  good  deed  be 
executed ;  not  by  whom  it  is  accomplished. 
Here  every  one  is  prepared  to  join  his  power 
to  that  of  his  neighbor,  and  to  subordinate  it  to 
that  of  his  neighbor.  Whoever,  in  the  judgment 
of  all,  shall  accomplish  the  best,  in  the  best 
way,  him  all  will  support,  and  partake  with 
equal  joy  in  his  success. 

This  is  the  aim  of  earthly  existence  which 
Reason  sets  before  us,  and  for  the  sure  attain- 
ment of  which,  Reason  vouches.  It  is  not  a 
goal  for  which  we  are  to  strive  merely  that  our 
faculties  may  be  exercised  on  great  objects,  but 
which  we  must  relinquish  all  hope  of  realizing. 
It  shall  and  must  be  realized.  At  some  time 
or  other,  this  goal  must  be  attained ;  as  surely 
as  there  is  a  world  of  the  senses,  and  a  race  of 
reasonable  beings  in  time,  for  whom  no  serious 
and  rational  object  can  be  imagined  but  this, 
and  whose  existence  is  made  intelligible  by  this 
alone.  Unless  the  whole  life  of  man  is  to  be 
considered  as  the  sport  of  an  evil  Spirit,  who 
implanted  this  ineradicable  striving  after  the 
imperishable  in  the  breasts  of  poor  wretches, 
merely  that  he  might  enjoy  their  ceaseless  strug- 


gle after  that  which  unceasingly  flees  from  them, 
their  still  repeated  grasping  after  that  which 
still  eludes  their  grasp,  the  ir  restless  driving 
about  in  an  ever- returning  circle;  —  and  laugh 
at  their  earnestness  in  this  senseless  sport:  — 
unless  the  wise  man,  who  must  soon  see  through 
this  game,  and  be  tired  of  his  own  part  in  it,  is 
to  throw  away  his  life,  and  the  moment  of 
awakening  reason  is  to  be  the  moment  of  earthly 
death  ;  —  that  goal  must  be  attained.  0 !  it  is 
attainable  in  life  and  by  means  of  life  ;  for  Rea- 
son commands  me  to  live.  It  is  attainable,  for 
I  am. 

UL 

But  how,  when  it  is  attained  ?  when  Huma- 
nity shall  stand  at  the  goal?  What  then?  There 
is  no  higher  condition  on  earth  than  that.  The 
generation  which  first  attains  to  it  can  do  no. 
thing  farther  than  to  persist  in  it,  and  maintain 
it  with  all  their  powers ;  die  and  leave  de- 
scendants who  shall  do  the  same  that  they  have 
done,  and  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  leave  de- 
scendants that  shall  do  the  same.  Humanity 
would  then  stand  still  in  its  course.  Therefore, 
its  earthly  goal  cannot  be  its  highest  goal.  This 
earthly  goal  is  intelligible,  and  attainable,  and 
finite.  Though  we  consider  the  preceding  gene- 
rations as  means  of  developing  the  last  and  per- 
fected, still  we  cannot  escape  the  inquiry  of 
earnest  Reason  :  "  Wherefore  then  these  lasf" 
Given  a  human  race  on  the  earth,  its  existence 
must  indeed  be  in  accordance  with  Reason,  and 
not  contrary  to  it.  It  must  become  all  that  it 
can  become  on  earth.  But  why  should  it  exist 
at  all,  this  human  race?  Why  might  it  not  as 
well  have  remained  in  the  bosom  of  Nothing? 
Reason  is  not  for  the  sake  of  existence,  but  ex- 
istence for  the  sake  of  Reason.  An  existence 
which  does  not,  in  itself,  satisfy  Reason,  and 
solve  all  her  questions,  cannot  possibly  be  the 
true  one. 

Then,  too,  are  the  actions  commanded  by  the 
voice  of  Conscience,  whose  dictates  I  must  not 
speculate  about,  but  obey  in  silence, — are  they 
actually  the  means,  and  the  only  means,  of  ac- 
complishing the  earthly  aim  of  mankind  ?  That 
I  cannot  refer  them  to  any  other  object  but  this, 
that  I  can  have  no  other  intent  with  them,  is 
unquestionable.  But  is  this  my  intent  fulfilled 
in  every  case  ?  Is  nothing  more  needed  but  to 
will  the  best,  in  order  that  it  may  be  accom- 
plished? Alas!  most  of  our  good  purposes  are, 
for  this  world,  entirely  lost.  And  some  of  them 
seem  even  to  have  an  entirely  opposite  effect  to 
that  which  was  proposed.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  most  despicable  passions  of  men,  their  vices 
and  their  misdeeds,  seem  often  to  bring  about 
the  good  more  surely  than  the  labors  of  the  just 
man,  who  never  consents  to  do  evil  that  good 
may  come.  It  would  seem  that  the  highest  good 
of  the  world  grows  and  thrives  quite  independ- 
ently of  all  human  virtues  or  vices,  according  to 
laws  of  its  own,  by  some  invisible  and  unknown 
power  ;  just  as  the  heavenly  bodies  run  through 


FICHTE. 


397 


their  appointed  course,  independently  of  all  hu- 
man effort;  and  that  this  power  absorbs  into  its 
own  higher  plan  all  human  designs,  whether 
good  or  ill ;  and,  by  its  superior  strength,  appro- 
priates what  was  intended  for  other  purposes 
to  its  own  ends. 

If,  therefore,  the  attainment  of  that  earthly 
goal  could  be  the  design  of  our  existence,  and 
if  no  farther  question  concerning  it  remained  to 
Reason,  that  aim,  at  least,  would  not  be  ours, 
but  the  aim  of  that  unknown  Power.  We  know 
not  at  any  moment  what  may  promote  it.  No- 
thing would  be  left  us  but  to  supply  to  that 
Power,  by  our  actions,  so  much  material,  no 
matter  what,  to  work  up  in  its  own  way,  for  its 
own  ends.  Our  highest  wisdom  would  be,  not 
to  trouble  ourselves  about  things  in  which  we 
have  no  concern ;  to  live,  in  each  case,  as  the 
fancy  takes  us,  and  quietly  leave  the  conse- 
quences to  that  Power.  The  moral  law  within 
us  would  be  idle  and  superfluous,  and  wholly 
unsuited  to  a  being  that  had  no  higher  capacity 
and  no  higher  destination.  In  order  to  be  at 
one  with  ourselves,  we  should  refuse  obedience 
to  the  voice  of  that  law,  and  suppress  it  as  a 
perverse  and  mad  enthusiasm. 

*       *        *        *        *        *  * 

If  the  whole  design  of  our  existence  were  to 
bring  about  an  earthly  condition  of  our  race,  all 
that  would  be  required  would  be  some  infalli- 
ble mechanism  to  direct  our  action ;  and  we 
need  be  nothing  more  than  wheels  well  fitted 
to  the  whole  machine.  Freedom  would  then 
not  only  be  useless,  but  a  contradictory  power ; 
and  good  will  would  be  quite  superfluous.  The 
world,  in  that  case,  would  be  very  clumsily 
contrived — would  proceed  to  its  goal  with  loss 
of  power,  and  by  circuitous  paths.  Rather, 
mighty  World -Spirit,  hadst  thou  taken  from  us 
this  freedom,  which,  only  with  difficulty  and 
by  a  different  arrangement,  thou  canst  fit  to  thy 
plans  ;  and  compelled  us  at  once  to  act  as  those 
plans  require.  Thou  wouldst  then  arrive  at  thy 
goal  by  the  shortest  road,  as  the  meanest  of  the 
inhabitants  of  thy  worlds  can  tell  thee. 

But  I  am  free,  and  therefore  such  a  concate- 
nation of  cause  and  effect,  in  which  freedom  is 
absolutely  superfluous  and  useless,  cannot  ex- 
haust my  whole  destination.  I  must  be  free ; 
for  not  the  mechanical  act,  but  the  free  deter- 
mination of  free-will,  for  the  sake  of  the  com- 
mand alone,  and  absolutely,  for  no  other  reason, 
so  says  the  inward  voice  of  conscience, — this 
alone  determines  our  true  worth.  .  The  band 
with  which  the  law  binds  me  is  a  band  for  liv- 
ing spirits.  It  scorns  to  rule  over  dead  mechan- 
ism, and  applies  itself  alone  to  the  living  and 
self-acting.  Such  obedience  it  demands.  This 
obedience  cannot  be  superfluous. 

And  herewith,  the  eternal  world  rises  more 
brightly  before  me,  and  the  ground-law  of  its 
order  stands  clear  before  the  eye  of  my  mind. 
In  that  world  the  will,  purely  and  only,  as  it 


lies,  locked  up  from  all  eyes,  in  the  secret  dark 
of  my  soul,  is  the  first  link  in  a  chain  of  conse- 
quences which  runs  through  the  whole  invisible 
world  of  spirits ;  as  in  the  earthly  world  tbe 
deed,  a  certain  movement  of  matter,  becomes 
the  first  link  in  a  material  chain  which  extends 
through  the  whole  material  system.  The  will 
is  the  working  and  living  principle  in  the  world 
of  Reason,  as  motion  is  the  working  and  living 
principle  in  the  world  of  sense.  I  stand  in  the 
centre  of  two  opposite  worlds,  a  visible  in 
which  the  deed,  and  an  invisible,  altogether 
incomprehensible,  in  which  the  will  decides. 
I  am  one  of  the  original  forces  for  both  these 
worlds.  My  will  is  that  which  embraces  both. 
This  will  is  in  and  of  itself  a  constituent  portion 
of  the  supersensual  world.  When  I  put  it  in 
motion  by  a  resolution,  I  move  and  change 
something  in  that  world,  and  my  activity  flows 
on  over  the  whole,  and  produces  something 
new  and  ever-during,  which  then  exists  and 
needs  not  to  be  made  anew.  This  will  breaks 
forth  into  a  material  act,  and  this  act  belongs  to 
the  world  of  the  senses,  and  effects,  in  that, 
what  it  can. 

Not,  when  I  am  divorced  from  the  connection 
of  the  earthly  world,  do  I  first  gain  admission 
into  that  which  is  above  the  earth.  I  am  and 
live  in  it  already,  far  more  truly  than  in  the 
earthly.  Even  now  it  is  my  only  firm  stand- 
point ;  and  the  eternal  life,  which  I  have  long 
since  taken  possession  of,  is  the  only  reason 
why  I  am  willing  still  to  prolong  the  earthly. 
That  which  they  denominate  Heaven,  lies  not 
beyond  the  grave.  It  is  already  here,  diffused 
around  our  Nature,  and  its  light  arises  in  every 
pure  heart.  My  will  is  mine,  and  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  is  entirely  mine,  and  which  depends 
entirely  upon  myself.  By  it  I  am  already  a 
citizen  of  the  kingdom  of  liberty  and  of  self- 
active  Reason.  My  conscience,  the  tie  by 
which  that  world  holds  me  unceasingly  and 
binds  me  to  itself,  tells  me  at  every  moment 
what  determination  of  my  will  (the  only  thing 
by  which,  here  in  the  dust,  I  can  lay  hold  of 
that  kingdom)  is  most  consonant  with  its  order  ; 
and  it  depends  entirely  upon  myself  to  give 
myself  the  determination  enjoined  upon  me.  I 
cultivate  myself  then  for  this  world,  and,  ac- 
cordingly, work  in  it  and  for  it,  while  elaborat- 
ing one  of  its  members.  I  pursue  in  it,  and  in 
il  alone,  without  vacillation  or  doubt,  according 
to  fixed  rules,  my  aim ; — sure  of  success,  since 
there  no  foreign  power  opposes  my  intent. 

******* 

That  our  good-will,  in  and  for  and  through 
itself,  must  have  consequences,  we  know,  even 
in  this  life  ;  for  Reason  cannot  require  anything 
without  a  purpose.  But  what  these  conse- 
quences are, — nay,  how  it  is  possible  that  a  mere 
will  can  effect  anything, — is  a  question  to  which 
we  cannot  even  imagine  a  solution,  so  long  as 
we  are  entangled  with  this  material  world ; 
and  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  not  to  undertake 
34 


398 


FICHTE. 


an  inquiry  concerning  which,  we  know  before- 
hand, that  it  must  be  unsuccessful.        *  * 

*  *  *  This  then  is  my  whole  sublime 
destination,  my  true  essence.  I  am  member 
of  two  systems;  a  purely  spiritual  one,  in  which 
I  rfile  by  pure  will  alone  ;  and  a  sensuous  one, 
in  which  I  work  by  my  deed.        *       *  * 

*  *  *  These  two  systems,  the  purely  spi- 
ritual and  the  sensuous, — which  last  may  con- 
sist of  an  immeasurable  series  of  particular 
lives, — exist  in  me  from  the  moment  in  which 
my  active  reason  is  developed,  and  pursue  their 
parallel  course.  The  latter  system  is  only  an 
appearance,  for  me  and  for  those  who  share 
with  me  the  same  life.  The  former  alone  gives 
to  the  latter  meaning,  and  purpose,  and  value. 
I  am  immortal,  imperishable,  eternal,  so  soon 
as  I  form  the  resolution  to  obey  the  law  of  Rea- 
son ;  and  am  not  first  to  become  so.  The  super- 
sensuous  world  is  not  a  future  world,  it  is  pre- 
sent. It  never  can  be  more  present,  at  any  one 
point  of  finite  existence,  than  at  any  other  point. 
After  an  existence  of  myriad  lives,  it  cannot  be 
more  present,  than  at  this  moment.  Other  con- 
ditions of  my  sensuous  existence  are  to  come ; 
but  these  are  no  more  the  true  life,  than  the 
present  condition.  By  means  of  that  resolution, 
I  lay  hold  on  eternity,  and  strip  off  this  life  in 
the  dust,  and  all  other  sensuous  lives  that  may 
await  me,  and  raise  myself  far  above  them.  I 
become  to  myself  the  sole  fountain  of  all  my 
being  and  of  all  my  phenomena;  and  have 
henceforth,  unconditioned  by  aught  without  me, 
life  in  myself.  My  will,  which  I  myself,  and 
no  stranger,  fit  to  the  order  of  that  world,  is  this 
fountain  of  true  life  and  of  eternity. 

But  only  my  will  is  this  fountain ;  and  only 
when  I  acknowledge  this  will  to  be  the  true 
seat  of  moral  excellence,  and  actually  elevate 
it  to  this  excellence,  do  I  attain  to  the  certainty 
and  the  possession  of  that  supersensuous  world. 
******* 

The  sense  by  which  we  lay  hold  on  eternal 
life  we  acquire  only  by  renouncing  and  offering 
up  sense,  and  the  aims  of  sense,  to  the  law  which 
claims  our  will  alone,  and  not  our  acts; — by 
renouncing  it  with  the  conviction  that  to  do  so 
is  reasonable  and  alone  reasonable.  With  this 
renunciation  of  the  earthly,  the  belief  in  the 
eternal  first  enters  our  soul,  and  stands  isolated 
there,  as  the  only  stay  by  which  we  can  still 
sustain  ourselves,  when  we  have  relinquished 
everything  else,  as  the  only  animating  principle 
that  still  heaves  our  bosom  and  still  inspires 
our  life.  Well  was  it  said,  in  the  metaphors 
of  a  sacred  doctrine,  that  man  must  first  die  to 
the  world  and  be  born  again,  in  order  to  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  God. 

I  see,  0!  I  see  now,  clear  before  mine  eyes, 
the  cause  of  my  former  heedlessness  and  blind- 
ness concerning  spiritual  things.  Filled  with 
earthly  aims,  and  lost  in  them  with  all  my 
scheming  and  striving;  put  in  motion  and  im- 
pelled only  by  the  idea  of  a  result,  which  is  to 


be  actualized  without  us,  by  the  desire  of  such 
a  result  and  pleasure  in  it; — insensible  and 
dead  to  the  pure  impulse  of  that  Reason  which 
gives  the  law  to  itself,  which  sets  before  us  a 
purely  spiritual  aim,  the  immortal  Psyche  re- 
mains chained  to  the  earth;  her  wings  are 
bound.  Our  philosophy  becomes  the  history  of 
our  own  heart  and  life.  As  we  find  ourselves, 
so  we  imagine  man  in  general  and  his  destina- 
tion. Never  impelled  by  any  other  motive  than 
the  desire  of  that  which  can  be  realized  in  this 
world,  there  is  no  true  liberty  for  us,  no  liberty 
which  has  the  ground  of  its  determination  ab- 
solutely and  entirely  in  itself.  Our  liberty,  at 
the  utmost,  is  that  of  the  self-forming  plant;  no 
higher  in  its  essence,  only  more  curious  in  :'ts 
result;  not  producing  a  form  of  matter  witS 
roots,  leaves  and  blossoms,  but  a  form  of  mind 
with  impulses,  thoughts,  actions.  Of  the  true 
liberty  we  are  positively  unable  to  comprehei:  J 
anything,  because  we  are  not  in  possession  of 
it.  Whenever  we  hear  it  spoken  of,  we  draw 
the  words  down  to  our  own  meaning,  or  briefly 
dismiss  it  with  a  sneer,  as  nonsense.  With  the 
knowledge  of  liberty,  the  sense  of  another  world 
is  also  lost  to  us.  Everything  of  this  sort  floats 
by  like  words  which  are  not  addressed  to  us; 
like  an  ash-grey  shadow  without  color  or  mean- 
ing, which  we  cannot  by  any  end  take  hold  of 
and  retain.  Without  the  least  interest,  we  let 
everything  go  as  it  is  stated.  Or  if  ever  a  ro- 
buster  zeal  impels  us  to  consider  it  seriously, 
we  see  clearly  and  can  demonstrate  that  all 
those  ideas  are  untenable,  hollow  visions,  which 
a  man  of  sense  casts  from  him.  And,  according 
to  the  premises  from  which  we  set  out,  an  1 
which  are  taken  from  our  own  innermost  expe- 
rience, we  are  quite  right;  and  are  alike  unan- 
swerable and  unteachable,  so  long  as  we  remain 
what  we  are.  The  excellent  doctrines  which 
are  current  among  the  people,  fortified  with 
special  authority,  concerning  freedom,  duty  and 
eternal  life,  change  themselves  for  us  into  gro- 
tesque fables,  like  those  of  Tartarus  and  the 
Elysian  fields;  although  we  do  not  disclose  the 
true  opinion  of  our  hearts,  because  we  think  it 
more  advisable  to  keep  the  people  in  outward 
decency  by  means  of  these  images.  Or  if  Wl 
are  less  reflective,  and  ourselves  fettered  by  the 
bands  of  authority,  then  we  sink,  ourselves,  to 
the  true  plebeian  level.  We  believe  that  which, 
so  understood,  is  foolish  fable  ;  and  find,  in  those 
purely  spiritual  indications,  nothing  but  the 
promise  of  a  continuance,  to  all  eternity,  of  the 
same  miserable  existence  which  we  lead  here 
below. 

To  say  all  in  a  word  :  Only  through  a  radi- 
cal reformation  of  my  will  does  a  new  light 
arise  upon  my  being  and  destination.  Without 
this,  however  much  I  may  reflect,  and  however 
distinguished  my  mental  endowments,  there  is 
nothing  but  darkness  in  me  and  around  me. 
The  reformation  of  the  heart  alone  conducts  to 
true  wisdom.  So  then,  let  my  whole  life  stream 
incontinently  toward  this  one  end  ! 


FICHTE.  399 


IV. 

My  lawful  will,  simply  as  such,  in  and  through 
itself,  must  have  consequences,  certain  and 
without  exception.  Every  dutiful  determina- 
tion of  my  will,  although  no  act  should  flow 
from  it,  must  operate  in  another,  to  me  incom- 
prehensible, world  ;  and,  except  this  dutiful  de- 
termination of  the  will,  nothing  can  take  effect 
in  that  world.  What  do  I  suppose  when  I  sup- 
pose this?    What  do  I  take  for  granted  1 

Evidently,  a  law,  a  rule  absolutely  and  with- 
out exception  valid,  according  to  which  the  du- 
tiful will  must  have  consequences.  Just  as  in 
the  earthly  world  which  environs  me,  I  assume 
a  law  according  to  which  this  ball,  when  im- 
pelled by  my  hand  with  this  given  force,  in  this 
given  direction,  must  necessarily  move  in  such 
a  direction,  with  a  determinate  measure  of  ra- 
pidity ;  perhaps  impel  another  ball  with  this 
given  degree  of  force  ;  which  other  ball  then 
moves  on  with  a  determinate  rapidity ;  and  so 
on  indefinitely.  As  in  this  case,  with  the  mere 
direction  and  movement  of  my  hand,  I  know 
and  comprehend  all  the  directions  and  move- 
ments which  shall  follow  it.  as  certainly  as  if 
they  were  already  present  and  perceived  by 
me ;— even  so  I  comprehend,  in  my  dutiful  will, 
a  series  of  necessary  and  infallible  consequences 
in  the  spiritual  world,  as  if  they  were  already 
present; — only  that  I  cannot,  as  in  the  material 
world,  determine  them ;  i.  e.,  I  merely  know 
that  they  shall  be,  not  how  they  shall  be.  I  sup- 
pose a  law  of  the  spiritual  world,  in  which  my 
mere  will  is  one  of  the  moving  forces,  just  as 
my  hand  is  one  of  the  moving  forces  in  the  ma- 
terial world.  My  firm  confidence  in  the  re- 
sults of  my  volition  and  the  thought  of  a  law 
of  the  spiritual  world  are  one  and  the  same 
thing;  —  not  two  thoughts  of  which  one  is  the 
consequence  of  the  other,  but  precisely  the  same 
thought.  Just  as  the  certainty  with  which  I 
count  upon  a  certain  motion,  and  the  thought  of 
a  mechanical  law  of  Nature,  are  the  same.  The 
idea  of  Law  expresses  generally  nothing  else 
but  the  fixed,  immovable  reliance  of  Reason 
on  a  proposition,  and  the  impossibility  of  sup- 
posing the  contrary. 

I  assume  such  a  law  of  a  spiritual  world, 
which  my  own  will  did  not  enact,  nor  the  will 
of  any  finite  being,  nor  the  will  of  all  finite  be- 
ings together;  but  to  which  my  will  and  the 
will  of  all  finite  beings  is  subject. 

*  ****** 

Agreeably  to  what  has  now  been  advanced, 
the  law  of  the  supersensuous  world  should  be 
a  Will 

A  Will  which  acts  purely  and  simply  as  will, 
by  its  own  agency,  entirely  without  any  instru- 
ment or  sensuous  medium  of  its  efficacy ;  which 
is  absolutely,  in  itself,  at  once  action  and  result; 
which  wills  and  it  is  done,  which  commands 
and  it  stands  fast;  in  which,  accordingly,  the 
demand  of  reason,  to  be  absolutely  free  and 


self- active,  is  represented.  A  Will  which  is 
law  in  itself;  which  determines  itself,  not  ac- 
cording to  humor  and  caprice,  not  after  pre- 
vious deliberation,  vacillation  and  doubt,  but 
which  is  forever  and  unchangeably  determined, 
and  upon  which  one  may  reckon  with  infallible 
security;  as  the  mortal  reckons  securely  on  the 
laws  of  his  world.  A  Will  in  which  the  law- 
ful will  of  finite  beings  has  inevitable  conse- 
quences, but  only  their  will,  which  is  immov- 
able to  everything  else,  and  for  which  every- 
thing else  is  as  though  it  were  not. 

That  sublime  Will,  therefore,  does  not  pursue 
its  course  for  itself,  apart  from  the  rest  of  Rea- 
son's world.  There  is  between  Him  and  all 
finite,  rational  beings,  a  spiritual  band,  and  him- 
self is  this  spiritual  band  of  Reason's  world.  I 
will  purely  and  decidedly  my  duty,  and  He  then 
wills  that  I  shall  succeed,  at  least  in  the  world 
of  spirits.  Every  lawful  resolve  of  the  finite 
will  enters  into  him,  and  moves  and  determines 
him — to  speak  after  our  fashion — not  in  conse- 
quence of  a  momentary  good  pleasure,  but  in 
consequence  of  the  eternal  law  of  his  being. 

With  astounding  clearness  it  now  stands  be- 
fore my  soul,  the  thought  which  hitherto  had 
been  wrapped  in  darkness,  the  thought,  that 
my  will,  merely  as  such,  and  of  itself,  has  con- 
sequences. It  has  consequences  because  it  is 
infallibly  and  immediately  taken  knowledge  of 
by  another,  related  will,  which  is  itself  an  act, 
and  the  only  life-principle  of  the  spiritual  world. 

In  that  Will  it  has  its  first  consequence,  and 
only  through  that,  in  the  rest  of  the  spiritual 
world  which,  in  all  its  parts,  is  but  the  product 
of  that  infinite  Will. 

Thus  I  flow, — the  mortal  must  speak  accord- 
ing to  his  dialect, — thus  I  flow  in  upon  that  Will ; 
and  the  voice  of  conscience  in  my  interior,  which, 
in  every  situation  of  my  life,  instructs  me  what 
I  have  to  do  in  that  situation,  is  that  by  means 
of  which  He,  in  turn,  flows  in  upon  me.  That 
voice  is  the  oracle  from  the  eternal  world, 
made  sensible  by  my  environment,  and  trans- 
lated, by  my  reception  of  it,  into  my  language  ; 
which  announces  to  me  how  I  must  fit  myself 
to  my  part  in  the  order  of  the  spiritual  world, 
or  to  the  infinite  Will,  which  itself  is  the  order 
of  that  spiritual  world.  I  cannot  oversee  or  see 
through  this  spiritual  order ;  nor  need  I.  I  am 
only  a  link  in  its  chain,  and  can  no  more  judge 
of  the  whole,  than  a  single  tone  in  a  song  can 
judge  of  the  harmony  of  the  whole.  But  what 
I  myself  should  be,  in  the  harmony  of  Spirits,  I 
must  know;  for  only  I  myself  can  make  myself 
that.  And  it  is  immediately  revealed  to  me  by 
a  voice  which  sounds  over  to  me  from  that 
world.  Thus  I  stand  in  connection  with  the 
only  being  that  exists,  and  partake  of  its  being. 
There  is  nothing  truly  real,  permanent,  impe- 
rishable in  me,  but  these  two  ; — the  voice  of  my 
conscience  and  my  free  obedience.  By  means 
of  the  first,  the  spiritual  world  bows  down  to 
me  and  embraces  me,  as  one  of  its  members. 
By  means  of  the  second,  I  raise  myself  into  this 


400  FICHTE. 


world,  lay  hold  of  it,  and  work  in  it.  But  that 
infinite  Will  is  the  mediator  between  it  and  me; 
for,  of  it  and  me,  himself  is  the  primal  fountain. 
This  is  the  only  true  and  imperishable,  toward 
which  my  soul  moves  from  its  inmost  depth. 
All  else  is  only  phenomenon,  and  vanishes  and 
returns  again,  with  new  seeming. 

This  Will  connects  me  with  itself.  The  same 
connects  me  with  all  finite  beings  of  my  spe- 
cies, and  is  the  universal  mediator  between  us 
all.  That  is  the  great  mystery  of  the  invisible 
world,  and  its  ground-law,  so  far  as  it  is  a  world, 
or  system  of  several  individual  wills :  Union 
and  direct  reciprocal  action  of  several  self-subsisting 
and  independent  wills  among  each  other.  A  mys- 
tery which,  even  in  the  present  life,  lies  clear 
before  all  eyes,  without  any  one's  noticing  it  or 
thinking  it  worthy  his  admiration.  The  voice 
of  Conscience,  which  enjoins  upon  each  one  his 
proper  duty,  is  the  ray  by  which  we  proceed 
from  the  Infinite,  and  are  set  forth  as  individual 
particular  beings.  It  defines  the  boundaries  of 
our  personality ;  it  is,  therefore,  our  true  origi- 
nal constituent,  the  ground  and  the  stuff  of  all 
the  life  which  we  live. 

******* 

That  eternal  Will,  then,  is  indeed  world-cre- 
ator, as  he  alone  can  be, — in  the  finite  reason. 
(The  only  creation  which  is  needed.)  They 
who  suppose  him  to  build  a  world  out  of  an 
eternal  sluggish  matter,  which  world,  in  that 
case,  could  be  nothing  else  but  inert  and  life- 
less, like  implements  fashioned  by  human 
hands,  and  not  an  eternal  process  of  self-deve- 
lopment; or  who  think  they  can  imagine  the 
going  forth  of  a  material  something  out  of  no- 
thing, know  neither  the  world  nor  him.  If 
matter  only  is  something,  then  there  is  nowhere 
anything,  and  nowhere,  in  all  eternity,  can 
anything  be.  Only  Reason  is,  the  infinite,  in 
itself,  the  finite  in  that  and  by  that.  Only  in 
our  minds  does  he  create  the  world  ;  or,  at  least, 
that  from  which  we  unfold  it,  and  that  whereby 
we  unfold  it ;  —  the  call  to  duty,  and  the  feel- 
ings, perceptions  and  laws  of  thought,  agreeing 
therewith.  It  is  his  light  whereby  we  see  light, 
and  all  that  appears  to  us  in  that  light.  In  our 
minds  he  is  continually  fashioning  this  world, 
and  interposing  in  it  by  interposing  in  our  minds 
with  the  call  of  duty,  whenever  another  free 
agent  effects  a  change  therein.  In  our  minds 
he  maintains  this  world,  and,  therewith,  our 
finite  existence,  of  which  alone  we  are  capable, 
in  that  he  causes  to  arise  out  of  our  states  new 
states  continually.  After  he  has  proved  us  suf- 
ficiently for  our  next  destination,  according  to 
his  higher  aim,  and  when  we  shall  have  culti- 
vated ourselves  for  the  same,  he  will  annihilate 
this  world  for  us  by  what  we  call  death,  and 
introduce  us  into  a  new  one,  the  product  of 
our  dutiful  action  in  this.  All  our  life  is  his 
life.  We  are  in  his  hand,  and  remain  in  it,  and 
no  one  can  pluck  us  out  of  it.  We  are  eternal 
because  He  is  eternal. 


Sublime,  living  Will!  whom  no  name  can 
name,  and  whom  no  conception  can  grasp! 
well  may  I  raise  my  mind  to  thee,  for  thou  and 
I  are  not  divided.  Thy  voice  sounds  in  me,  and 
mine  sounds  back,  in  thee  ;  and  all  my  thoughts, 
if  only  they  are  true  and  good,  are  thought  in 
thee.  In  thee,  the  incomprehensible,  I  become 
comprehensible  to  myself,  and  entirely  compre- 
hend the  world.  All  the  riddles  of  my  exist- 
ence are  solved,  and  the  most  perfect  harmony 
arises  in  my  mind. 

Thou  art  best  apprehended  by  childlike  Sim- 
plicity, devoted  to  thee.  To  her  thou  art  the 
heart-searcher  who  lookest  through  her  inner- 
most; the  all -present,  faithful  witness  of  her 
sentiments,  who  alone  knowest  that  she  meaneth 
well,  and  who  alone  understandest  her,  when 
misunderstood  by  all  the  world.  Thou  art  to 
her  a  Father,  whose  purposes  toward  her  are 
ever  kind,  and  who  will  order  everything  for 
her  best  good.  She  submitteth  herself  wholly, 
with  body  and  soul,  to  thy  beneficent  decrees. 
Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  she  saith,  I  know  that 
it  shall  be  good,  so  surely  as  it  is  thou  that  dost 
it.  The  speculative  understanding,  which  has 
only  heard  of  thee,  but  has  never  seen  thee, 
would  teach  us  to  know  thy  being  in  itself,  and 
sets  before  us  an  inconsistent  monster,  which 
it  gives  out  for  thine  image,  ridiculous  to  the 
merely  knowing,  hateful  and  detestable  to  the 
wise  and  good. 

I  veil  my  face  before  thee  and  lay  my  hand 
upon  my  mouth.  How  thou  art  in  thyself,  and 
how  thou  appearest  to  thyself,  I  can  never  know, 
as  surely  as  I  can  never  be  thou.  Afier  thou- 
sand times  thousand  spirit-lives  lived  through, 
I  shall  no  more  be  able  to  comprehend  thee 
than  now,  in  this  hut  of  earth.  That  which  I 
comprehend  becomes,  by  my  comprehension  of 
it,  finite;  and  this  can  never,  by  an  endless 
process  of  magnifying  and  exalting,  be  changed 
into  infinite.  Thou  differest  from  the  finite,  not 
only  in  degree  but  in  kind.  By  that  magnifying 
process  they  only  make  thee  a  greater  and  still 
greater  man,  but  never  God,  the  Infinite,  inca- 
pable of  measure.  ***** 

*  *  *  I  wiii  not  attempt  that  which  is 
denied  to  me  by  my  finite  nature,  and  which 
could  avail  me  nothing.  I  desire  not  to  know 
how  thou  art  in  thyself.  But  thy  relations  and 
connections  with  me,  the  finite,  and  with  all 
finite  beings,  lie  open  to  mine  eye,  when  I  be- 
come what  I  should  be.  They  encompass  me 
with  a  more  luminous  clearness  than  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  being.  Thou  workest  in 
me  the  knowledge  of  my  duty,  of  my  destina- 
tion in  the  series  of  rational  beings.  How  ?  I 
know  not,  and  need  not  to  know.  Thou  know- 
est and  perceivest  what  I  think  and  will.  How 
thou  canst  know  it, — by  what  act  thou  bringest 
this  consciousness  to  pass,  —  on  that  point  I 
comprehend  nothing.  Yea!  I  know  very  well 
that  the  idea  of  an  act,  of  a  special  act  of  con- 
sciousness, applies  only  to  me  but  not  to  thee, 
the  Infinite.  Thou  wiliest,  because  thou  will- 


FICHTE. 


401 


est,  that  my  free  obedience  shall  have  conse- 
quences in  all  eternity.  The  act  of  thy  will  I 
cannot  comprehend.  I  only  know  that  it  is  not 
like  to  mine.  Thou  doest,  and  thy  will  itself  is 
deed.  But  thy  method  of  action  is  directly 
contrary  to  that  of  which,  alone,  I  can  form  a 
conception.  Thou  livest  and  art,  for  thou  know- 
est,  and  wiliest,  and  workest,  all  present  to 
finite  Reason.  But  thou  art  not  such  as  through 
ail  eternity  I  shall  alone  be  able  to  conceive  of 
Being. 

In  the  contemplation  of  these  thy  relations  to 
me,  the  finite,  I  will  be  calm  and  blessed.  I 
know  immediately,  only  what  I  must  do.  This 
will  I  perform  undisturbed  and  joyful,  and 
without  philosophising.  For  it  is  thy  voice 
which  commands  me,  it  is  the  ordination  of  the 
spiritual  world-plan  concerning  me.  And  the 
power  by  which  I  perform  it  is  thy  power. 
Whatsoever  is  commanded  me  by  that  voice, 
whatsoever  is  accomplished  by  this  power,  is 
surely  and  truly  good  in  relation  to  that  plan. 
I  am  calm  in  all  the  events  of  this  world,  for 
they  occur  in  thy  world.  Nothing  can  deceive, 
or  surprise,  or  make  me  afraid,  so  surely  as  thou 
livest,  and  I  behold  thy  life.  For  in  thee  and 
through  thee,  0  infinite  One !  I  behold  even  my 
present  world  in  another  light.  Nature  and 
natural  consequences  in  the  destinies  and  ac- 
tions of  free  beings,  in  view  of  thee,  are  empty, 
unmeaning  words.  There  is  no  Nature  more. 
Thou,  thou  alone  art. 

It  no  longer  appears  to  me  the  aim  of  the 
present  world,  that  the  above-mentioned  state 
of  universal  peace  among  men,  and  of  their  un- 
conditioned empire  over  the  mechanism  of  Na- 
ture, should  be  brought  about, — merely  that  it 
may  exist ;  but  that  it  should  be  brought  about 
by  man  himself.  And,  since  it  is  calculated  for 
all,  that  it  should  be  brought  about  by  all,  as 
one  great,  free,  moral  community.  Nothing  new 
and  better  for  the  individual,  except  through  his 
dutiful  will,  nothing  new  and  better  for  the 
community,  except  through  their  united,  duti- 
ful will,  is  the  ground-law  of  the  great  moral 
kingdom,  of  which  the  present  life  is  a  part. 

The  reason  why  the  good-will  of  the  indivi- 
dual is  so  often  lost  for  this  world,  is  that  it  is 
only  the  will  of  the  individual,  and  that  the 
will  of  the  majority  does  not  coincide  with  it. 
Therefore,  it  has  no  consequences  but  those 
which  belong  to  a  future  world.  Hence,  even 
the  passions  and  vices  of  men  appear  to  co-ope- 
rate in  the  promotion  of  a  better  state,  not  in 
and  for  themselves  ; — in  this  sense  good  can  never 
come  out  of  evil, — but  by  furnishing  a  counter- 
poise to  opposite  vices,  and  finally  annihilating 
those  vices  and  themselves,  by  their  preponde- 
rance. Oppression  could  never  have  gained 
the  upper  hand,  unless  cowardice,  and  base- 
ness, and  mutual  distrust  had  prepared  the  way 
for  it.  It  will  continue  to  increase,  until  it  era- 
dicates cowardice  and  the  slavish  mind  ;  and 
despair  re-awakens  the  courage  that  was  lost. 
Then  the  two  antagonist  vices  will  have  de- 
3a 


stroyed  each  other,  and  the  noblest  in  all  human 
relations,  permanent  freedom,  will  have  come 
forth  from  them. 

The  actions  of  free  beings  have,  strictly  speak- 
ing, no  other  consequences  than  those  which 
affect  other  free  beings.  For  only  in  such,  and 
for  such,  does  the  world  exist ;  and  that,  wherein 
all  agree,  is  the  world.  But  they  have  conse- 
quences in  free  agents  only  by  means  of  the 
infinite  Will,  by  which  all  individuals  exist. 
A  call,  a  revelation  of  that  Will  to  us,  is  always 
a  requirement  to  perform  some  particular  duty. 
Hence,  even  that  which  we  call  evil  in  the 
world,  the  consequence  of  the  abuse  of  free- 
dom, exists  only  through  Him;  and  it  exists  for 
all,  for  whom  it  exists,  only  so  far  forth  as  it 
imposes  duties  upon  them.  Did  it  not  fall 
within  the  eternal  plan  of  our  moral  education 
and  the  education  of  our  whole  race,  that  pre- 
cisely these  duties  should  be  laid  upon  us,  they 
would  not  have  been  imposed  ;  and  that  where- 
by they  are  imposed,  and  which  we  call  evil, 
would  never  have  been.  In  this  view,  every- 
thing which  takes  place  is  good,  and  absolutely 
accordant  with  the  best  ends.  There  is  but  one 
world  possible, — a  thoroughly  good  one.  Every- 
thing that  occurs  in  this  world,  conduces  to  the 
reformation  and  education  of  man,  and,  by 
means  of  that,  to  the  furtherance  of  his  earthly 
destination. 

It  is  this  higher  world-plan  that  we  call  Na- 
ture, when  we  say  Nature  leads  men  through 
want  to  industry,  through  the  evils  of  general 
disorder  to  a  righteous  polity,  through  the  mise- 
ries of  their  perpetual  wars  to  final,  ever-during 
peace.  Thy  will,  0  Infinite!  thy  providence 
alone  is  this  higher  Nature.  This  too  is  best 
understood  by  artless  simplicity,  which  regards 
this  life  as  a  place  of  discipline  and  education, 
as  a  school  for  eternity;  which,  in  all  the  for- 
tunes it  experiences,  the  most  trivial  as  well  as 
the  most  momentous,  beholds  thy  ordinations 
designed  for  good  ;  and  which  firmly  believes 
that  all  things  will  work  together  for  good  to 
those  who  love  their  duty  and  know  thee. 

0  !  truly  have  I  spent  the  former  days  of  my 
life  in  darkness.  Truly  have  I  heaped  errors 
upon  errors,  and  thought  myself  wise.  Now 
first  I  fully  understand  the  doctrine  which 
seemed  so  strange  to  me,  out  of  thy  mouth, 
wondrous  Spirit!*  although  my  understanding 
had  nothing  to  oppose  to  it.  For  now  first  I 
overlook  it,  in  its  whole  extent,  in  its  deepest 
ground,  and  in  all  its  consequences. 

Man  is  not  a  product  of  the  world  of  sense; 
and  the  end  of  his  existence  can  never  be  at- 
tained in  that  world.  His  destination  lies  be- 
yond time  and  space  and  all  that  pertains  to 
sense.  He  must  know  what  he  is  and  what 
he  is  to  make  himself.  As  his  destination  is 
sublime,  so  his  thought  must  be  able  to  lift  it- 
self up  above  all  the  bounds  of  sense.  This 


*  An  allusion  to  the  second  book. 
34* 


402 


FICHTE. 


must  be  his  calling.  Where  his  being  is  do- 
mesticated, there  his  thought  must  be  domesti- 
cated also;  and  the  most  truly  human  view, 
that  which  alone  befits  him,  that  in  which  his 
whole  power  of  thought  is  represented,  is  the 
view  by  which  he  lifts  himself  above  those 
limits,  by  which  all  that  is  of  the  senses  is 
changed  for  him  into  pure  nothing,  a  mere  re- 
flection of  the  alone  enduring,  supersensual,  in 
mortal  eyes. 

Many  have  been  elevated  to  this  view  with- 
out scientific  thought,  simply  by  their  great 
heart  and  their  pure  moral  instinct;  because 
they  lived  especially  with  the  heart,  and  in  the 
sentiments.  They  denied,  by  their  conduct,  the 
efficacy  and  reality  of  the  world  of  sense ;  and 
in  the  shaping  of  their  purposes  and  measures, 
they  esteemed  as  nothing  that,  concerning  which, 
they  had  not  yet  learned  by  thinking,  that  it  is 
nothing,  even  to  thought.  They  who  could  say, 
"our  citizenship  is  in  heaven;  we  have  here  no 
continuing  place,  but  seek  one  to  come  ;" — they 
whose  first  principle  was,  to  die  to  the  world 
and  to  be  born  anew,  and  even  here,  to  enter 
into  another  life,  —  they,  truly,  placed  not  the 
slightest  value  upon  all  the  objects  of  sense,  and 
were,  to  use  the  language  of  the  School,  practi- 
cal transcendental  Idealists. 

Others  who,  in  addition  to  the  sensual  acti- 
vity which  is  native  to  us  all,  have,  by  their 
thought,  confirmed  themselves  in  sense,  be- 
come implicated,  and,  as  it  were,  grown  toge- 
ther with  it; — they  can  raise  themselves  per- 
manently and  perfectly  above  sense  only  by 
continuing  and  carrying  out  their  thought. 
Otherwise,  with  the  purest  moral  intentions, 
they  will  still  be  drawn  down  again  by  their 
understanding;  and  their  whole  being  will  re- 
main a  continued  and  insoluble  contradiction. 
For  such,  that  philosophy,  which  I  now  first 
entirely  understood,  is  the  power  by  which 
Psyche  first  strips  off  her  caterpillar-hull,  and 
unfolds  the  wings  on  which  she  then  hovers 
above  herself,  and  casts  one  glance  on  the  slough 
she  has  dropped,  thenceforth  to  live  and  work 
in  higher  spheres. 

Blessed  be  the  hour  in  which  I  resolved  to 
meditate  on  myself  and  my  destination !  All 
my  questions  are  solved.  I  know  what  I  can 
know,  and  I  am  without  anxiety  concerning 
that  which  I  cannot  know.  I  am  satisfied. 
There  is  perfect  harmony  and  clearness  in  my 
spirit,  and  a  new  and  more  glorious  existence 
for  that  spirit  begins. 

My  whole,  complete  destination,  I  do  not 
comprehend.  What  I  am  called  to  be  and  shall 
be,  surpasses  all  my  thought.  A  part  of  this 
destination  is  yet  hidden  within  myself,  visible 
only  to  him,  the  Father  of  Spirits,  to  whom  it 
is  committed.  I  know  only  that  it  is  secured 
to  me,  and  that  it  is  eternal  and  glorious  as  him- 
self But  that  portion  of  it  which  is  committed 
to  me,  I  know.  I  know  it  entirely,  and  it  is  the 
root  of  all  my  other  knowledge.    I  know,  in 


every  moment  of  my  life,  with  certainty,  what 
I  am  to  do  in  that  moment.  And  this  is  my 
whole  destination,  so  far  as  it  depends  upon 
me.  From  this,  since  my  knowledge  goes  no 
farther,  I  must  not  depart.  I  must  not  desire 
to  know  anything  beyond  it.  I  must  stand  fast 
in  this  one  centre,  and  take  root  in  it.  All  my 
scheming  and  striving,  and  all  my  faculty,  must 
be  directed  to  that.  My  whole  existence  must 
inweave  itself  with  it.  *  *  *  * 
*  *  *  I  raise  myself  to  this  stand-point, 
and  am  a  new  creature.  My  whole  relation  to 
the  existing  world  is  changed.  The  ties  by 
which  my  mind  was  heretofore  bound  to  this 
world,  and  by  whose  secret  attraction  it  followed 
all  the  movements  of  this  world,  are  forever 
divided,  and  I  stand  free ;  myself,  my  own 
world,  peaceful  and  unmoved.  No  longer 
with  the  heart,  with  the  eye  alone,  I  seize  the 
objects  about  me,  and,  through  the  eye  alone, 
am  connected  with  them.  And  this  eye  itself, 
made  clearer  by  freedom,  looks  through  error 
and  deformity  to  the  true  and  the  beautiful ; 
as,  on  the  unmoved  surface  of  the  water,  forms 
mirror  themselves  pure,  and  with  a  softened 
light. 

My  mind  is  forever  closed  against  embarrass- 
ment and  confusion,  against  doubt  and  anxiety; 
my  heart  is  forever  closed  against  sorrow,  and 
remorse,  and  desire.  There  is  but  one  thing 
that  I  care  to  know  :  What  I  must  do  ?  And 
this  I  know,  infallibly,  always.  Concerning  all 
beside  I  know  nothing,  and  I  know  that  I  know 
nothing ;  and  I  root  myself  fast  in  this  my  igno- 
rance, and  forbear  to  conjecture,  to  opine,  to 
quarrel  with  myself  concerning  that  of  which  I 
know  nothing.  No  event  in  this  world  can 
move  me  to  joy,  and  none  to  sorrow.  Cold  and 
unmoved  I  look  down  upon  them  all ;  for  I 
know  that  I  cannot  interpret  one  of  them,  nor 
discern  its  connection  with  that  which  is  my 
only  concern.  Everything  which  takes  place 
belongs  to  the  plan  of  the  eternal  world,  and  is 
good  in  relation  to  that  plan;  so  much  I  know. 
But  what,  in  that  plan,  is  pure  gain,  and  what 
is  only  meant  to  remove  existing  evil,  accord- 
ingly, what  I  should  most  or  least  rejoice  in  I 
know  not.  In  His  world  everything  succeeds. 
This  suffices  me,  and  in  this  faith  I  stand  firm 
as  a  rock.  But  what  in  His  world  is  only  germ, 
what  blossom,  what  the  fruit  itself,  I  know  not. 

The  only  thing  which  can  interest  me  is  tlie 
progress  of  reason  and  virtue  in  the  kingdom 
of  rational  beings  ;  and  that  purely  for  its  own 
sake,  for  the  sake  of  the  progress.  Whether  I 
am  the  instrument  of  this  progress  or  another, 
whether  it  is  my  act  which  succeeds  or  is 
thwarted,  or  whether  it  is  the  act  of  another,  is 
altogether  indifferent  to  me.  I  regard  myself 
in  every  case  but  as  one  of  the  instruments  of  a 
rational  design,  and  I  honor  and  love  myself, 
and  am  interested  in  myself,  only  as  such  ;  and 
wish  the  success  of  my  act,  only  so  far  as  it  goes 
to  accomplish  that  end.  Therefore  I  regard  ali 
the  events  of  this  world  in  the  same  manner ; 


FICHTE. 


403 


'  only  with  exclusive  reference  to  this  one  end  ; 
whether  they  proceed  from  me  or  from  another, 
whether  they  relate  to  me  immediately,  or  to 
others.  My  breast  is  closed  against  all  vexa- 
•  tion  on  account  of  personal  mortifications  and 
j  affronts ;  against  all  exaltation  on  account  of 
personal  merits;  for  my  entire  personality  1ie»s 
long  since  vanished,  and  been  swallowed  up  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  end. 

******* 

Bodily  sufferings,  pain  and  sickness,  should 
such  befall  me,  I  cannot  avoid  to  feel,  for  they 
are  events  of  my  nature,  and  I  am  and  remain 
nature  here  below.  But  they  shall  not  trouble 
me.  They  affect  only  the  Nature,  with  which 
I  am,  in  some  strange  way,  connected ;  not 
myself,  the  being  which  is  elevated  above  all 
Nature.  The  sure  end  of  all  pain,  and  of  all 
susceptibility  of  pain,  is  death  ;  and  of  all  which 
the  natural  man  is  accustomed  to  regard  as 
evil,  this  is  the  least  so  to  me.  Indeed,  I  shall 
not  die  for  myself,  but  only  for  others,  for  those 
that  remain  behind,  from  whose  connexion  I 
am  severed.  For  myself,  the  hour  of  death  is 
the  hour  of  birth  to  a  new  and  more  glorious 
life. 

Since  my  heart  is  thus  closed  to  all  desire 
for  the  earthly,  since,  in  fact,  I  have  no  longer 
any  heart  for  the  perishable,  the  universe  ap- 

i    pears  to  my  eye  in  a  transfigured  form.  The 

'  dead,  inert  mass  which  but  choked  up  space 
has  vanished ;  and  instead  thereof  flows,  and 
waves,  and  rushes  the  eternal  stream  of  life,  and 
power,  and  deed;  —  of  the  original  life,  of  thy 
life,  0  Infinite  !  For  all  life  is  thy  life,  and  only 
the  religious  eye  pierces  to  the  kingdom  of  veri- 
table beauty. 

I  am  related  to  Thee,  and  all  that  I  behold 
around  me  is  related  to  me.  All  is  quick,  all  is 
soul,  and  gazes  upon  me  with  bright  spirit-eyes, 
and  speaks  in  spirit-tones  to  my  heart.  Most 
diversely  sundered  and  severed,  I  behold,  in 
all  the  forms  without  me,  myself  again,  and 

,  beam  upon  myself  from  them,  as  the  morning 
sun,  in  thousand  dew-drops  diversely  refracted, 
glances  toward  itself. 

Thy  life,  as  the  finite  can  apprehend  it,  is  a 
willing  which  shapes  and  represents  itself  by 
means  of  itself  alone.  This  life,  made  sensible 
in  various  ways  to  mortal  eyes,  flows  through 
me  and  from  me  downward,  through  the  im- 
measurable whole  of  Nature.  Here  it  streams, 
as  self-creating,  self-fashioning  matter,  through 

'  my  veins  and  muscles,  and  deposites  its  fulness 
out  of  me,  in  the  tree,  in  the  plant,  in  the  grass. 
One  connected  stream,  drop  by  drop,  the  form- 
ing life  flows  in  all  shapes  and  on  all  sides, 
wherever  my  eye  can  follow  it,  and  looks  upon 
me,  from  every  point  of  the  universe,  with  a 
different  aspect,  as  the  same  force  which  fa- 
shions my  own  body  in  darkness  and  in  secret. 
Yonder  it  waves  free,  and  leaps  and  dances  as 
self-forming  motion  in  the  brute;  and,  in  every 
new  body,  represents  itself  as  another  separate, 
self-subsisting  world; — the  same  power  which, 


invisible  to  me,  stirs  and  moves  in  my  own 
members.  All  that  lives  follows  this  universal 
attraction,  this  one  principle  of  all  movement, 
which  conducts  the  harmonious  shock  from  one 
end  of  the  universe  to  the  other.  The  brute 
follows  it  without  freedom.  I,  from  whom,  in 
the  visible  world,  the  movement  proceeds, 
(without,  therefore,  originating  in  me,)  follow 
it  freely. 

But  pure  and  holy,  and  near  to  thine  own  es- 
sence as  aught,  to  mortal  apprehension,  can  be  ; 
this  thy  life  flows  forth  as  a  band  which  binds 
spirits  with  spirits  in  one"  as  air  and  ether  of 
the  one  world  of  Reason,  inconceivable  and  in- 
comprehensible, and  yet  lying  plainly  revealed 
to  the  spiritual  eye.  Conducted  by  this  light- 
stream,  thought  floats  unrestrained  and  the  same 
from  soul  to  soul,  and  returns  purer  and  trans- 
figured from  the  kindred  breast.  Through  this 
mystery  the  individual  finds,  and  understands, 
and  loves  himself  only  in  another;  and  every 
spirit  detaches  itself  only  from  other  spirits; 
and  there  is  no  man,  but  only  a  Humanity;  — 
no  isolated  thinking,  and  loving,  and  hating,  but 
only  a  thinking,  and  loving,  and  hating  in  and 
through  one  another.  Through  this  mystery  the 
affinity  of  Spirits,  in  the  invisible  world,  streams 
forth  into  their  corporeal  nature,  and  represents 
itself  in  two  sexes,  which,  though  every  spiritual 
band  could  be  severed,  are  still  constrained,  as 
natural  beings,  to  love  each  other.  It  flows  forth 
into  the  affection  of  parents  and  children,  of 
brothers  and  sisters  ;  as  if  the  souls  were  sprung 
from  one  blood  as  well  as  the  bodies;  —  as  if 
the  minds  were  branches  and  blossoms  of  the 
same  stem.  And  from  thence  it  embraces,  in 
narrower  or  wider  circles,  the  whole  sentient 
world.  Even  the  hatred  of  spirits  is  grounded 
in  thirst  for  love  ;  and  no  enmity  springs  up, 
except  from  friendship  denied. 

Mine  eye  discerns  this  eternal  life  and  motion, 
in  all  the  veins  of  sensible  and  spiritual  Nature, 
through  what  seems  to  others  a  dead  mass.  And 
it  sees  this  life  forever  ascend  and  grow,  and 
transfigure  itself  into  a  more  spiritual  expres- 
sion of  its  own  nature.  The  universe  is  no 
longer,  to  me,  that  circle  which  returns  into 
itself,  that  game  which  repeats  itself  without 
ceasing,  that  monster  which  devours  itself  in 
.order  to  reproduce  itself,  as  it  was  before.  It  is 
spiritualized  to  my  contemplation,  and  bears  the 
peculiar  impress  of  the  Spirit:  continual  pro- 
gress toward  perfection,  in  a  straight  line  which 
stretches  into  infinity. 

The  sun  rises  and  sets,  the  stars  vanish  and 
return  again,  and  all  the  spheres  hold  their 
cycle-dance.  But  they  never  return  precisely 
such  as  they  disappeared ;  and  in  the  shining 
fountains  of  life  there  is  also  life  and  progress. 
Every  hour  which  they  bring,  every  morning 
and  every  evening  sinks  down  with  new  bless- 
ings on  the  world.  New  life  and  new  love  drop 
from  the  spheres,  as  dew-drops  from  the  cloud, 
and  embrace  Nature,  as  the  cool  night  embraces 
the  earth. 


404 


FICHTE. 


All  death  in  Nature  is  birth ;  and  precisely 
in  dying,  the  sublimation  of  life  appears  most 
conspicuous.  There  is  no  death-bringing  prin- 
ciple in  Nature,  for  Nature  is  only  life,  through- 
out. Not  death  kills,  but  the  more  living  life, 
which,  hidden  behind  the  old,  begins  and  un- 
folds itself.  Death  and  birth  are  only  the  strug- 
gle of  life  with  itself  to  manifest  itself  in  ever 
more  transfigured  form,  more  like  itself. 

And  my  death, — can  that  be  anything  differ- 
ent from  this  ?  I,  who  am  not  a  mere  repre- 
sentation and  copy  of  life,  but  who  bear  within 
myself  the  original,  the  alone  true,  and  essential 
life  3  It  is  not  a  possible  thought  that  Nature 
should  annihilate  a  life  which  did  not  spring 
from  her;  Nature,  which  exists  only  for  my 
sake,  not  I  for  hers. 

But  even  my  natural  life,  even  this  mere 
representation  of  an  inward  invisible  life  to 
mortal  eyes,  Nature  cannot  annihilate  ;  other- 
wise she  must  be  able  to  annihilate  herself. — 
She  who  exists  only  for  me  and  for  my  sake, 
and  who  ceases  to  exist,  if  I  am  not.  Even  be- 
cause she  puts  me  to  death  she  must  quicken 
me  anew.  It  can  only  be  my  higher  life,  un- 
folding itself  in  her,  before  which  my  present 
life  disappears ;  and  that  which  mortals  call 
death  is  the  visible  appearing  of  a  second  vivi- 
fication.  Did  no  rational  being,  who  has  once 
beheld  its  light,  perish  from  the  earth,  there 
would  be  no  reason  to  expect  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth.  The  only  possible  aim  of 
Nature,  that  of  representing  and  maintaining 
Reason,  would  have  been  already  fulfilled  here 
below,  and  her  circle  would  be  complete.  But 
the  act  by  which  she  puts  to  death  a  free,  self- 
subsisting  being,  is  her  solemn, — to  all  Reason 


apparent,  —  transcending  of  that  act,  and  of 
the  entire  sphere  which  she  thereby  closes. 
The  apparition  of  death  is  the  conductor  by 
which  my  spiritual  eye  passes  over  to  the  new 
life  of  myself,  and  of  Nature,  for  me. 

Every  one  of  my  kind  who  passes  from  earthly 
connexions,  and  who  cannot,  to  my  spirit,  seem 
annihilated,  because  he  is  one  of  my  kind,  draws 
my  thought  over  with  him.  He  still  is,  and  to 
him  belongs  a  place. 

While  we,  here  below,  sorrow  for  him  with 
such  sorrow  as  would  be  felt,  if  possible,  in  the 
dull  kingdom  of  unconsciousness,  when  a  hu- 
man being  withdraws  himself  from  thence  to 
the  light  of  earth's  sun  ; — while  we  so  mourn, 
on  yonder  side  there  is  joy,  because  a  man  is 
born  into  their  world  ;  as  we  citizens  of  earth  re- 
ceive with  joy  our  own.  When  I,  sometime,  shall 
follow  them,  there  will^e  joy  for  me  ;  for  sorrow 
remains  behind,  in  the  sphere  which  I  quit. 

It  vanishes  and  sinks  before  my  gaze,  the 
world  which  I  so  lately  admired.  With  all  the 
fulness  of  life,  of  order,  of  increase,  which  I  be- 
hold in  it,  it  is  but  the  curtain  by  which  an  in- 
finitely more  perfect  world  is  concealed  from 
me.  It  is  but  the  germ  out  of  which  that  infi- 
nitely more  perfect  shall  unfold  itself.  My  faith 
enters  behind  this  curtain,  and  warms  and 
quickens  this  germ.  It  sees  nothing  definite, 
but  expects  more  than  it  can  grasp  here  below, 
than  it  will  ever  be  able  to  grasp  in  time. 

So  I  live  and  so  I  am  ;  and  so  I  am  unchange- 
able, firm  and  complete  for  all  eternity.  For 
this  being  is  not  one  which  I  have  received 
from  without}  it  is  my  own  only  true  being  and 
essence. 


JOHANN  PAUL  FRI 


EDRICH  RICHTER. 


Born  1763. 

Next  to  Schiller  there  is  no  writer  whom 
Germany  cherishes  with  more  enthusiastic  at- 
tachment than  Jean  Paul, — so  he  called  him- 
self, while  living,  and  is  still  called  since  his 
death.  Confined  to  a  narrower  circle  than 
Schiller,  he  is  even  more  intensely  loved  within 
that  circle  than  the  great  dramatist  himself; 
for  he  is  a  writer  to  be  loved,  if  tolerated. 
There  is  that  in  him  which  allows  of  no  indif- 
ference. He  must  either  attach  or  repel. 
Where  he  does  not  create  an  irreconcilable 
aversion,  he  binds  with  indissoluble  friendship. 
Those  who  read  him  much, come  into  personal 
relations  with  him,  and  sympathize  with  him 
as  with  no  other.  Indeed,  there  is  no  other  like 
him  in  the  history  of  literature.  He  is  incom- 
mensurable, and  refuses  to  be  classed ;  com- 
bining- the  most  contradictory  characters  and 
gifts ;  the  humorist  and  the  prophet ;  the  wild- 
est fun  with  the  steepest  elevation  of  thought 
and  an  infinite  pathos ;  the  sharpest  satire  with 
an  all-embracing  love ;  a  feeling  for  all  little- 
ness and  little  ones,  with  the  loftiest  sentiments 
and  aspirations;  a  prevailing  subjectiveness, 
with  clear  and  original  intuitions  of  men  and 
things. 

The  humorist  predominates;  and  such  hu- 
mor !  It  is  not  the  humor  of  Cervantes,  though 
sunny  and  wholesome  as  his.  It  is  not  the 
humor  of  Rabelais,  having  nothing  of  the  satyr 
or  the  6wine ;  and  yet  Rabelais  himself  is  not 
more  wildly  fantastic.  Tt  is  not  the  humor  of 
Swift,  though  it  lacks  nothing  of  his  irony ;  nor 
is  it  the  humor  of  Sterne,  though  not  less  kind 
and  contemplative,  and  stuffed  with  conceits. 
It  is  a  humor  quite  his  own,  "  compounded  of 
many  simples  and  extracted  from  many  ob- 
jects." In  this,  as  in  other  things,  he  resembles 
no  one  else  in  the  world  but  just  Jean  Paul. 
He  is  Jean  Paul,  "  the  only." 

He  was  sumptuously,  marvellously  endowed, 
and  if  he  wanted  many  essential  qualifications 
of  a  great  poet,  or  even  of  a  good  writer,  there 
are  others  which  he  possessed  in  unrivalled 
perfection.  He  has  but  one  rival,  and  that  is 
Shakspeare,  in  exuberance  of  fancy.    The  in- 

1 


Died  1825. 

continent,  the  inconceivable,  the  overwhelm- 
ing affluence  of  images  and  illustrations,  is 
what  first  strikes  us  in  his  writings.  The  pa- 
ragraph labors  and  staggers  with  meanings 
and  double  meanings,  and  after-thoughts  and 
side-thoughts,  conceits  appended  to  every  third 
word,  and  ornaments  stuck  in,  some  sufficient- 
ly bizarre,  and  others  of  supernal  beauty,  mak- 
ing altogether  "a  piece  of  joinery  so  crossly 
indented  and  whimsically  dovetailed,  a  cabinet 
so  variously  inlaid,  such  a  piece  of  diversified 
Mosaic,"  as  no  other  writing  can  parallel.  He 
has  absolutely  no  rival  in  what  may  be  called 
the  inborn  poetry  of  the  heart,  that  sympathy 
and  identification  of  himself  with  all  forms  and 
ways  of  being,  that  secret  understanding  with 
Nature,  that  profound  humanity  which,  in  an 
inferior  degree,  so  happily  distinguishes  Words- 
worth among  English  poets.  Some  of  his 
pieces,  for  example,  Fibel  and  Quintus  Fixlein, 
constitute  a  new  and  higher  order  of  idyl ; 
combining  the  subjective  piquancy  of  modern 
thought  with  the  classic  outwardness  of  the 
ancient  model. 

In  power  of  imagination,  also,  he  takes  rank 
among  the  first.  Many  of  his  characters  are 
wholly  new  creations,  and  have  an  individu- 
ality and  a  self-subsistence  which  only  true 
genius  can  impart.  It  is  in  his  visions,  how- 
ever, with  which  his  works  abound,  that  Rich- 
ter's  imagination  is  most  active,  producing  an 
apocalypse  of  the  most  extravagant  and  un- 
heard-of portents,  a  swarming  phantasmagory 
of  beautiful  and  terrible  apparitions,  which 
make  the  application  more  appropriate  to  him 
than  to  any  other,  of  those  lines  which  describe 
one  of  his  contemporaries : 

"Within that  mind's  abyss  profound, 
As  in  some  limbo  vast, 
More  shapes  and  monsters  did  abound 
To  set  the  wondering  world  aghast, 
Than  wave- worn  Noah  fed  or  starry  Tuscan  found." 

His  faults  as  a  writer  are  sufficiently  promi- 
nent, but,  for  the  most  part,  so  blended  and 
complicated  with  his  peculiar  merits,  that  we 
cannot  imagine  them  removed  without  destroy- 
ing some  characteristic  excellence.    An  utter 

(405) 


406 


RICHTER. 


want  of  grace  and  form,  an  habitual  lugging 
in  of  irrelevant  learning,  an  excessive  delight 
in  verbal  quibbles  and  other  conceits,  obscurity, 
constant  iteration  of  one  or  two  types  of  cha- 
racter, exaggeration  of  one  or  two  features  of 
society,  want  of  action  in  his  narratives,  a  su- 
perfluity of  tears  and  ecstasies  not  sufficiently 
motived,  a  passion  for  extremes — these  are 
faults  which  have  often  been  pointed  out,  and 
which  his  warmest  admirers  will  hardly  deny. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  charge  of  affectation  is 
unjust.  A  mannerist  he  certainly  is,  but  it  is 
the  mannerism  of  idiosyncrasy,  a  bias  in  the 
nature  of  the  man,  a  kink  in  his  genius,  a  mag- 
got in  his  brain,  without  which  he  would  not 
be  Jean  Paul. 

It  is  the  moral  qualities  of  Richter,  far  more 
than  his  intellectual,  which  endear  him  to  his 
countrymen.  To  that  true  and  loyal  soul  the 
deep  heart  of  Germany  responds  with  all  its 
music.  So  loving,  and  believing,  and  hoping, 
and  aspiring,  so  innocent  of  all  guile,  and  free 
from  all  wrath,  and  bitterness,  and  evil  speak- 
ing, so  full  of  all  fine  sentiments  and  generous 
views,  so  abounding  in  compassion  for  all  the 
suffering,  willing  to  clasp  them  all  to  his  great 
heart,  which  throbbed  evermore  with  unebbing 
and  unspeakable  affection  for  all  his  kind ;  so 
devout,  and  pure,  and  good  ;  he  commends  him- 
self not  only  to  his  own  people,  but  to  humanity 
everywhere ;  to  all  that  is  best  in  the  nature 
of  man.  It  is  good  to  converse  with  him.  His 
word  is  sound  and  sanative,  "  pure  as  the  heart 
of  the  waters,"  and  "  pure  as  the  marrow  of 
the  earth." 

The  life's  history  of  Jean  Paul  is  gathered 
partly  from  his  autobiography,  commenced  not 
many  years  before  his  death,  and  extending  to 
his  thirteenth  year;  partly  from  an  appendix 
to  that  beginning  by  Herr  Otto,  a  friend  of  the 
deceased;  and  partly  from  his  correspondence 
with  friends  and  contemporaries.  A  *•  Life  of 
Jean  Paul,"  in  2  vols.  12mo.,  embodying  a 
translation  of  the  autobiographical  fragment, 
and  continuing  the  narrative  from  the  other 
sources  above  mentioned,  was  published  in 
Boston,*  a  few  years  since,  by  a  lady  who 
seems  to  have  spared  no  pains  to  make  herself 
acquainted  with  her  subject.    To  these  two 

*  Life  of  Jean  Paul  Frederic  Richter,  compiled  from 
various  sources,  together  with  his  autobiography,  trans- 
lated from  the  German.  Boston:  Charles  C.  Little  & 
James  Brown. 


volumes  the  editor  of  this  work  refers  with 
pleasure,  as  the  best  biography  of  Richter 
known  to  him. 

Richter  was  born  at  Wunsiedel,  in  that  part 
of  Germany  called  the  Ftchtelgebirge,  or  Pine-' 
mountain.  His  father,  then  organist  and  under- 
teacher  at  the  gymnasium  in  that  town,  was 
soon  after  appointed  pastor  (Lutheran)  of  a 
church,  in  the  small  village  of  Joditz,  and, 
some  years  later,  promoted  to  the  larger  living 
of  Schwarzenbach,  on  the  Saale.  From  his 
father  Richter  received  his  first  instruction  in 
the  languages.  At  sixteen,  he  was  placed  at 
the  gymnasium  in  Hof,  a  neighboring  small 
city.  At  eighteen,  he  entered  the  university 
of  Leipzig,  where  he  began  the  study  of  theo- 
logy, but  soon  gave  himself  up  to  genera)  cil- 
ture,  and  began  his  career  as  author,  with  the 
publication  of  the  "  Greenland  Lawsuits."  His 
father  had  died  meanwhile,  and  he  was  thrown 
entirely  upon  himself.  His  first  attempts  at 
authorship  were  not  successful,  his  situation 
was  perplexing,  and  the  future  looked  grimly 
on  the  penniless  youth.  "  Fortune  seemed  to 
have  let  loose  her  bandogs,  and  hungry  Ruin 
had  him  in  the  wind."*  His  mother  had  re- 
moved to  Hof,  her  birth-place,  and  there  Jean 
Paul  joined  her,  in  a  house  which  had  but  one 
apartment,  pursuing  his  studies  amid  "  the  jin- 
gle of  household  operations;"  writing  books 
which  would  not  sell,  and  tasting  all  the  bit- 
terness of  extreme  penury.  "  The  prisoner's 
allowance,"  he  says,  "  is  bread  and  water,  but 
I  had  only  the  latter." — "  Nevertheless,  I  can- 
not help  saying  to  Poverty  :  Welcome !  so  thou 
come  not  at  quite  too  late  a  time!  Wealth 
bears  heavier  on  talent  than  Poverty.  Under 
gold-mountains  and  thrones  who  knows  how 
many  a  spiritual  giant  may  lie  crushed  down 
and  buried  !  When  among  the  flames  of  youth, 
and  above  all,  of  hotter  pow7ers,  the  oil  of  Riches 
is  also  poured  in  —  little  will  remain  of  the 
phcenix  but  his  ashes ;  and  only  a  Goethe  has 
force  to  keep,  even  at  the  sun  of  good  fortune, 
his  phcenix-wings  unsinged."*  For  ten  years 
and  upwards  he  fought  this  fight,  during  which 
time  his  only  support  was  the  money  earned 
by  the  occasional  but  rare  admission  of  one  of 
his  contributions  to  the  public  journals.  Never- 
theless he  refused  the  situation  of  a  private 
tutor,  determined  to  succeed  as  author,  or  starve 
in  the  attempt.    And  he  triumphed,  at  last. 

*  Carlyle's  Miscellanies,  vol.  II. 


RICHTER. 


407 


After  repeated  failures,  the  publication  of  the 
"Invisible  Lodge,"  in  1793,  brought  money, 
fame,  troops  of  friends,  and,  altogether,  decided 
his  future.  After  the  death  of  his  mother,  he 
resided  successively  in  several  different  places, 
and  finally  fixed  upon  Baireuth,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Fichtelgebirge,  as  his  home. 
In  1801  he  married  Caroline  Mayer,  daughter 
of  a  professor  of  medicine  in  Berlin.  In  1801 
he  received  from  the  Prince  Primate,  Von  Dal- 
berg,  a  small  pension,  which  was  afterward 
paid  to  him  by  the  King  of  Bavaria  until  his 


ROME* 

Half  an  hour  after  the  earthquake  the  hea- 
vens swathed  themselves  in  seas,  and  dashed 
them  down  in  masses  and  in  torrents.  The 
naked  Campagna  and  heath  were  covered  with 
the  mantle  of  rain.  Gaspard  was  silent — the 
heavens  black — the  great  thought  stood  alone 
in  Albano  that  he  was  hastening  on  toward  the 
bloody  scaffold  and  the  throne-scaffolding  of 
humanity,  the  heart  of  a  cold,  dead  heathen- 
world,  the  eternal  Rome;  and  when  he  heard, 
i  on  the  Ponte  Molle,  that  he  was  now  going  across 
the  Tiber,  then  was  it  to  him  as  if  the  past  had 
risen  from  the  dead,  as  if  the  stream  of  time 
ran  backward  and  bore  him  with  it ;  under  the 
streams  of  heaven  he  heard  the  seven  old 
mountain-streams,  rushing  and  roaring,  which 
once  came  down  from  Rome's  hills,  and,  with 
seven  arms,  uphove  the  world  from  its  founda- 
tions. At  length  the  constellation  of  the  moun- 
tain city  of  God,  that  stood  so  broad  before  him, 
opened  out  into  distant  nights;  cities,  with  scat- 
tered ligbts,  lay  up  and  down,  and  the  bells 
(which  to  his  ear  were  alarm-bells)  sounded 
out  the  fourth  hour;j-  when  the  carriage  rolled 
through  the  triumphal  gate  of  the  city,  the  Porta 
del  Popolo ;  then  the  moon  rent  her  black  hea- 
vens, and  poured  down  out  of  the  cleft  clouds 
the  splendor  of  a  whole  sky.  There  stood  the 
Egyptian  Obelisk  of  the  gateway,  high  as  the 
clouds,  in  the  night,  and  three  streets  ran  gleam- 
ing apart.  "  So,"  (said  Albano  to  himself,  as 
they  passed  through  the  long  Corso  to  the  tenth 
ward)  "thou  art  veritably  in  the  camp  of  the 
God  of  war ;  here,  where  he  grasped  the  hilt 
of  the  monstrous  war-sword,  and  with  the  point 
made  the  three  wounds  in  three  quarters  of  the 
world  !" — Rain  and  splendor  gushed  through 
the  vast,  broad  streets — occasionally  he  passed 
suddenly  along  by  gardens,  and  into  broad  city- 
deserts  and  market-places  of  the  past.  The 
rolling  of  the  chariot  amidst  the  rush  and  roar 
of  the  rain,  resembled  die  thunder,  whose  days 

*  From  an  unpublished  translation  (complete)  of  "The 
Titan"  of  J.  Paul  Richter,  by  Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks, 
t  Ten  o'clock. 


death.  In  1824  the  failure  of  his  eyesight  im- 
paired his  activity,  without  arresting  it  entirely. 
He  continued  to  labor  with  the  help  of  his  ne- 
phews, revising  his  works  in  order  to  a  uniform 
edition,  and  making  the  most  of  his  declining 
strength,  until,  for  all  literary  purposes,  it  failed 
him  utterly.  He  died  November  14,  1625. 
He  was  buried  by  torch-light;  the  unfinished 
manuscript  of  his  Selina  (a  work  on  immor- 
tality) was  borne  upon  his  coffin,  and  Klop- 
stock's  Ode,  "  Thou  shalt  arise,  my  soul,"  was 
sung  by  the  students  of  the  Gymnasium. 


were  once  holy  to  this  heroic  city,  like  the 
thundering  heaven  to  the  thundering  earth; 
muffled-up  forms,  with  little  lights,  stole  through 
■  the  dark  streets;  often  there  stood  along  palace 

with  colonnades  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  often  i 
|  a  solitary  gray  column,  often  a  single  high  fir-  ; 

tree,  or  a  statue  behind  cypresses.   Once,  when  | 
I  there  was  neither  rain  nor  moonshine,  the  car-  j 
|  riage  went  round  the  corner  of  a  large  house, 
I  on  whose  roof  a  tall,  blooming  virgin,  with  an  i 
I  uplooking  child  on  her  arm,  herself  directed  a 
little  hand-light,  now  toward  a  white  statue,  ! 
now  toward  the  child,  and  so,  alternately,  illu-  | 
minated  each.    This  friendly  group  made  its 
way  to  the  very  centre  of  his  soul,  now  so 
highly  exalted,  and  brought  with  it,  to  him, 
many  a  recollection ;  particularly  was  a  Roman  j 
child  to  him  a  wholly  new  and  mighty  idea. 

They  alighted  at  last  at  the  Prince  di  Lau- 
n'a's,  Gaspard 's  father-in-law  and  old  friend. 
*  *  *  Albano,  dissatisfied  with  all,  kept  his 
inspiration  sacrificing  to  the  unearthly  gods  of 
the  past  round  about  him,  after  the  old  fashion, 
namely,  with  silence.  Well  might  he,  and 
could  he,  have  discoursed,  but  otherwise ;  in 
odes,  with  the  whole  man,  with  streams  which 
mount  and  grow  upwards.  He  looked  ever 
more  and  more  longingly  out  of  the  window  at 
the  moon  in  the  pure  rain-blue,  and  at  single 
columns  of  the  Forum;  out  of  doors  there 
gleamed  for  him  the  greatest  world. — At  last 
he  rose  up,  indignant  and  impatient,  and  stole 
down  into  the  glimmering  glory,  and  stepped 
before  the  Forum  ;  but  the  moonlit  night,  that 
decoration-painter,  which  works  with  irregular 
strokes,  made  almost  the  very  stage  of  the  scene 
irrecognisable  to  him. 

What  a  dreary,  broad  plain,  loftily  encom- 
passed with  ruins,  gardens  and  temples,  covered 
with  prostrate  capitals  of  columns,  and  with 
single,  upright  pillars,  and  with  trees  and  a 
dumb  wilderness  !  The  heaped-up  ashes  out 
of  the  emptied  urn  of  Time — and  the  potsherds 
of  a  great  world  flung  around !  He  passed  by 
three  temple  columns,*  which  the  earth  had 


*  Of  Jupiter  Tonans. 


408  RICH 


drawn  down  into  itself  even  to  the  breast,  and 
along  through  the  broad  triumphal  arch  of  Sep- 
timus Severus;  on  the  right,  stood  a  chain  of 
columns  without  their  temple;  on  the  left,  at- 
tached to  a  Christian  church,  the  colonnade  of 
an  ancient  heathen  temple,  deep  sunken  into 
the  sediment  of  time  ;  at  last  the  triumphal  arch 
of  Titus,  and  before  it,  in  the  middle  of  the 
woody  wilderness,  a  fountain  gushing  into  a 
granite  basin. 

He  went  up  to  this  fountain,  in  order  to  sur- 
vey the  plain,  out  of  which  the  thunder-mouths 
of  the  earth  once  arose ;  but  he  went  along  as 
over  a  burnt-out  sun,  hung  round  with  dark, 
dead  earths.  "  0  Man,  0  the  dreams  of  Man  !" 
something  within  him  unceasingly  cried.  He 
stood  on  the  granite  margin,  turning  toward  the 
Coliseum,  whose  mountain  ridges  of  wall  stood 
high  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  deep  gaps  which 
had  been  hewn  in  them  by  the  scythe  of  Time 
— sharply  stood  the  rent  and  ragged  arches  of 
Nero's  golden  house  close  by,  like  murderous 
cutlasses.  The  Palatine  Hill  lay  full  of  green 
gardens,  and,  in  crumbling  temple -roofs,  the 
blooming  death- garland  of  ivy  was  gnawing, 
and  living  ranunculi  still  glowed  around  sunken 
capitals. — The  fountain  murmured  babblingly 
and  forever,  and  the  stars  gazed  steadfastly 
down,  with  transitory  rays,  upon  the  still  battle- 
field, over  which  the  winter  of  time  had  passed 
without  bringing  after  it  a  spring — the  fiery  soul 
of  the  world  had  flown  up,  and  the  cold,  crum- 
bling giant  lay  around — torn  asunder  were  the 
gigantic  spokes  of  the  main-wheel,  which  once 
the  very  stream  of  ages  drove.  And  in  addition 
to  all  this,  the  moon  shed  down  her  light  like 
eating  silver-water  upon  the  naked  columns,  and 
would  fain  have  dissolved  the  Coliseum  and 
the  temples  and  all  into  their  own  shadows! 

Then  Albano  stretched  out  his  arm  into  the 
air,  as  if  he  were  giving  an  embrace  and  flow- 
ing away  as  in  the  arms  of  a  stream,  and  ex- 
claimed, "  0  ye  mighty  shades,  ye,  who  once 
strove  and  lived  here,  ye  are  looking  down  from 
Heaven,  but  scornfully,  not  sadly,  for  your  great 
fatherland  has  died  and  gone  after  you!  Ah, 
had  I,  on  the  insignificant  earth,  full  of  old  eter- 
nity, which  you  have  made  great,  only  done 
one  action  worthy  of  you !  Then  v/ere  it  sweet 
to  me  and  allowed  me,  to  open  my  heart  by  a 
wound,  and  to  mix  earthly  blood  with  the  hal- 
lowed soil,  and,  out  of  the  world  of  graves,  to 
hasten  away  to  you,  eternal  and  immortal  ones! 
But  I  am  not  worthy  of  it!" 

At  this  moment  there  came  suddenly  along 
up  the  Via  sacra,  a  tall  man,  deeply  enveloped 
in  a  mantle,  who  drew  near  the  fountain,  with- 
out looking  round,  threw  down  his  hat,  and  held 
a  coal-black,  curly,  almost  perpendicular,  hind- 
head  under  the  stream  of  water.  But  hardly 
had  he,  turning  upward,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  profile  of  Albano,  absorbed  in  his  fancies, 
when  he  started  up,  all  dripping, — stared  at  the 
count — fell  into  an  amazement — threw  his  arms 
high  into  the  air — and  said,  "Amico?" — Albano 


TER. 


looked  at  him. — The  stranger  said,  "Albano!" 
"  My  Dian  !"  cried  Albano  ;  they  clasped  each 
other  passionately  and  wept  for  love. 

Dian  could  not  comprehend  it  at  all :  he  said 
in  Italian;  "But  it  surely  cannot  be  you,  you 
look  old."  He  thought  he  was  speaking  Ger- 
man all  the  time,  till  he  heard  Albano  answer 
in  Italian.  Both  gave  and  received  only  ques- 
tions. Albano  found  the  architect  merely 
browner,  but  there  was  the  lightning  of  the 
eyes  and  every  faculty  in  its  old  glory.  With 
three  words  he  related  to  him  the  journey,  and 
who  the  company  were.  "How  does  Rome 
strike  you?"  asked  Dian,  pleasantly.  "As  life 
does,"  replied  Albano,  very  seriously,  "it  makes 
me  too  soft  and  too  hard."—"  I  recognise  here 
absolutely  nothing  at  all,"  he  continued:  "do 
those  columns  belong  to  the  magnificent  temple 
of  Peace?"  "No,"  said  Dian,  "to  the  temple 
of  Concord  ;  of  the  other  there  stands  yonder 
nothing  but  the  vault."  "Where  is  Saturn's 
temple?"  asked  Albano.  "Buried  in  St.  Adri- 
an's church ;"  said  Dian,  and  added  hastily, 
"  close  by  stand  the  ten  columns  of  Antonine's 
temple ; — over  beyond  there  the  baths  of  Titus 
— behind  us  the  Palatine  hill,  and  so  on.  Now 
tell  me  — !" 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  Forum,  be- 
tween the  arches  of  Titus  and  Severus.  Albano 
— especially,  near  the  teacher  who,  in  the  days 
of  childhood,  had  so  often  conducted  him  hither- 
ward, — was  yet  full  of  the  stream  which  had 
swept  over  the  world,  and  the  all -covering 
water  sunk  but  slowly.  He  went  on  and  said, 
"to-day,  when  he  beheld  the  Obelisk,  the  soft, 
tender  brightness  of  the  moon  had  seemed  to 
him  eminently  unbecoming  for  the  giant  city; 
he  would  rather  have  seen  a  sun  blazing  on  its 
broad  banner ;  but  now  the  moon  was  the  pro- 
per funeral -torch  beside  the  dead  Alexander, 
who,  at  a  touch,  collapses  into  a  handful  of 
dust." — "The  artist  does  not  get  far  with  feel- 
ings of  this  kind,"  said  Dian,  "  he  must  look 
upon  everlasting  beauties  on  the  right  hand  and 
on  the  left." — "  Where,"  Albano  went  on  ask- 
ing, "is  the  old  lake  of  Curtius — the  Rostrum — 
the  pila  Horatia — the  temple  of  Vesta — of  Ve- 
nus, and  of  all  those  solitary  columns  ?" — "  And 
where  is  the  marble  Forum  itself?"  said  Dian , 
"  it  lies  thirty  span  deep  below  our  feet."  — 
"  Where  is  the  great,  free  people,  the  senate  of 
kings,  the  voice  of  the  orators,  the  procession  to 
the  Capitol?  Buried  under  the  mountain  of 
potsherds.  O  Dian,  how  can  a  man  who  loses 
a  father,  a  beloved,  in  Rome  shed  a  single  tear 
or  look  round  him  with  consternation,  when  he 
comes  out  here  before  this  battle-field  of  time, 
and  looks  into  the  charnel-house  of  the  nations? 
Dian,  one  would  wish  here  an  iron  heart,  for 
fate  has  an  iron  hand !" 

Dian,  who  nowhere  stayed  more  reluctantly 
than  upon  such  tragic  cliffs,  hanging  over  as  it 
were  into  the  sea  of  eternity,  almost  leaped  off 
from  them  with  a  joke ;  like  the  Greeks,  he 
blended  dances  with  tragedy ;  "  Many  a  thing 


RICH 


is  preserved  here,  friend  !"  said  he  :  "  in  Adrian's 
church  yonder  they  will  still  show  you  the  bones 
of  the  three  men  that  walked  in  the  fire." 
"That  is  just  the  frightful  play  of  destiny,"  re- 
plied Albano,  "to  occupy  the  heights  of  the 
mighty  ancients  with  monks  shorn  down  into 
slaves." 

"The  stream  of  time  drives  new  wheels," 
said  Dian  :  "  yonder  lies  Raphael  twice  buried."* 
*  *  *  And  so  they  climbed  silently  and 
speedily  over  rubbish  and  torsos  of  columns, 
and  neither  gave  heed  to  the  mighty  emotion 
of  the  other. 

Rome,  like  the  Creation,  is  an  entire  wonder, 
which  gradually  dismembers  itself  into  new 
wonders,  the  Coliseum,  the  Pantheon,  St.  Peter's 
church,  Raphael,  &c. 

With  the  passage  through  the  church  of  St. 
Peter,  the  knight  began  the  noble  course  through 
Immortality.  The  Princess  let  herself,  by  the 
tie  of  Art,  be  bound  to  the  circle  of  the  men.  As 
Albano  was  more  smitten  with  edifices  than 
with  any  other  work  of  man  ;  so  did  he  see  from 
afar,  with  holy  heart,  the  long  mountain-chain 
of  Art,  which  again  bore  upon  itself  hills ;  so 
did  he  stop  before  the  plain,  around  which  the 
enormous  colonnades  run  like  Corsos,  bearing  a 
people  of  statues; — in  the  centre  shoots  up  the 
obelisk,  and  on  its  right  and  left  an  eternal 
fountain,  and  from  the  lofty  steps,  the  proud 
Church  of  the  world,  inwardly  filled  with 
churches,  rearing  upon  itself  a  temple  toward 
Heaven,  looks  down  upon  the  earth. — But  how 
wonderfully,  as  they  drew  near,  had  its  columns 
and  its  rocky  wall  mounted  up  and  flown  away 
from  the  vision ! 

He  entered  the  magic  church,  which  gave  the 
world  blessings,  curses,  kings  and  popes,  with 
the  consciousness,  that,  like  the  world-edifice,  it 
was  continually  enlarging  and  receding  more 
and  more  the  longer  one  remained  in  it.  They 
went  up  to  two  children  of  white  marble,  who 
held  an  incense-muscle-shell  of  yellow  marble; 
the  children  grew  by  nearness,  till  they  were 
giants.  At  length  they  stood  at  the  main  altar 
and  its  hundred  perpetual  lamps.  What  a  still- 
ness! Above  them  the  heaven's  arch  of  the 
dome,  resting  on  four  inner  towers  ;  around  them 
an  over-arched  city  of  four  streets  in  which 
stood  churches. — The  temple  became  greatest 
by  walking  in  it;  and  when  they  passed  round 
one  column,  there  stood  a  new  one  before  them, 
and  holy  giants  gazed  earnestly  down. 

Here  was  the  youth's  large  heart,  after  so 
long  a  time,  filled.  "In  no  art,"  said  he  to  his 
father,  "  is  the  soul  so  mightily  possessed  with 
the  sublime  as  in  architecture ;  in  every  other 
the  giant  stands  within  and  in  the  depths  of  the 
soul,  but  here  he  stands  out  of  and  close  before 
it."  Dian,  to  whom  all  images  were  more  clear 
than  abstract  ideas,  said  he  was  perfectly  right. 


*  The  body  in  the  Pantheon,  the  head  in  St.  Luke's 
church. 

3  B 


TER.  409 


Fraischdorfer  replied,  "The  sublime  also  here 
lies  only  in  the  brain,  for  the  whole  church 
stands  after  all  in  something  greater,  namely,  in 
Rome,  and  under  the  heavens,  in  the  presence 
of  which  latter,  we  certainly  should  not  feel 
anything."  He  also  complained  that  the  place 
for  the  sublime  in  his  head  was  very  much 
narrowed  by  the  innumerable  volutes  and  mo- 
numents which  the  temple  shut  up  therein  at 
the  same  time  with  itself."  Gaspard,  taking 
everything  in  a  large  sense,  remarked, "  When  the 
sublime  once  really  appears,  it  then,  by  its  very 
nature,  absorbs  and  annihilates  all  little  circum- 
stantial ornaments."  He  adduced  as  evidence 
the  tower  of  the  Minster,*  and  Nature  itself, 
which  is  not  made  smaller  by  its  grasses  and 
villages. 

Among  so  many  connoisseurs  of  art,  the  Prin- 
cess enjoyed  in  silence. 

The  ascent  of  the  dome,  Gaspard  recom- 
mended to  defer  to  a  dry  and  cloudless  day,  in 
order  that  they  might  behold  the  queen  of  the 
world,  Rome,  upon  and  from  the  proper  throne  ; 
he  therefore  proposed,  very  zealously,  the  visit- 
ing of  the  Pantheon,  because  he  was  eager  to 
let  this  follow  immediately  after  the  impression 
of  St.  Peter's  church.  They  went  thither.  How 
simply  and  grandly  the  hall  opens!  Eight  yel- 
low columns  sustain  its  brow,  and  majestically 
as  the  head  of  the  Homeric  Jupiter  its  temple 
arches  itself.  It  is  the  Rotunda  or  Pantheon. — 
"  O  the  pigmies,"  cried  Albano,  "  who  would 
fain  give  us  new  temples  !  Raise  the  old  ones 
higher  out  of  the  rubbish,  and  then  you  have 
built  enough  !"j-  They  stepped  in  ; — there  rose 
itself  around  them  a  holy,  simple,  free  world- 
structure,  with  its  heaven-arches  soaring  and 
striving  upward,  an  Odeum  of  the  tones  of  the 
Sphere-music,  a  world  in  the  world!  And 
overhead, the  eye-socket  of  the  light  and  of 
the  sky  gleamed  down,  and  the  distant  rack  of 
clouds  seemed  to  touch  the  lofty  arch  over  which 
it  shot  along !  And  round  about  them  stood 
nothing  but  the  temple-bearers,  the  columns! 
The  temple  of  all  gods  endured  and  concealed 
the  diminutive  altars  of  the  later  ones. 

Gaspard  questioned  Albano  about  his  impres- 
sions. He  said  he  preferred  the  larger  church 
of  St.  Peter.  The  knight  approved,  and  said 
that  youth,  like  nations,  always  more  easily 
found  and  better  appreciated  the  sublime  than 
the  beautiful,  and  that  the  spirit  of  the  young 
man  ripened  from  strong  to  beautiful,  as  the 
body  of  the  same  ripens  from  the  beautiful  into 
the  strong; — however,  he  himself  preferred  the 
Pantheon.  "How  could  the  moderns,"  said  the 
Counsellor  of  Arts,  Fraischdorfer,  "  build  any- 
thing, except  some  little  Bernini's  Towers  ?" 
"  That  is  why,"  said  the  offended  Provincial 
Architect,  Dian,  (who  despised  the  Counsellor 

*  Strassburg. 

t  The  hall  of  the  Pantheon  seems  too  low,  because  a 
part  of  its  steps  is  hidden  by  the  rubbish. 

X  This  opening  in  the  roof  is  twenty-seven  feet  in 
diameter. 

35 


410  RICHTER. 


of  Arts,  because  he  never  made  a  good  figure, 
except  in  the  aesthetic  hall  of  judgment  as 
critic,  never  in  the  exhibition-hall  as  painter), 
"  we  moderns  are,  without  contradiction,  stronger 
in  criticism;  though  in  practice  we  are,  collect- 
ively and  individually,  blockheads."  Bouverot 
remarked,  the  Corinthian  columns  might  be 
higher.  The  Counsellor  of  Arts  said,  after  all 
he  knew  nothing  more  like  this  fine  hemisphere 
than  a  much  smaller  one,  which  he  had  found 
in  Herculaneum  moulded  in  ashes,  of  the  bosom 
of  a  fair  fugitive."  The  knight  laughed,  and 
AJbano  turned  away  in  disgust  and  went  to 
the  Princess. 

He  asked  her  for  her  opinion  about  the  two 
temples.  "Sophocles  here,  Shakspeare  there; 
but  I  comprehend  and  appreciate  Sophocles 
more  easily,"  she  replied,  and  looked  with  new 
eyes  into  his  new  countenance.  For  the  super- 
natural illumination  through  the  zenith  of  Hea- 
ven, not  through  a  hazy  horizon,  transfigured, 
in  her  eyes,  the  beautiful  and  excited  counte- 
nance of  the  youth  ;  and  she  took  for  granted 
that  the  saintly  halo  of  the  dome  must  also  exalt 
her  form — when  he  answered  her,  "Very  good  ! 
But  in  Shakspeare,  Sophocles  also  is  contained, 
not,  however,  Shakspeare  in  Sophocles — and  in 
Peter's  Church  stands  Angelo*s  Rotunda  !"  Just 
then  the  lofty  cloud,  all  at  once,  as  by  the  blow 
of  a  hand  out  of  the  ether,  broke  in  two,  and 
the  ravished  Sun.  like  the  eye  of  a  Venus  float- 
ing through  her  ancient  heavens, — for  she  once 
stood  even  here,  —  looked  mildly  in  from  the 
upper  deep;  then  a  holy  radiance  filled  the 
temple,  and  burned  on  the  porphyry  of  the 
pavement,  and  Albano  looked  around  him  in 
an  ecstasy  of  wonder  and  delight,  and  said  with 
low  voice:  "How  transfigured  at  this  moment 
is  everything  in  this  sacred  place !  Raphael's 
spirit  comes  forth  from  his  grave  in  this  noon- 
tide hour,  and  everything  which  its  reflection 
touches,  brightens  into  godlike  splendor  !"  The 
Princess  looked  upon  him  tenderly,  and  he 
lightly  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  and  said,  as  one 
vanquished,  "  Sophocles !" 

On  the  next  moonlit  evening,  Gaspard  be- 
spoke torches,  in  order  that  the  Coliseum,  with 
its  giant-circle,  might  the  first  time  stand  in  fire 
before  them.  The  knight  would  fain  have  gone 
around  alone  with  his  son  dimly  through  the 
dim  work,  like  two  spirits  of  the  olden  time, 
but  the  Princess  forced  herself  upon  him,  from 
a  too  lively  wish  to  share  with  the  noble  youth 
his  great  moments,  and  perhaps,  in  fact,  her 
heart  and  his  own.  Women  do  not  sufficiently 
comprehend  that  an  idea,  when  it  fills  and  ele- 
vates man's  mind,  shuts  it,  then,  against  love, 
and  crowds  out  persons;  whereas  with  woman 
all  ideas  easily  become  human  beings. 

They  passed  over  the  Forum,  by  the  Via 
sacra,  to  the  Coliseum,  whose  lofty,  cloven  fore- 
head looked  down  pale  under  the  moonlight. 
They  stood  before  the  gray  rock-walls,  which 
reared  themselves  on  four  colonnades  one  above 


another,  and  the  torchlight  shot  up  into  the  arches 
of  the  arcades,  gilding  the  green  shrubbery  high 
overhead,  and  deep  in  the  earth  had  the  noble 
monster  already  buried  his  feet.  They  stepped 
in  and  ascended  the  mountain,  full  of  fragments 
of  rock,  from  one  seat  of  the  spectators  to  an- 
other. Gaspard  did  not  venture  to  the  sixth  or 
highest,  where  the  men  used  to  stand,  but  Al- 
bano and  the  Princess  did.  Then  the  youth 
gazed  down  over  the  cliffs,  upon  the  round, 
green  crater  of  the  burnt-out  volcano,  which 
once  swallowed  nine  thousand  beasts  at  once, 
and  which  quenched  itself  with  human  blood. 
The  lurid  glare  of  the  torches  penetrated  into  the 
clefts  and  caverns,  and  among  the  foliage  of  the 
ivy  and  laurel,  and  among  the  great  shadows 
of  the  moon,  which,  like  recluses,  kept  them- 
selves in  cells.  Toward  the  South,  where  the 
streams  of  centuries  and  barbarians  had  stormed 
in,  stood  single  columns  and  bare  arcades. 
Temples  and  three  palaces  had  the  giant  fed 
and  lined  with  his  limbs,  and  still,  with  all 
his  wounds,  he  looked  out  livingly  into  the 
world. 

"  What  a  people  !"  said  Albano.  "  Here  curled 
the  giant  snake  five  times  about  Christianity. 
Like  a  smile  of  scorn  lies  the  moonlight  down 
below  there  upon  the  green  arena,  where  once 
stood  the  Colossus  of  the  Sun-god.  The  star  of 
the  north*  glimmers  low  through  the  windows, 
and  the  Serpent  and  the  Bear  crouch.  What  a 
world  has  gone  by!" — The  Princess  answered, 
"that  twelve  thousand  prisoners  built  this  the- 
atre, and  that  a  great  many  more  had  bled 
therein."  "O!  we  too  have  building  prisoners," 
said  he,  "  but  for  fortifications  ;  and  blood,  too, 
still  flows,  but  with  sweat!  No,  we  have  no 
present;  the  past,  without  it,  must  bring  forth 
a  future." 

The  Princess  went  to  break  a  laurel-twig  and 
pluck  a  blooming  wall -flower.  Albano  sank 
away  into  musing  :  the  autumnal  wind  of  the 
past  swept  over  the  stubble.  On  this  holy  emi- 
nence he  saw  the  constellations,  Rome's  green 
hills,  the  glimmering  city,  the  Pyramid  of  Ces- 
tius, — but  all  became  Past,  and  on  the  twelve 
hills  dwelt,  as  upon  graves,  the  lofty  old  spirits, 
and  looked  sternly  into  the  age,  as  if  they  were 
still  its  kings  and  judges. 

"  This  to  remember  the  place  and  time  !"  said 
the  approaching  Princess,  handing  him  the 
laurel  and  the  flower. — "Thou  mighty  One!  a 
Coliseum  is  thy  flower-pot ;  to  thee  is  nothing 
too  great,  and  nothing  too  small !"  said  he,  and 
threw  the  Princess  into  considerable  confusion, 
till  she  observed  that  he  meant  not  her,  but 
nature.  His  whole  being  seemed  newly  and 
painfully  moved,  and,  as  it  were,  removed  to  a 
distance :  he  looked  down  after  his  father,  and 
went  to  find  him  ;  he  looked  at  him  sharply, 
and  spoke  of  nothing  more  this  evening. 


*  The  Pole-star,  as  well  as  other  northern  constella- 
tions, stands  lower  in  the  south. 


RICH 


LEIBGEBER  TO  SIEBENKAS* 

Baireuth,  21st  September,  1785. 
"Mr  dear  brother,  and  cousin,  and  uncle,  and 
father,  and  son, — The  two  ears  and  chambers 
of  your  heart,  are  my  whole  genealogical  tree  ; 
wherein  you  resemble  Adam,  who,  when  he 
went  out  walking,  carried  with  him  the  whole 
future  race  of  his  relations,  and  his  long  line  of 
successors  (which  even  yet  is  not  all  drawn  out 
and  unwound),  until  he  became  a  father,  and 
his  wife  bore  a  child.  Would  to  God  I  had 
been  the  first  Adam !  *  *  *  Siebenkas,  I 
adjure  you,  let  me  follow  up  this  thought  as 
though  I  were  crazed  ;  and  don't  expect  another 
word  in  this  letter  except  such  as  may  assist  in 
painting  my  portrait  as  the  first  father  of  man- 
kind. 

"  Those  scholars  misunderstood  me  greatly 
who  may  suppose  that  I  was  to  be  Adam,  be- 
cause, according  to  Puffendorf  and  many  others, 
the  whole  earth  would  then  belong  to  me  of 
right, — like  a  European  possession  in  the  India 
of  the  universe, — as  my  patrimonium  Petri,  Pauli, 
Judce,  inasmuch  as  I,  the  only  Adam  and  man, 
consequently  as  the  first  and  last  universal  mo- 
narch (though  as  yet  without  subjects),  could 
and  might  lay  claim  to  the  whole  earth.  The 
Pope,  as  holy  father,  though  not  as  first  father, 
may  think  of  such  things  ;  or  rather,  he  did  not 
think  about  them  centuries  ago,  when  he  ap- 
pointed himself  guardian  and  heir  of  all  the 
lands  incorporated  into  the  earth;  nay,  and  did 
not  even  blush  to  pile  upon  his  earthly  crown 
yet  two  others — a  heavenly  crown  and  a  crown 
of  hell. 

"  How  little  I  desire !  My  sole  motive  for 
wishing  to  have  been  the  old  and  oldest  Adam, 
is,  that  on  my  marriage-evening  I  might  have 
walked  up  and  down  with  Eve  outside  the 
espalier  of  Paradise,  in  our  green  honeymoon 
aprons  and  skins,  and  have  held  a  Hebrew 
wedding-oration  to  the  mother  of  mankind. 

"Before  I  begin  my  speech,  I  must  preface 
with  the  remark,  that  before  my  fall  the  extra- 
ordinarily felicitous  idea  suggested  itself  to  me 
of  noling  down  the  cream  of  my  omniscience  ; 
for  in  my  state  of  innocence,  I  possessed  a  know- 
ledge of  all  the  arts  and  sciences,  universal  as 
well  as  scholastic  history,  the  several  penal  and 
other  cou*es  of  law,  and  all  the  old  dead  lan- 
guages, as  well  as  the  living :  I  was,  as  it  were, 
a  living  Pindus  and  Pegasus,  a  movable  lodge 
of  sublime  light,  a  royal  literary  society,  a  pocket- 
seat  of  the  Muses,  and  a  short  golden  siecle  de 
Louis  XIV.  With  the  understanding  I  then 
possessed,  it  was  therefore  less  to  be  wondered 
at,  than  to  be  considered  as  a  piece  of  good 
luck,  that  in  my  leisure  moments  I  consigned 
the  best  of  my  omniscience  to  paper  ;  so  that 
when  I  afterwards  fell,  and  became  silly,  I  had 


*  From  "Flower,  Fruit,  and  Thorn  Pieces."  Trans- 
lated by  Edw.  Henry  Noel.  Boston  :  James  Munroe  &.  Co. 
1845. 


TER.  411 


extracts,  or  a  resume,  of  my  former  knowledge 
at  hand,  to  which  I  was  enabled  to  refer. 

"'Virgin,'  thus,  beyond  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
did  I  begin  my  discourse;  'Virgin,  we  are  in- 
deed the  first  parents,  and  have  a  mind  to  beget 
other  parents;  but  you  think  of  nothing,  as  long 
as  you  can  only  stick  your  spoon  into  a  forbid- 
den mess  of  sweetmeat. 

"  '  I,  as  man  and  protoplast,  reflect  and  pon- 
der ;  and  to-day.  as  I  walk  up  and  down,  I  will 
be  the  marriage-priest  and  preacher  (I  wish  I 
had  begotten  another  for  this  purpose)  at  our 
holy  ceremony,  and  represent  to  you  and  my- 
self, in  a  short  wedding-discourse,  the  grounds 
of  doubt  and  decision,  the  rationes  dubitandi  and 
decidendi  of  the  protoplasts,  or  first  married  pair 
(i.e.  myself  and  thee),  in  the  act  of  reflecting 
and  considering ;  and,  moreover,  how  they  con- 
sider, in  the  first  Pars,  the  grounds  and  reasons 
not  to  fructify  the  earth,  but  this  very  day  to 
emigrate,  the  one  into  the  old,  the  other  into  the 
new  world ;  and,  in  the  second  Pars,  the  rea- 
sons nevertheless  to  leave  it  alone,  and  to  mar- 
ry; whereupon  a  short  elench,  or  usus  epanor- 
thoticus,  shall  appear  and  conclude  the  night. 

PAHS  I. 

"  'Pious  hearer!  such  as  thou  now  beholdest 
me  in  my  sheep-skin,  full  of  earnest  and  deep 
thought,  I  am  nevertheless  full,  not  so  much  of 
follies  as  of  fools,  between  whom  a  wise  man 
is  occasionally  inserted  by  way  of  a  parenthesis. 
It  is  true,  I  am  small  of  stature,*  and  the  ocean 
rose  some  way  above  my  ankles,  and  wet  my 
new  wild-beast  skin;  but,  by  heaven!  I  walk 
up  and  down  here,  girded  with  a  seed -bag, 
containing  the  seeds  of  all  nations,  and  I  carry 
the  repertorium  and  treasury-chest  of  the  whole 
human  race,  a  little  world,  and  an  orbis  pictus, 
before  me,  as  pedlars  carry  their  open  ware- 
house on  their  stomach;  for  Bonnet,  who  lives 
within  me,  when  he  comes  forth,  will  seat  him- 
self down  at  his  writing-desk,  and  show  that 
all  things  are  comprised  one  within  the  other, 
one  parenthesis  or  box  within  the  other;  that 
the  son  is  contained  in  the  father,  both  in  the 
grandfather,  and  consequently  in  the  great- 
grandfather both  the  grandfather  and  his  inser- 
tions lie  waiting;  in  the  great-great-grandfather 
the  great-grandfather  with  the  insertion  of  the 
insertion,  and  with  all  his  episodes,  and  so  on. 
Are  not  all  religious  sects — for  I  cannot  make 
myself  too  intelligible  to  thee,  beloved  bride—* 
incorporated  in  thy  bridegroom  here  present, 
and  with  the  exception  of  the  Preadamites,  even 
the  Adamites,t — all  giants,  the  great  Christopher 
himself, — the  people  of  all  nations,  all  the  ship- 
loads of  negroes  destined  for  America,  and  the 
red-marked  packages,  among  which  is  the  An- 

*  The  French  Academician  Nicolas  Henrion  stretched 
out  Aciamto  the  length  of  1-23  feet,  9  inches  ;  Heram,  118 
feet,  9  3-4  inches.  The  above  is  related  by  the  Rabbis, 
viz.,  that  Adam  after  the  fall  ran  through  the  ocean  :  vide 
the  4th  Bibl.  Disc,  of  Saurin. 

t  The  well-known  sect  which  went  naked  to  church. 


412 


RICHTER. 


spach  and  Baireuth  soldiery,  bespoken  by  the 
English?  When  you  contemplate  my  interior, 
Eve,  do  I  not  stand  before  you  as  a  living  street 
of  Jews,  a  Louvre  of  governors  and  kings,  all  of 
whom  I  can  beget  if  I  please,  supposing  I  am 
not  decided  to  the  contrary  by  this  first  Pars  ? 
You  must  admire  me,  though  at  the  same  time 
you  may  laugh,  if  you  look  at  me  attentively, 
and  placing  your  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  just 
consider :  Here  in  this  man  and  protoplast  lie 
side  by  side,  without  quarrelling,  all  the  facul- 
ties and  the  whole  race  of  man, — all  the  schools 
of  philosophy,  sewing- schools,  and  spinning- 
schools  ;  the  best  and  most  ancient  princely 
houses,  though  not  yet  cleanly  picked  out  from 
the  common  ships'  companies;  the  whole  free 
imperial  order  of  knighthood,  though  still  packed 
up  with  their  vassals,  cottiers,  and  tenants ; 
convents  of  nuns,  bound  up  with  convents  of 
monks;  barracks,  and  county -deputies,  not  to 
mention  the  ecclesiastical  chapters  of  provosts, 
deacons,  priors,  sub-priors,  and  canons!  What 
a  man  andAnak!  wilt  thou  say.  Right,  dear 
one,  so  I  am  indeed !  I  am,  in  fact,  the  nest- 
dollar  of  the  whole  human  cabinet  of  coins  ;  the 
tribunal  of  all  the  courts  of  justice,  which  are, 
moreover,  all  full  without  the  absence  of  a  single 
member;  the  living  corpus  juris  of  all  civilians, 
canonists,  feudalists,  and  publicists.  Have  I 
not  Meusel's  learned  Germany,  and  Jocher's 
learned  school -lexicon,  complete  within  me? 
and,  more  than  that,  Jocher  and  Meusel  in  per- 
son, not  to  speak  cf  supplementary  volumes? 

"  '  I  should  like  to  show  you  Cain.  Supposing 
I  am  persuaded  by  the  second  Pars,  he  would 
be  our  first  seedling  and  tendril,  our  prince  of 
Wales,  of  Calabria,  of  Asturia,  and  of  the  Bra- 
zils. If  he  were  transparent,  as  I  believe,  you 
would  see  how  every  thing  fits  in  him  one 
within  the  other,  like  beer-glasses  ;  all  ecumenic 
councils,  and  inquisitions,  and  propaganda,  and 
the  devil  and  his  grandmother.  But,  lovely  one, 
you  did  not  note  down  any  of  your  scientia  media 
before  your  fall,  as  I  did,  and  consequently  you 
gaze  into  futurity  as  blind  as  a  beetle  ;  but  I, 
who  see  through  it  quite  clearly,  perceive  by 
my  chrestomathy  that  if  I  really  avail  myself 
of  my  Blumenbach's  nisus  formativus,  and  cast 
to-day  a  few  protoplastic  glances  into  the  jus 
luxandice  coxce,  or  primes  noctis*  I  shall  not  beget 
ten  fools,  like  another  person,  but  whole  bil- 
lions of  tens,  and  the  units  besides,  when  one 
thinks  of  all  the  arrant  Bohemians,  Parisians, 
inhabitants  of  Vienna,  Leipzic,  Baireuth,  Hof, 
Dublin,  Kuhschnappel  (together  with  their 
wives  and  daughters),  who  will  come  into  life 
through  me ;  amongst  whom  there  are  always 
a  million  for  every  five  hundred  who  neither 
listen  to  reason  nor  possess  it.  Duenna,  as  yet 
you  know  but  little  of  mankind ;  you  only  know 
two,  for  the  snake  is  not  one ;  but  I  know  what 
I  am  about,  and  that  with  my  limbus  infantum 

*  Literally  the  "  first  night,"  because,  according  to 
many  scholars,  Eve  became  the  fruit-thief  on  the  very 
morning  of  her  creation. 


I  shall  at  the  same  time  open  a  bedlam.  By 
heaven !  I  tremble  and  groan  when  I  take  but 
a  cursory  glance  between  the  leaves  of  the 
course  of  centuries,  and  see  nothing  there  but 
stains  of  blood  and  patchwork  quodlibets  of  fools ; 
when  1  think  of  the  trouble  it  will  cost  before 
an  age  learns  to  write  a  legible  hand  as  good 
as  that  of  an  elephant's  trunk  or  of  a  minister- 
before  poor  humanity  has  passed  through  pre- 
paratory schools,  and  hedge-schools,  and  private 
French  governesses,  and  can  enter  with  honor 
the  Latin  lyceum,  royal  and  Jesuit  schools— 
before  it  can  attend  the  fencing  school,  the 
dancing  floor,  a  drawing  academy,  and  a  dog- 
maticum  and  clinicum.  The  devil!  It  makes 
me  hot  only  to  think  of  it!  It  is  true  nobody 
will  call  you  the  brood-hen  of  the  future  flight 
of  starlings,  the  cod-fish  spawner,  wherein  Leu- 
enhock  counts  nine  million  and  a  half  of  stock- 
fish eggs ;  it  will  not  be  laid  at  your  door,  my 
little  Eve;  but  your  husband  will  bear  all  the 
blame.  He  ought  to  have  been  wiser,  people 
will  say,  and  rather  not  have  begotten  anything 
at  all  than  such  a  rabble  as  the  greater  number 
of  these  robbers  are ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the 
crowned  emperors  on  the  Roman  throne,  and 
also  the  vicegerents  on  the  Roman  chair ;  the 
former  of  whom  will  name  themselves  after 
Antoninus  and  Caesar,  the  latter  after  Christ  and 
Peter,  and  amongst  whom  may  be  found  some 
whose  throne  is  a  Liineburg  chair  of  torture  for 
humanity,  and  a  birth-chair  of  the  scaffold,  if  it 
be  not  indeed  a  Place  de  Greve  reversed,  serving 
at  one  and  the  same  time  as  a  place  of  execu- 
tion for  the  mass,  and  of  pleasure  for  the  indi- 
vidual.* I  shall  also  have  Borgia,  Pizarro,  St. 
Domenico,  and  Potemkin,  brought  up  against 
me ;  and  even  granting  that  I  could  free  my- 
self from  the  reproach  of  these  black  exceptions, 
I  must  nevertheless  concede  (and  anti-Adams 
will  take  hold  of  it  utilitcr)  that  my  descendants 
and  colonists  cannot  exist  half  an  hour  without 
either  thinking  or  committing  some  folly;  that 
in  their  giant  war  of  passions  they  never  esta- 
blish a  peace,  seldom  a  truce ;  that  the  chief 
fault  of  man  consists  in  his  having  so  many 
little  faults  that  his  conscience  scarcely  serves 
him  for  anything  else  but  to  hate  his  neighbor, 
and  to  have  a  morbid  sensitiveness  for  the  faults 
of  others;  that  he  will  never  part  with  his  evil 
habits  until  he  is  on  his  death-bed,  alongside 
which  is  pushed  a  confessional,  much  as  child- 
ren are  made  to  go  to  stool  before  they  are  put 
to  bed ;  that  he  learns  and  loves  the  language 


*  It  seems  almost  emblematic  of  the  incorporation  of 
the  fierce  earnest  tiger  and  the  playful  ape,  that  the 
Place  de  Greve  in  Paris  is  at  once  the  place  of  execution 
for  criminals,  and  the  pleasure-ground  for  the  public  fes- 
tivals ;  that  on  one  and  the  same  spot  a  king's  assassin 
is  torn  asunder  by  horses,  and  a  king's  fete  is  celebrated 
by  the  citizens;  and  that  the  fire-wheels  of  the  victims 
broken  on  the  wheel  and  the  fire-wheels  of  the  fire-works 
play  together  in  close  fellowship.  Horrible  contrasts! 
which  we  must  not  accumulate,  lest  we  fall  into  the 
error  of  those  who  have  given  occasion  for  this  rebuke. 


RICHTER. 


413 


of  virtue,  while  he  shows  enmity  to  the  virtuous 
—  resembling  in  this  the  citizens  of  London, 
who  hate  the  French,  while  they  keep  French 
masters  to  learn  their  language.  Eve,  Eve! 
we  shall  gain  little  honor  by  our  marriage. 
According  to  the  fundamental  text,  Adam  sig- 
nifies red  earth;  and  verily  my  cheeks  will  be 
entirely  composed  thereof,  and  blush  when  I 
think  of  the  inexpressible  and  uninterrupted 
vanity  and  self-conceit  of  our  great-grandchild- 
ren,—  a  vanity  growing  with  every  century. 
No  one  will  pull  his  own  nose  but  he  who 
shaves  himself;  the  high  nobility  will  burn  the 
family -escutcheon  at  the  door  of  their  secret 
chambers,  and  interweave  the  cruppers  of  their 
horses  into  their  initials ;  reviewers  will  set 
themselves  above  the  authors,  the  latter  above 
the  former ;  the  Heimlicher  von  Blaise  will 
present  his  hand  for  the  orphan's  kiss ;  the  la- 
dies theirs  to  every  one  ;  and  the  highest  will 
kiss  the  hem  of  the  embroidered  garment.  Eve, 
I  had  barely  finished  writing  down  my  pro- 
phetic extracts  of  the  world's  history  up  to  the 
sixth  millennary,  when  you  bit  into  the  apple 
under  the  tree ;  and  I,  like  an  ass,  followed 
your  example,  and  then  everything  escaped  me. 
God  knows  what  may  be  the  semblance  of  the 
male  and  female  fools  of  the  other  millennaries. 
Virgin !  wilt  thou  now  use  the  sternocleidomas- 
toideum,  as  Sommering  calls  the  nod  of  the  head, 
and  therewith  say  thy  yea,  when  I  ask  thee, 
Wilt  thou  have  this  marriage-preacher  to  thy 
wedded  lord  and  husband  1 

"  'You  will  answer,  without  doubt:  We  will 
at  least  listen  to  the  second  Pars,  wherein  the 
affair  is  considered  in  another  point  of  view  ; 
and  truly,  pious  reader,  we  had  almost  forgotten 
to  proceed  to 

PARS  II. 

and  altogether  to  weigh  the  grounds  which  in- 
duce protoplasts  and  first  parents  to  be  such, 
and  to  marry,  serving  Destiny  in  the  capacity 
of  sewing  and  spinning  machines  of  linseed  and 
hemp,  of  flax  and  tow,  which  she  may  wind  in 
infinite  coils  and  net- work  round  the  earthly 
sphere.  My  chief  motive,  and  I  hope  thine 
also,  is  my  conception  of  the  last  day;  for  in 
case  we  two  become  the  entrepreneurs  of  the 
human  race,  I  shall  behold  all  my  descendants 
steaming  up  on  the  last  day  from  the  calcined 
earth  into  the  nearest  neighboring  planet,  and 
arranging  themselves  in  order  for  the  last  re- 
view ;  and  in  this  blessed  harvest  of  children 
and  grandchildren  I  shall  meet  some  who  are 
gifted  with  understanding,  and  with  whom  one 
can  exchange  a  word  or  two — men  whose  whole 
life  passed  under  a  thunder-cloud,  and  who  lost 
it  in  a  storm,  as,  according  to  the  belief  of  the 
Romans,  the  favorites  of  the  gods  were  struck 
dead  by  lightning  —  men  who,  nevertheless, 
neither  bound  their  eyes  or  their  ears  in  the 
tempest.  Furthermore,  I  behold  there  the  four 
glorious  heathen  evangelists,  Socrates,  Cato, 
Epictetus,  and  Antoninus,  who  went  about  to 


every  house  applying  their  throats,  like  the 
pipes  of  fire-engines  200  feet  in  length,  to  every 
damnable  conflagration  of  the  passions,  and  ex- 
tinguishing them  with  the  best  and  purest  alpino 
water.  In  short,  we  shall,  if  we  so  please,  be 
— I  the  grandpapa,  and  you  the  grandmamma, 
of  the  most  excellent  people.  I  tell  thee,  Eve, 
it  is  noted  down  here  in  my  tracts  and  collecta- 
nea, black  upon  white,  that  I  shall  be  the  fore- 
father, the  ancestor,  the  Bethlehem,  and  plastic 
nature  of  an  Aristotle,  a  Plato,  a  Shakspeare, 
Newton,  Rousseau,  Goethe,  Kant,  and  Leibnitz, 
besides  others  who  are  still  cleverer  than  their 
protoplast  himself.  Eve !  thou  acting  and  im- 
portant member  of  this  present  fruit -bearing 
society,  or  productive  class  in  the  state,  consist- 
ing of  you  and  the  wedding-orator,  I  swear  to 
you  that  I  shall  enjoy  an  hour  of  some  blissful 
eternities  when  I  stand  upon  the  neighboring 
planet,  and  cast  my  eyes  flightily  over  the  circle 
of  classic  and  new-born  men,  and  then  kneel 
down  in  rapture  upon  the  satellite,  and  exclaim, 
u  Good  morning,  my  children  !"  ' 

"  Ye  Jews  formerly  had  the  habit  of  uttering 
an  ejaculatory  prayer  when  ye  met  a  wise  man  ; 
but  what  prayer  can  I  utter  long  enough,  when 
I  behold  at  one  glance  all  the  wise  men  and 
members  of  faculties,  all  of  them,  moreover, 
my  relations,  who,  in  spite  of  the  wolfish  hunger 
of  the  passions,  yet  knew  how  to  renounce  the 
forbidden  apple  and  pear  and  ananas,  and  who, 
in  their  thirst  after  truth,  committed  no  garden- 
robbery  from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  like  their 
first  parents,  who  seized  the  forbidden  fruit, 
though  they  felt  no  hunger,  and  attacked  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  although  they  already  pos- 
sessed all  knowledge,  excepting  that  of  the 
snake's  nature.  Then  I  shall  rise  from  the 
ground,  and  rush  among  the  crowd  of  my  de- 
scendants, and  fall  on  the  bosom  of  one  chosen 
one,  and  throw  my  arms  round  him,  and  say, 
'  Thou  true,  good,  contented,  gentle  son,  if,  in 
the  second  Pars  of  my  wedding -discourse,  I 
could  have  shown  my  Eve,  the  queen-mother 
of  the  present  swarm  of  bees  around  us,  none 
other  but  thee,  sitting  in  thy  breeding-cell,  verily 
the  woman  would  have  taken  it  to  heart,  and 
listened  to  reason  :'  and  the  true  good  son  art 
thou,  Siebenkas ;  and  thou  wilt  ever  lie  on  the 
rough  hairy  breast  of 

"  Thy  Friend." 

second  extract  from  "  flower,  fruit  and 
thorn  pieces." 

Man  lies  under  the  yoke  of  a  twofold  neces- 
sity ;  that  of  the  day,  which  he  bears  without 
murmur,  and  that  of  the  year,  which,  though 
more  rare,  he  cannot  endure  without  wrangling 
and  complaint.  The  daily  and  ever-renewed 
necessity  is,  that  no  wheat  grows  in  winter ; 
that  we  are  not  gifted  with  wings,  like  so  many 
of  the  animal  tribe ;  that  we  cannot  set  our  foot 
upon  the  ring-shaped  mountains  of  the  moon, 
and  thence  gaze  on  the  descending  sun  glori- 
35* 


414 


RICHTER. 


ously  illumining  the  mile-deep  abysses.  The 
yearly  and  more  rare  necessity  is,  that  it  rains 
when  the  corn  is  in  blossom  ;  that  we  cannot 
walk  conveniently  in  many  a  marshy  meadow 
of  earth  ;  and  that  occasionally,  because  of  corns 
or  our  want  of  shoes,  we  cannot  walk  at  all. 
But  the  yearly  necessity  is,  in  fact,  as  great  as 
the  daily  one  ;  and  it  is  just  as  foolish  to  resist 
and  murmur  at  a  paralysis  of  the  limbs,  as  at 
our  want  of  wings.  All  the  past,  and  this  alone 
is  the  subject  of  our  sorrow,  is  so  much  a  matter 
of  iron-necessity,  that  in  the  eyes  of  a  superior 
being  it  is  an  equal  folly,  on  the  part  of  an  apo- 
thecary, whether  he  complain  of  his  shop  hav- 
ing been  burnt  down,  or  of  his  inability  to  go 
botanizing  in  the  moon,  though  in  the  phials 
there  he  would  find  many  things  which  are 
wanting  in  his. 

I  will  here  insert  a  little  extra  leaf  upon  the 
consolations  in  our  windy,  cold,  damp  life.  Let 
those  who  are  exceedingly  vexed,  and  almost 
inconsolable,  at  this  short  digression,  seek  con- 
solation in  the 

EXTRA  LEAF  ON  CONSOLATION. 

A  time  will  come,  that  is,  must  come,  when 
we  shall  be  commanded  by  morality  not  only 
to  cease  tormenting  others,  but  also  ourselves. 
A  time  must  come  when  man,  even  on  earth, 
shall  wipe  away  most  of  his  tears,  were  it  only 
from  pride. 

Nature,  indeed,  draws  tears  out  of  the  eyes, 
and  sighs  out  of  the  breast,  so  quickly,  that  the 
wise  man  can  never  wholly  lay  aside  the  garb 
of  mourning  from  his  body ;  but  let  his  soul 
wear  none.  For  if  it  is  over  a  merit  to  bear  a 
small  suffering  with  cheerfulness,  so  must  the 
calm  and  patient  endurance  of  the  worst  be  a 
merit,  and  will  only  differ  in  being  a  greater 
one ;  as  the  same  reason  which  is  valid  for  the 
forgiveness  of  small  injuries  is  equally  valid  for 
the  forgiveness  of  the  greatest. 

The  first  thing  that  we  have  to  contend 
against  and  despise,  in  sorrow  as  in  anger,  is 
its  poisonous  enervating  sweetness,  which  we 
are  so  loath  to  exchange  for  the  labor  of  consol- 
ing ourselves,  and  to  drive  away  by  the  effort 
of  reason. 

We  must  not  exact  of  philosophy,  that  with 
one  stroke  of  the  pen  it  shall  reverse  the  trans- 
formation of  Rubens,  who,  with  one  stroke  of 
his  brush,  changed  a  laughing  child  into  a 
weeping  one.  It  is  enough  if  it  change  the  full- 
mourning  of  the  soul  into  half-mourning;  it  is 
enough  if  I  can  say  to  myself, — I  will  be  con- 
tent to  endure  the  sorrow  that  philosophy  has 
left  me ;  without  it,  it  would  be  greater,  and 
the  gnat's  bite  would  be  a  wasp's  sting. 

Even  physical  pain  shoots  its  sparks  upon  us 
out  of  the  electrical  condenser  of  the  imagina- 
tion. We  could  endure  the  most  acute  pangs 
calmly  if  they  only  lasted  the  sixtieth  part  of  a 
second  ;  but,  in  fact,  we  never  have  to  endure 
an  hour  of  pain,  but  only  a  succession  of  the 
sixtieth  parts  of  a  second,  the  sixty  beams  of 


which  are  collected  into  the  burning  focus  of  a 
second,  and  directed  upon  our  nerves  by  the  i 
imagination  alone.  The  most  painful  part  of  | 
our  bodily  pain  is  that  which  is  bodiless,  or  ! 
immaterial,  namely,  our  impatience,  and  the  I 
delusion  that  it  will  last  forever. 

There  is  many  a  loss  over  which  we  all  know  I 
for  certain  that  we  shall  no  longer  grieve  in 
twenty — ten — two  years.  Why  do  we  not  say 
to  ourselves  :  I  will  at  once  then,  to-day,  throw 
away  an  opinion  which  I  shall  abandon  in 
twenty  years?  Why  should  I  be  able  to  aban- 
don errors  of  twenty  years'  standing,  and  not 
of  twenty  hours? 

When  I  awake  from  a  dream  which  an  Ota- 
heite  has  painted  for  me  on  the  dark  ground  of 
the  night,  and  find  the  flowery  land  melted 
away,  I  scarcely  sigh,  thinking  to  myself,  "  It 
was  only  a  dream."  Why  is  it  that  if  I  had 
really  possessed  this  island  while  awake,  and 
it  had  been  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake, 
why  is  it  that  I  do  not  then  exclaim,  "  The 
island  was  only  a  dream?"  Wherefore  am  I 
more  inconsolable  at  the  loss  of  a  longer  drear, 1 
than  at  the  loss  of  a  shorter — for  that  is  the  dif- 
ference ;  and  why  does  man  find  a  great  loss 
less  probable  and  less  a  matter  of  necessity, 
when  it  occurs,  than  a  small  one  ? 

The  reason  is,  that  every  sentiment  and  every 
emotion  is  mad,  and  exacts  and  builds  its  own 
world.  A  man  can  vex  himself  that  it  is  al- 
ready, or  only,  twelve  o'clock.  What  folly! 
The  mood  not  only  exacts  its  own  world,  its 
own  individual*  consciousness,  but  its  owu  time. 
I  beg  every  one  to  let  his  passions,  for  once, 
speak  out  plainly  within  himself,  and  to  probe 
and  question  them  to  the  bottom,  as  to  what 
they  really  desire.  He  will  be  terror-struck  at 
the  enormity  of  these  hitherto  only  half-muttered 
wishes.  Anger  wishes  that  all  mankind  had 
only  one  neck-,  love,  that  it  had  only  one  heart; 
grief,  tv/o  tear -glands;  and  pride,  two  bent 
knees. 

When  I  read  in  Widman's  "  Court  Chronicle" 
of  the  terrible  bloody  times  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  and  as  it  were  lived  them  over  again ; 
when  I  heard  once  more  the  cries  of  the  tor- 
tured for  help,  as  they  struggled  in  the  Danube- 
whirlpools  of  their  age,  and  again  beheld  the 
clasping  of  hands,  and  the  delirious  wandering 
to  and  fro  on  the  several  pillars  of  the  crum- 
bling bridges,  against  which  struck  foaming 
billows  and  fiercely-driven  fields  of  ice — and 
thus  reflected,  "All  the  waves  have  subsided, 
the  ice  has  melted,  the  storm  is  mute,  and  the 
human  beings  also  with  their  sighs,"  I  was  filled 
with  a  peculiar  melancholy  feeling  of  consola- 
tion for  all  times;  and  I  asked,  "Was  and  is, 
then,  this  fleeting  misery  beneath  the  church- 
yard-gate of  life,  which  three  steps  into  the 
nearest  cavern  could  put  an  end  to,  worth  all 
this  cowardly  lamentation?"  Verily,  if  there 
be,  as  I  believe  there  is,  true  constancy  under 


*  "  Sein  eignes  ich."  Tr. 


RICHTER. 


415 


an  eternal  sorrow,  then  is  patience  under  a  fleet- 
ing one  scarcely  worthy  of  the  name. 

A  great  and  unmerited  national  calamity 
should  not  humble  us,  as  the  theologians  de- 
mand, but  rather  make  us  proud.  When  the 
long  heavy  sword  of  war  falls  upon  humanity, 
and  when  a  thousand  pale  hearts  are  riven  and 
bleeding;  or  when,  on  a  blue  serene  evening, 
the  hot  smoky  cloud  of  a  city,  cast  on  the  fune- 
real pyre,  hangs  darkly  on  the  sky, — as  though 
it  were  the  cloud  of  ashes  of  a  thousand  con- 
sumed hearts  and  joys, — then  be  thy  spirit  lifted 
up  in  pride,  and  let  it  contemn  the  tear  and 
that  for  which  it  falls,  saying,  "Thou  art  much 
too  insignificant,  thou  every-day  life,  for  the  in- 
consolableness  of  an  immortal, — thou  tattered, 
misshapen,  wholesale  existence !  Upon  this 
sphere,  which  is  rounded  with  the  ashes  of 
thousands  of  years,  amid  the  storms  of  earth, 
made  up  of  vapors,  it  is  a  disgrace  that  the  sigh 
should  only  be  dissipated  together  with  the 
bosom  that  gives  it  birth,  and  not  sooner;  and 
that  the  tear  should  not  perish  except  with  the 
eye  whence  it  flows." 

But  then,  moderate  thy  sublime  indignation, 
and  put  this  question  to  thyself:  If  the  hidden 
Infinite  One,  who  is  encompassed  by  gleaming 
abysses  without  bounds,  and  who  hjmself  cre- 
ates the  bounds,  were  now  to  lay  immensity 
open  to  thy  view,  and  to  reveal  himself  to  thee 
in  his  distribution  of  the  suns,  the  lofty  spirits, 
the  little  human  hearts,  and  our  days  and  some 
tears  therein, — wouldst  thou  rise  up  out  of  thy 
dust  against  him,  and  say,  "Almighty !  be  other 
than  Thou  art !" 

But  be  one  sorrow  alone  forgiven  thee,  or 
made  good  to  thee  —  the  sorrow  for  thy  dead 
ones ;  for  this  sweet  sorrow  for  the  lost  is  itself 
but  another  form  of  consolation.  When  the 
heart  is  full  of  longing  for  them,  it  is  but  an- 
other mode  of  continuing  to  love  them ;  and  we 
shed  tears  as  well  when  we  think  of  their  de- 
parture, as  when  we  picture  to  ourselves  our 
joyful  re-union — and  the  tears,  methinks,  differ 
not. 


DREAM.* 

The  object  of  this  composition  must  serve  as 
the  excuse  of  its  boldness. 

Man  denies  the  existence  of  God  with  as  little 
feeling  as  most  of  us  grant  it.  Even  in  our  true 
systems,  we  only  collect  words,  counters  and 
medals,  as  the  avaricious  accumulate  cabinets 
of  coins ;  and  it  is  not  until  long  after,  that  we 
exchange  the  words  for  sentiments,  our  coins 
for  enjoyments.  A  man  may  believe  in  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  for  twenty  years,  but 
only  in  the  twenty-first,  in  some  great  moment, 
is  he  astonished  at  the  rich  substance  of  this 
belief,  at  the  warmth  of  this  naphtha-spring. 


Even  so  was  I  horror-struck  at  the  poisonous 
vapor  which  meets  the  heart  of  one  who  enters 
for  the  first  time  into  the  atheistic  seminary,  as 
though  it  would  suffocate  it.  It  would  cause 
me  less  pain  to  deny  immortality  than  the  ex- 
istence of  the  Deity.  In  the  former  case,  I  lose 
nothing  but  a  world  concealed  by  a  fog;  in  the 
latter  case,  I  lose  the  present  world,  namely,  its 
Sun.  The  whole  spiritual  universe  is  split  and 
shattered  by  the  hand  of  Atheism  into  countless 
quicksilver  points  of  individual  existences,* 
which  twinkle,  melt  into  one  another,  and  wan- 
der about,  meet  and  part,  without  unity  and 
consistency.  No  one  is  so  much  alone  in  the 
universe  as  a  denier  of  God.  With  an  orphaned 
heart,  which  has  lost  the  greatest  of  fathers,  he 
stands  mourning  by  the  immeasurable  corpse 
of  nature,  no  longer  moved  or  sustained  by  the 
Spirit  of  the  universe,  but  growing  in  its  grave  ; 
and  he  mourns,  until  he  himself  crumbles  away 
from  the  dead  body. 

The  whole  world  lies  before  him  like  the 
great  Egyptian  sphinx  of  stone,  which  is  half- 
buried  in  the  sand,  and  the  universe  is  the  cold 
iron  mask  of  the  shapeless  eternity. 

Another  aim  of  my  composition  is,  to  frighten 
some  of  the  reading  or  deep-read  professors ; 
for  verily  these  people,  since  they  have  become 
day -laborers,  after  the  manner  of  condemned 
criminals,  in  the  waterworks  and  mining  ope- 
rations of  the  critical  philosophy,  weigh  the  ex- 
istence of  God  as  apathetically  and  as  cold- 
heartedly  as  though  it  were  a  question  of  the 
existence  of  the  kraken  or  the  unicorn. 

To  others,  who  are  not  so  far  advanced  as 
these  deep-read  professors,  I  may  observe,  that 
it  is  no  inconsistency  to  unite  a  belief  in  immor- 
tality with  a  belief  in  Atheism  ;  for  the  same 
necessity  which,  in  this  life,  threw  the  bright 
dewdrop  of  my  individual  existence  into  a 
flower-cup,  and  beneath  a  sun,  can  repeat  it  in 
a  second  life;  indeed,  it  is  easier  to  embody  me 
a  second  time  than  the  first  time. 

When  we  are  told  in  childhood,  that  at  mid- 
night, when  our  sleep  reaches  near  unto  the 
soul,  and  even  darkens  our  dreams,  the  dead 
rise  out  of  their  sleep  and  mimic  the  religious 
service  of  the  living  in  the  churches,  we  shud- 
der at  death  on  account  of  the  dead  ;  and  in  the 
loneliness  of  night  we  turn  away  our  gaze  from 
the  long  narrow  windows  of  the  silent  church, 
fearing  to  examine  whether  their  glitter  pro- 
ceeds from  the  moonbeams,  or  not. 

Childhood  and  especially  its  terrors  and  rap- 
tures once  more  assume  wings  and  brightness 
in  our  dreams,  and  play  like  glow-worms  in  the 
little  night  of  the  soul.  Crush  not  these  little 
fluttering  sparks!  Leave  us  even  our  dark 
painful  dreams,  as  relieving  middle  tints  of 
reality!  And  what  could  compensate  us  for 
our  dreams,  which  bear  us  away  from  beneath 
the  roar  of  the  waterfall  into  the  mountain- 
heights  of  childhood,  where  the  stream  of  life, 


*  From  the  same. 


*  German,  "  ichs." 


416 


RICHTER. 


yet  silent  in  its  little  plain,  and  a  mirror  of  hea- 
ven, flowed  towards  its  precipices  ! 

Once  on  a  summer  evening  I  lay  upon  a 
mountain  in  the  sunshine,  and  fell  asleep;  and 
1  dreamt  that  I  awoke  in  the  church-yard,  hav- 
ing been  roused  by  the  rattling  wheels  of  the 
tower-clock,  which  struck  eleven.  I  looked  for 
the  sun  in  the  void  night-heaven  ;  for  I  thought 
that  it  was  eclipsed  by  the  moon.  All  the 
graves  were  unclosed,  and  the  iron  doors  of  the 
charnel-house  were  opened  and  shut  by  invisi- 
ble hands.  Shadows  cast  by  no  one  flitted 
along  the  walls,  and  other  shadows  stalked 
erect  in  the  free  air.  No  one  slept  any  longer 
in  the  open  coffins  but  the  children.  A  grey, 
sultry  fog  hung  suspended  in  heavy  folds  in  the 
heavens,  and  a  gigantic  shadow  drew  it  in  like 
a  net,  ever  nearer,  and  closer,  and  hotter.  Above 
me  I  heard  the  distant  fall  of  avalanches;  be- 
neath me,  the  earnest  step  of  an  immeasurable 
earthquake.  The  church  was  heaved  up  and 
down  by  two  incessant  discords,  which  strug- 
gled with  one  another,  and  in  vain  sought  to 
unite  in  harmony.  Sometimes  a  grey  glimmer 
flared  up  on  the  windows,  and,  molten  by  the 
glimmer,  the  iron  and  lead  ran  down  in  streams. 
The  net  of  fog  and  the  reeling  earth  drove  me 
into  the  temple,  at  the  door  of  which  brooded 
two  basilisks  with  twinkling  eyes  in  two  poi- 
sonous nests.  I  passed  through  unknown  sha- 
dows, on  whom  were  impressed  all  the  centu- 
ries of  years.  The  shadows  stood  congregated 
round  the  altar;  and  in  all,  the  breast  throbbed 
and  trembled  in  the  place  of  a  heart.  One 
corpse  alone,  which  had  just  been  buried  in  the 
church,  lay  still  upon  its  pillow,  and  its  breast 
heaved  not,  while  upon  its  smiling  countenance 
lay  a  happy  dream  ;  but  on  the  entrance  of  one 
of  the  living  he  awoke,  and  smiled  no  more. 
He  opened  his  closed  eyelids  with  a  painful 
effort,  but  within  there  was  no  eye;  and  in  the 
sleeping  bosom,  instead  of  a  heart  there  was  a 
wound.  He  lifted  up  his  hands,  and  folded 
thern  in  prayer;  but  the  arms  lengthened  out 
and  detached  themselves  from  the  body,  and 
the  folded  hands  fell  down  apart.  Aloft,  on  the 
church-dome,  stood  the  dial-plate  of  Eternity ; 
but  there  was  no  figure  visible  upon  it,  and  it 
was  its  own  index;  only  a  black  figure  pointed 
to  it,  and  the  dead  wished  to  read  the  time 
upon  it. 

A  lofty,  noble  form,  Moving  the  expression  of 
a  never-ending  sorrow,  now  sank  down  from 
above  upon  the  altar,  and  all  the  dead  ex- 
claimed— "Christ!  is  there  no  God?"  And  he 
answered— -" There  is  none!"  The  whole  sha- 
dow of  each  dead  one,  and  not  the  breast  alone, 
now  trembled,  and  one  after  another  was  se- 
vered by  the  trembling. 

Christ  continued: — "I  traversed  the  worlds. 
I  ascended  into  the  suns,  and  flew  with  the 
milky  ways  through  the  wildernesses  of  the 
heavens;  but  there  is  no  God!  I  descended  as 
far  as  Being  throws  its  shadow,  and  gazed  down 
into  the  abyss,  and  cried  aloud — 'Father,  where 


art  thou?'  but  I  heard  nothing  but  the  eternal 
storm  which  no  one  rules;  and  the  beaming 
rainbow  in  the  west  hung,  without  a  creating 
sun,  above  the  abyss,  and  fell  down  in  drops; 
and  when  I  looked  up  to  the  immeasurable 
world  for  the  Divine  Eye,  it  glared  upon  me 
from  an  empty,  bottomless  socket,  and  Eternity 
lay  brooding  upon  chaos,  and  gnawed  it,  and 
ruminated  it.  Cry  on,  ye  discords!  cleave  the 
shadows  with  your  cries ;  for  he  is  not !" 

The  shadows  grew  pale  and  melted,  as  the 
white  vapor  formed  by  the  frost  melts  and  be- 
comes a  warm  breath,  and  all  was  void.  Then 
there  arose  and  came  into  the  temple — a  terri- 
ble sight  for  the  heart — the  dead  children  who 
had  awakened  in  the  church-yard,  and  they 
cast  themselves  before  the  lofty  form  upon  the 
altar,  and  said,  "  Jesus !  have  we  no  Father  ! ' 
and  he  answered  with  streaming  eyes,  "We  are 
all  orphans,  I  and  you  ;  we  are  without  a  Fa- 
ther." 

Thereupon  the  discords  shrieked  more  harsh- 
ly; the  trembling  walls  of  the  temple  split 
asunder,  and  the  temple  and  the  children  sunk- 
down,  and  the  earth  and  the  sun  followed,  and 
the  whole  immeasurable  universe  fell  rushing 
past  us;  and  aloft  upon  the  summit  of  infinite 
Nature  stood  Christ,  and  gazed  down  into  the 
universe,  chequered  with  thousands  of  suns,  as 
into  a  mine  dug  out  of  the  Eternal  Night, 
wherein  the  suns  are  the  miners'  lamps,  and 
the  milky  ways  the  veins  of  silver. 

And  when  Christ  beheld  the  grinding  con- 
course of  worlds,  the  torch-dances  of  the  hea- 
venly ignes  fatui,  and  the  coral-banks  of  beating 
hearts;  and  when  he  beheld  how  one  sphere 
after  another  poured  out  its  gleaming  souls  into 
the  sea  of  death,  as  a  drop  of  water  strews 
gleaming  lights  upon  the  waves,  sublime,  as  the 
loftiest  finite  being,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the 
Nothingness,  and  to  the  empty  Immensity,  and 
said:  "Frozen,  dumb  Nothingness!  cold,  eternal 
Necessity!  insane  Chance!  know  ye  what  is 
beneath  you?  When  will  ye  destroy  the  build- 
ing and  me  ?  Chance  !  knowest  thou  thyself 
when  with  hurricanes  thou  wilt  match  through 
the  snow-storm  of  stars  and  extinguish  one  sup 
after  the  other,  and  when  the  sparkling  dew  oi 
the  constellations  shall  cease  to  glisten  as  thou 
passest  by?  How  lonely  is  everyone  in  the 
wide  charnel  of  the  universe !  I  alone  am  in 
company  with  myself.  O  Father!  0  Father! 
where  is  thine  infinite  bosom,  that  I  may  be  at 
rest?  Alas!  if  every  being  is  its  own  father 
and  creator,  why  cannot  it  also  be  its  own  de- 
stroying angel?  *  *  *  Is  that  a  man  near 
me?  Thou  poor  one!  thy  little  life  is  the  sigh 
of  Nature,  or  only  its  echo.  A  concave  miner 
throws  its  beams  upon  the  dust-clouds  composed 
of  the  ashes  of  the  dead  upon  your  earth,  and 
thus  ye  exist,  cloudy,  tottering  images!  Look 
down  into  the  abyss  over  which  clouds  of  ashts 
are  floating  by.  Fogs  full  of  worlds  arise  out 
of  the  sea  of  death.  The  future  is  a  rising  va- 
por, the  present  a  falling  one.    Knowest  thou 


RICHTER. 


417 


thy  earth  ?"  Here  Christ  looked  down,  and  his 
'  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  said,  "Alas !  I  too 
was  once  like  you  :  then  I  was  happy,  for  I  had 
still  my  infinite  Father,  and  still  gazed  joyfully 
from  the  mountains  into  the  infinite  expanse  of 
heaven ;  and  I  pressed  my  wounded  heart  on 
i  his  soothing  image,  and  said,  even  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  death  :  '  Father,  take  thy  Son  out  of  his 
bleeding  shell,  and  lift  him  up  to  thy  heart.' 
Ah,  ye  too,  too  happy  dwellers  of  earth,  ye  still 
believe  in  him.  Perhaps  at  this  moment  your 
sun  is  setting,  and  ye  fall  amid  blossoms,  radi- 
ance, and  tears,  upon  your  knees,  and  lift  up 
your  blessed  hands,  and  call  out  to  the  open 
heaven,  amid  a  thousand  tears  of  joy,  'Thou 
knowest  me  too,  thou  infinite  One,  and  all  my 
wounds,  and  thou  wilt  welcome  me  after  death, 
and  wilt  close  them  all.'    Ye  wretched  ones  ! 

after  death  they  will  not  be  closed  When 

the  man  of  sorrows  stretches  his  sore  wounded 
back  upon  the  earth  to  slumber  towards  a  love- 
lier morning,  full  of  truth,  full  of  virtue  and  of 
joy,  behold,  he  awakes  in  the  tempestuous 
chaos,  in  the  everlasting  midnight,  and  no  morn- 
ing cometh,  and  no  healing  hand,  and  no  infinite 
Father  !  Mortal  who  art  near  me,  if  thou  still 
livest,  worship  him,  or  thou  hast  lost  him  for- 
ever!" 

And  as  I  fell  down  and  gazed  into  the  gleam- 
ing fabric  of  worlds,  I  beheld  the  raised  rings 
of  the  giant  serpent  of  eternity,  which  had 
couched  itself  round  the  universe  of  worlds, 
and  the  rings  fell,  and  she  enfolded  the  universe 
doubly.  Then  she  wound  herself  in  a  thou- 
sand folds  round  Nature,  and  crushed  the  worlds 
together,  and,  grinding  them,  she  squeezed  the 
infinite  temple  into  one  church-yard  church — 
and  all  became  narrow,  dark,  and  fearful,  and 
a  bell -hammer  stretched  out  to  infinity  was 
about  to  strike  the  last  hour  of  Time,  and  split 
the  universe  asunder — when  I  awoke. 

My  soul  wept  for  joy,  that  it  could  again 
worship  God;  and  the  joy,  and  the  tears,  and 
the  belief  in  him,  were  the  prayer.  And  when 
I  arose,  the  sun  gleamed  deeply  behind  the  full 
purple  ears  of  corn,  and  peacefully  threw  the 
reflection  of  its  evening  blushes  on  the  little 
moon,  which  was  rising  in  the  east  without  an 
aurora.  And  between  the  heaven  and  the 
earth  a  glad  fleeting  world  stretched  out  its 
short  wings,  and  lived  like  myself  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  infinite  Father,  and  from  all  nature 
around  me  flowed  sweet  peaceful  tones,  as 
from  evening  bells. 


LETTER  TO  MY  FRIENDS,  INSTEAD  OF 
PREFACE* 

Of  ways  for  becoming  happier  (not  happy) 
I  could  never  inquire  out  more  than  three.  The 


*  Life  of  duintus  Fixlein.  German  Romance.  T. 
Carlyle,  Vol.  iii.   Edinburgh.  1827. 

3c 


first,  rather  an  elevated  road,  is  this  :  To  soar 
away  so  far  above  the  clouds  of  life,  that  you 
see  the  whole  external  world,  with  its  wolf- 
dens,  charnel-houses,  and  thunder-rods,  lying 
far  down  beneath  you,  shrunk  into  a  little  child's 
garden.  The  second  is :  Simply  to  sink  down 
into  this  little  garden ;  and  there  to  nestle  your- 
self so  snugly,  so  homewise,  in  some  furrow, 
that,  in  looking  out  from  your  warm  lark-nest, 
you  likewise  can  discern  no  wolf-dens,  charnel- 
houses,  or  thunder -rods,  but  only  blades  and 
ears,  every  one  of  which,  for  the  nest-bird,  is  a 
tree,  and  a  sun-screen,  and  rain-screen.  The 
third,  finally,  which  I  look  upon  as  the  hardest 
and  cunningest,  is  that  of  alternating  between 
the  other  two. 

This  I  shall  now  satisfactorily  expound  to 
men  at  large. 

The  Hero,  the  Reformer,  your  Brutus,  your 
Howard,  your  Republican,  he  whom  civic  storm, 
or  genius  poetic  storm,  impels;  in  short,  every 
mortal  with  a  great  Purpose,  or  even  a  peren- 
nial Passion  (were  it  but  that  of  writing  the 
largest  folios),  all  these  men  fence  themselves 
in  by  their  internal  world  against  the  frosts  and 
heats  of  the  external,  as  the  madman  in  a  worse 
sense  does  :  every  fixed  idea,  such  as  rules  every 
genius,  every  enthusiast,  at  least  periodically, 
separates  and  elevates  a  man  above  the  bed 
and  board  of  this  Earth,  above  its  Dog's-grot- 
toes,  buckthorns  and  Devil's- walls ;  like  the 
Bird  of  Paradise,  he  slumbers  flying;  and  on 
his  outspread  pinions,  oversleeps  unconsciously 
the  earthquakes  and  conflagrations  of  Life,  in 
his  long  fair  dream  of  his  ideal  Mother-land. — 
Alas !  To  few  is  this  dream  granted ;  and  these 
few  are  so  often  awakened  by  Flying  Dogs  !* 

This  skyward  track,  however,  is  fit  only  for 
the  winged  portion  of  the  human  species,  for 
the  smallest.  What  can  it  profit  poor  quill- 
driving  brethren,  whose  souls  have  not  even 
wing-shells,  to  say  nothing  of  wings  ?  Or  these 
tethered  persons  with  the  best  back  breast  and 
neck  fins,  who  float  motionless  in  the  wicker 
Fish-box  of  the  State,  and  are  not  allowed  to 
swim,  because  the  Box  or  State,  long  ago  tied 
to  the  shore,  itself  swims  in  the  name  of  the 
Fishes?  To  the  whole  standing  and  writing 
host  of  heavy-laden  State-domestics,  Purveyors, 
Clerks  of  all  departments,  and  all  the  lobsters 
packed  together  heels  overhead  in  the  Lobster- 
basket  of  the  Government  office-rooms,  and  for 
refreshment,  sprinkled  over  with  a  few  nettles ; 
to  these  persons,  what  way  of  becoming  happy 
here,  can  I  possibly  point  out  ? 

My  second  merely  ;  and  that  is  as  follows : 
To  take  a  compound  microscope,  and  with  it  to 
discover,  and  convince  themselves,  that  their 
drop  of  Burgundy  is  properly  a  Red  Sea,  that 
butterfly-dust  is  peacock-feathers,  mouldiness  a 
flowery  field,  and  sand  a  heap  of  jewels.  These 
microscopic  recreations  are  more  lasting  than 
all  costly  watering-place  recreations. — But  I 


*  So  are  the  Vampyres  called. 


418 


RICHTER. 


must  explain  these  metaphors  by  new  ones. 
The  purpose,  for  which  I  have  sent  Firkin's 
Life  into  the  Messrs.  Lubeks'  Warehouse,  is 
simply  that  in  this  same  Life — therefore  in  this 
Preface  it  is  less  needful — I  may  show  to  the 
whole  Earth  that  we  ought  to  value  little  joys 
more  than  great  ones,  the  night-gown  more  than 
the  dress-coat ;  that  Plutus'  heaps  are  worth 
less  than  his  handfuls,  the  plum  than  the  penny 
for  a  rainy  day;  and  that  not  great,  but  little 
good-haps  can  make  us  happy. — Can  I  accom- 
plish this,  I  shall,  through  means  of  my  Book, 
bring  up  for  Posterity,  a  race  of  men  finding  re- 
freshment in  all  things ;  in  the  warmth  of  their 
rooms  and  of  their  night-caps  ;  in  their  pillows  ; 
in  the  three  High  Festivals ;  in  mere  Apostles' 
days ;  in  the  Evening  Moral  Tales  of  their 
wives,  when  these  gentle  persons  have  been 
forth  as  ambassadors  visiting  some  Dowager 
Residence,  whither  the  husband  could  not  be 
persuaded;  in  the  bloodletting -day  of  these 
their  newsbringers ;  in  the  day  of  slaughtering, 
salting,  potting  against  the  rigor  of  grim  winter  ; 
and  in  all  such  days.  You  perceive,  my  drift 
is  that  man  must  become  a  little  Tailor-bird, 
which,  not  amid  the  crashing  boughs  of  the 
storm-tost,  roaring,  immeasurable  tree  of  Life, 
but  on  one  of  its  leaves,  sews  itself  a  nest  toge- 
ther, and  there  lies  snug.  The  most  essential 
sermon  one  could  preach  to  our  century,  were 
a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  staying  at  home. 

The  third  skyward  road  is  the  alternation 
between  the  other  two.  The  foregoing  second 
way  is  not  good  enough  for  man,  who  here  on 
Earth  should  take  into  his  hand  not  the  Sickle 
only,  but  also  the  Plough.  The  first  is  too  good 
for  him.  He  has  not  always  the  force,  like 
Rugendas,  in  the  midst  of  the  Battle  to  compose 
Battle-pieces ;  and,  like  Backhuisen  in  the  Ship- 
wreck, to  clutch  at  no  board  but  the  drawing- 
board  to  paint  it  on.  And  then  his  pains  are 
not  less  lasting  than  his  fatigues.  Still  oftener 
is  Strength  denied  its  Arena:  it  is  but  the 
smallest  portion  of  life  that,  to  a  working  soul, 
offers  Alps,  Revolutions,  Rhine -falls,  Worms 
Diets,  and  Wars  with  Xerxes  ;  and  for  the  whole 
it  is  better  so:  the  longer  portion  of  life  is  a 
field  beaten  flat  as  a  threshing-floor,  without 
lofty  Gothard  Mountains ;  often  it  is  a  tedious 
ice-field,  without  a  single  glacier  tinged  with 
dawn. 

But  even  by  walking,  a  man  rests  and  reco- 
vers himself  for  climbing;  by  little  joys  and 
duties,  for  great.  The  victorious  Dictator  must 
contrive  to  plough  down  his  battle  Mars-field 
into  a  flax  and  carrot  field  ;  to  transform  his 
theatre  of  war  into  a  parlour  theatre,  on  which 
his  children  may  enact  some  good  pieces  from 
the  Children's  Friend.  Can  he  accomplish  this, 
can  he  turn  so  softly  from  the  path  of  poetical 
happiness  into  that  of  household  happiness, — 
then  is  he  little  different  from  myself,  who  even 
now,  though  modesty  might  forbid  me  to  dis- 
close it — who  even  now,  I  say,  amid  the  crea- 
tion of  this  Letter,  have  been  enabled  to  reflect, 


that  when  it  is  done,  so  also  will  the  Roses  and 
Elder-berries  of  pastry  be  done,  which  a  sure  1 
hand  is  seething  in  butter  for  the  Author  of  this 
Work. 


THE  MARRIAGE* 

Rise,  fair  Ascension  and  Marriage  day,  and 
gladden  readers  also !  Adorn  thyself  with  the 
fairest  jewel,  with  the  bride,  whose  soul  is  as 
pure  and  glittering  as  its  vesture ;  like  pearl 
and  pearl-muscle,  the  one  as  the  other,  lustrous 
and  ornamental!  And  so  over  the  espalier, 
whose  fruit-hedge  has  hitherto  divided  our  dar- 
ling from  his  Eden,  every  reader  now  presses 
after  him ! — 

On  the  9th  of  May,  1793,  about  three  in  the 
morning,  there  came  a  sharp  peal  of  trumpets, 
like  a  light -beam,  through  the  dim -red  May- 
dawn:  two  twisted  horns,  with  a  straight  trum- 
pet between  them,  like  a  note  of  admiration 
between  interrogation -points,  were  clanging 
from  a  house  in  which  only  a  parishioner  (not 
the  Parson)  dwelt  and  blew  :  for  this  parishioner 
had  last  night  been  celebrating  the  same  cere- 
mony which  the  pastor  had  this  day  before  him. 
The  joyful  tallyho  raised  our  Parson  from  his 
broad  bed  (and  the  Shock  from  beneath  it,  who 
some  weeks  ago  had  been  exiled  from  the  white 
sleek  coverlid),  and  this  so  early,  that  in  the 
portraying  tester,  where  on  every  former  morn- 
ing he  had  observed  his  ruddy  visage,  and  his 
white  bedclothes,  all  was  at  present  dim  and 
crayoned. 

I  confess,  the  new-painted  room,  and  a  gleam 
of  dawn  on  the  wall,  made  it  so  light,  that  he 
could  see  his  knee-buckles  glancing  on  the  chair. 
He  then  softly  awakened  his  mother  (the  other 
guests  were  to  lie  for  hours  in  the  sheets),  and 
she  had  the  city  cook-maid  to  awaken,  who, 
like  several  other  articles  of  wedding-furniture, 
had  been  borrowed  for  a  day  or  two  from 
Flachsenfingen.  At  two  doors  he  knocked  in 
vain,  and  without  answer ;  for  all  were  already 
down  at  the  hearth,  cooking,  blowing,  and  ar- 
ranging. 

How  softly  does  the  Spring  day  gradually 
fold  back  its  nun-veil,  and  the  Earth  grow  bright, 
as  if  it  were  the  morning  of  a  Resurrection! — 
The  quicksilver -pillar  of  the  barometer,  the 
guiding  Fire-pillar  of  the  weather-prophet,  rests 
firmly  on  Fixlein's  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  The 
Sun  raises  himself,  pure  and  cool,  into  the 
morning-blue,  instead  of  into  the  morning-red. 
Swallows,  instead  of  clouds,  shoot  skimming 
through  the  melodious  air.  .  .  .  O,  the  good 
Genius  of  Fair  Weather,  who  deserves  many 
temples  and  festivals  (because  without  him  no 
festival  could  be  held),  lifted  an  aetherial  azure 
Day,  as  it  were,  from  the  well-clear  atmosphere 
of  the  Moon,  and  sent  it  down,  on  blue  butter- 
fly-wings— as  if  it  were  a  blue  Monday — glitter- 


*  From  the  same. 


RICHTER. 


419 


ing  below  the  Sun,  in  the  zigzag  of  joyful  qui- 
vering descent,  upon  the  narrow  spot  of  Earth, 
which  our  heated  fancies  are  now  viewing.  .  . 
And  on  this  balmy,  vernal  spot,  stand  amid 
flowers,  over  which  the  trees  are  shaking  blos- 
soms instead  of  leaves,  a  bride  and  a  bride- 
groom Happy  Fixlein !  how  shall  I  paint 

thee  without  deepening  the  sighs  of  longing  in 
the  fairest  souls  ? — 

But  soft!  we  will  not  drink  the  magic  cup  of 
Fancy  to  the  bottom,  at  six  in  the  morning;  but 
keep  sober  till  towards  night! 

At  the  sound  of  the  morning  prayer-bell,  the 
bridegroom — for  the  din  of  preparation  was  dis- 
turbing his  quiet  orison  — went  out  into  the 
church-yard,  which  (as  in  many  other  places) 
together  with  the  church,  lay  round  his  mansion 
like  a  court.  Here,  on  the  moist  green,  over 
whose  closed  flowers  the  church-yard  wall  was 
still  spreading  broad  shadows,  did  his  spirit 
cool  itself  from  the  warm  dreams  of  Earth : 
here,  where  the  white  flat  grave -stone  of  his 
Teacher  lay  before  him  like  the  fallen-in  door 
on  the  Janus'-lemple  of  Life,  or  like  the  wind- 
ward side  of  the  narrow  house,  turned  towards 
the  tempests  of  the  world :  here,  where  the 
little  shrunk  metallic  door  on  the  grated  cross 
of  his  father  uttered  to  him.  the  inscriptions  of 
death,  and  the  year  when  his  parent  departed, 
and  all  the  admonitions  and  mementos,  graven 
on  the  lead ; — there,  I  say,  his  mood  grew  softer 
and  more  solemn ;  and  he  now  lifted  up  by 
heart  his  morning  prayer,  which  usually  he 
read  ;  and  entreated  God  to  bless  him  in  his 
office,  and  to  spare  his  mother's  life,  and  to  look 
with  favor  and  acceptance  on  the  purpose  of 
to-day. — Then,  over  the  graves,  he  walked  into 
his  fenceless  little  angular  flower-garden;  and 
here,  composed  and  confident  in  the  divine 
keeping,  he  pressed  the  stalks  of  his  tulips 
deeper  into  the  mellow  earth. 

But  on  returning  to  the  house,  he  was  met  on 
all  hands  by  the  bell-ringing  and  the  Janizary- 
music  of  wedding-gladness  ;  —  the  marriage- 
guests  had  all  thrown  off"  their  nightcaps,  and 
were  drinking  diligently ; — there  was  a  clatter- 
ing, a  cooking,  a  frizzling ; — tea-services,  coffee- 
services,  and  warm  beer-services,  were  advanc- 
ing in  succession;  and  plates  full  of  bride-cakes 
were  going  round  like  potter's  frames  or  cistern- 
wheels. — The  Schoolmaster,  with  three  young 
lads,  was  heard  rehearsing  from  his  own  house 
an  Arioso,  with  which,  so  soon  as  they  were 
perfect,  he  purposed  to  surprise  his  clerical  su- 
perior.— But  now  rushed  all  the  arms  of  the 
foaming  joy-streams  into  one,  when  the  sky- 
queen  besprinkled  with  blossoms,  the  bride, 
descended  upon  Earth  in  her  timid  joy,  full  of 
quivering,  humble  love  ; — when  the  bells  be- 
gan ;  —  when  the  procession -column  set  forth 
with  the  whole  village  round  and  before  it ; — 
when  the  organ,  the  congregation,  the  officiating 
priest,  and  the  sparrows  on  the  trees  of  the 
church-window,  struck  louder  and  louder  their 
rolling  peals  on  the  drum  of  the  jubilee-festival. 


.  .  .  The  heart  of  the  singing  bridegroom  was 
like  to  leap  from  its  place  for  joy,  "  that  on  his 
bridal-day,  it  was  all  so  respectable  and  grand." 
— Not  till  the  marriage  benediction  could  he 
pray  a  little. 

Still  worse  and  louder  grew  the  business 
during  dinner,  when  pastry-work  and  march- 
pane-devices were  brought  forward,  —  when 
glasses,  and  slain  fishes  (laid  under  the  napkins 
to  frighten  the  guests;  went  round  ; — and  when 
the  guests  rose,  and  themselves  went  round, 
and  at  length  danced  round  :  for  they  had  in- 
strumental music  from  the  city  there. 

One  minute  handed  over  to  the  other  the 
sugar-bowl  and  bottle-case  of  joy :  the  guests 
heard  and  saw  less  and  less,  and  the  villagers 
began  to  see  and  hear  more  and  more,  and  to- 
wards night  they  penetrated  like  a  wedge  into 
the  open  door, — nay,  two  youths  ventured  even 
in  the  middle  of  the  parsonage-court,  to  mount 
a  plank  over  a  beam,  and  commence  seesawing. 
— Out  of  doors,  the  gleaming  vapor  of  the  de- 
parted Sun  was  encircling  the  Earth,  the  even- 
ing-star was  glittering  over  parsonage  and 
church-yard  ;  no  one  heeded  it. 

However,  about  nine  o'clock,  —  when  the 
marriage- guests  had  well  nigh  forgotten  the 
marriage -pair,  and  were  drinking  or  dancing 
along  for  their  own  behoof ;  when  poor  mortals, 
in  this  sunshine  of  Fate,  like  fishes  in  the  sun- 
shine of  the  sky,  were  leaping  up  from  their 
wet  cold  element;  and  when  the  bridegroom 
under  the  star  of  happiness  and  love,  casting 
like  a  comet  its  long  train  of  radiance  over  all 
his  heaven,  had  in  secret  pressed  to  his  joy-filled 
breast  his  bride  and  his  mother, — then  did  he 
lock  a  slice  of  wedding -bread  privily  into  a 
press,  in  the  old  superstitious  belief,  that  this 
residue  secured  continuance  of  bread  for  the 
whole  marriage.  As  he  returned,  with  greater 
love  for  the  sole  partner  of  his  life,  she  herself 
met  him  with  his  mother,  to  deliver  him  in 
private  the  bridal-nightgown  and  bridal-shirt, 
as  is  the  ancient  usage.  Many  a  countenance 
grows  pale  in  violent  emotions,  even  of  joy : 
Thiennette's  wax-face  was  bleaching  still  whiter 
under  the  sunbeams  of  Happiness.  0,  never 
fall,  thou  lily  of  Heaven,  and  may  four  springs 
instead  of  four  seasons  open  and  shut  thy  flower- 
bells  to  the  sun! — All  the  arms  of  his  soul  as 
he  floated  on  the  sea  of  joy  were  quivering  to 
clasp  the  soft  warm  heart  of  his  beloved,  to  en- 
circle it  gently  and  fast,  and  draw  it  to  his  own. 

He  led  her  from  the  crowded  dancing-room 
into  the  cool  evening.  Why  does  the  evening, 
does  the  night  put  warmer  love  in  our  hearts  ? 
Is  it  the  nightly  pressure  of  helplessness?  or  is 
it  the  exalting  separation  from  the  turmoil  of 
life  ;  that  veiling  of  the  world,  in  which  for  the 
soul  nothing  more  remains  but  souls?  —  is  it 
therefore,  that  the  letters  in  which  the  loved 
name  stands  written  on  our  spirit  appear,  like 
phosphorus-writing,  by  night,  in  fire,  while  by 
day  in  their  cloudy  traces  they  but  smoke? 

He  walked  with  his  bride  into  the  Castle- 


420  RICHTER. 


garden  :  she  hastened  quickly  through  the  Castle, 
and  past  its  servants'-hall,  where  the  fair  flowers 
of  her  young  life  had  been  crushed  broad  and 
dry,  under  a  long  dreary  pressure  ;  and  her  soul 
expanded,  and  breathed  in  the  free  open  garden, 
on  whose  flowery  soil  destiny  had  cast  forth  the 
first  seeds  of  the  blossoms  which  to-day  were 
gladdening  her  existence.  Still  Eden!  Green 
flower-chequered  chiaroscuro!  —  The  moon  is 
sleeping  under  ground  like  a  dead  one  ;  but  be- 
yond the  garden  the  sun's  red  evening-clouds 
have  fallen  down  like  rose-leaves;  and  the 
evening-star,  the  brideman  of  the  sun,  hovers, 
like  a  glancing  butterfly,  above  the  rosy  red, 
and,  modest  as  a  bride,  deprives  no  single  starlet 
of  its  light. 

The  wandering  pair  arrived  at  the  old  gar- 
dener's hut;  now  standing  locked  and  dumb, 
with  dark  windows  in  the  light  garden,  like  a 
fragment  of  the  Past  surviving  in  the  Present. 
Bared  twigs  of  trees  were  folding,  with  clammy 
half-formed  leaves,  over  the  thick  intertwisted 
tangles  of  the  bushes. — The  Spring  was  stand- 
ing, like  a  conqueror,  with  Winter  at  his  feet. — 
In  the  blue  pond,  now  bloodless,  a  dusky  even- 
ing-sky lay  hollowed  out,  and  the  gushing  waters 
were  moistening  the  flower-beds. — The  silver 
sparks  of  stars  were  rising  on  the  altar  of  the 
East,  and  falling  down  extinguished  in  the  red 
sea  of  the  West. 

The  wind  whirred,  like  a  night-bird,  louder 
through  the  trees,  and  gave  tones  to  the  acacia- 
grove  ;  and  the  tones  called  to  the  pair  who  had 
first  become  happy  within  it:  "Enter,  new 
mortal  pair,  and  think  of  what  is  past,  and  of 
my  withering  and  your  own  ;  and  be  holy  as 
Eternity,  and  weep  not  only  for  joy,  but  for 
gratitude  also!" — And  the  wet-eyed  bridegroom 
led  his  wet-eyed  bride  under  the  blossoms,  and 
laid  his  soul,  like  a  flower,  on  her  heart,  and 
said  :  "  Best  Thiennette,  I  am  unspeakably  hap- 
py, and  would  say  much,  and  cannot — Ah,  thou 
Dearest,  we  will  live  like  angels,  like  children 
together !  Surely  I  will  do  all  that  is  good  to 
thee  ;  two  years  ago  I  had  nothing,  no,  nothing; 
ah,  it  is  through  thee,  best  love,  that  I  am  happy. 
I  call  thee  Thou,  now,  thou  dear  good  soul!" 
She  drew  him  closer  to  her,  and  said,  though 
without  kissing  him :  "  Call  me  Thou  always, 
Dearest !" 

And  as  they  stept  forth  again  from  the  sacred 
grove  into  the  magic-dusky  garden,  he  took  off 
his  hat ;  first,  that  he  might  internally  thank 
God,  and  secondly,  because  he  wished  to  look 
into  this  fairest  evening  sky. 

They  reached  the  blazing,  rustling,  marriage- 
house,  but  their  softened  hearts  sought  stillness; 
and  a  foreign  touch,  as  in  the  blossoming  vine, 
would  have  disturbed  the  flower -nuptials  of 
their  souls.  They  turned  rather,  and  winded 
up  into  the  church-yard  to  preserve  their  mood. 
Majestic  on  the  groves  and  mountains  stood 
the  Night  before  man's  heart,  and  made  that  also 
great.  Over  the  white  steeple-obelisk  the  sky 
rested  bluer •,  and  darker  ;  and  behind  it,  wavered 


the  withered  summit  of  the  May-pole  with  faded 
flag.  The  son  noticed  his  father's  grave,  on 
which  the  wind  was  opening  and  shutting,  with 
harsh  noise,  the  little  door  of  the  metal  cross,  to 
let  the  year  of  his  death  be  read  on  the  brass 
plate  within.  An  overpowering  sadness  seized 
his  heart  with  violent  streams  of  tears,  and 
drove  him  to  the  sunk  hillock,  and  he  led  his 
bride  to  the  grave,  and  said  :  "  Here  sleeps  he, 
my  good  father;  in  his  thirty-second  year,  he 
was  carried  hither  to  his  long  rest.  0  thou 
good,  dear  father,  couldst  thou  to-day  but  see  the 
happiness  of  thy  son,  like  my  mother  !  But  thy 
eyes  are  empty,  and  thy  breast  is  full  of  ashes, 
and  thou  seest  us  not." — He  was  silent.  The 
bride  wept  aloud  ;  she  saw  the  mouldering  cof- 
fins of  her  parents  open,  and  the  two  dead  arise 
and  look  round  for  their  daughter,  who  had 
stayed  so  long  behind  them,  forsaken  on  the 
Earth.  She  fell  upon  his  heart,  and  faltered: 
"O  beloved,  I  have  neither  father  nor  mother, 
do  not  forsake  me  !" 

O  thou  who  hast  still  a  father  and  a  mother, 
thank  God  for  it,  on  the  day  when  thy  soul  is 
full  of  joyful  tears,  and  needs  a  bosom  wherein 
to  shed  thern.  .  .  . 

And  with  this  embracing  at  a  father's  grave, 
let  this  day  of  joy  be  holily  concluded. 


THOUGHTS* 

The  inner  man,  like  the  negro,  is  born  white, 
but  is  colored  black  by  life.  In  advanced  age 
the  grandest  moral  examples  pass  by  us,  and 
our  life-course  is  no  more  altered  by  them  than 
the  earth  is  by  a  flitting  comet ;  but  in  child- 
hood the  first  object  that  excites  the  sentiment 
of  love  or  of  injustice  flings  broad  and  deep  its 
light  or  shadow  over  the  coming  years  ;  and  as, 
according  to  ancient  theologians,  it  was  only  the 
first  sin  of  Adam,  not  his  subsequent  ones,  whioh 
descended  to  us  by  inheritance,  so  that  since  the 
One  Fall  we  make  the  rest  for  ourselves,  in  like 
manner  the  first  fall  and  the  first  ascent  influ- 
ence the  whole  life. 

HOW  CHILDREN  LEARN  TO  WORSHIP. 

Sublimity  is  the  staircase  to  the  temple  of 
religion,  as  the  stars  are  to  immensity.  When 
the  vast  is  manifested  in  nature,  as  in  a  storm, 
thunder,  the  starry  firmament,  death,  then  utter 
the  name  of  God  before  your  child.  Signal  ca- 
lamity, rare  success,  a  great  crime,  a  noble  ac- 
tion, are  the  spots  upon  which  to  erect  the 
child's  tabernacle  of  worship. 

Always  exhibit  before  children,  even  upon 
the  borders  of  the  holy  land,  of  religion,  solemn 
and  devout  emotions.  These  will  extend  to 
them,  unveiling  at  length  the  object  by  which 
they  are  excited,  though  at  the  beginning  they 
are  awe-struck  with  you,  not  knowing  where- 


*  From  the  Diadem.  1846.  Carey  &  Hart,  Philadelphia. 
Translated  by  Miss  L.  Osgood. 


RICHTER. 


421 


fore.  Newton,  who  uncovered  his  head  when 
the  greatest  Name  was  pronounced,  thus  be- 
came without  words  a  teacher  of  religion  to 
children. 

Instead  of  carrying  children  frequently  to 
public  worship,  I  should  prefer  simply  to  con- 
duct them  upon  great  days  in  nature  or  in  hu- 
man life  into  the  empty  church,  and  there  show 
them  the  holy  place  of  adults.  To  this  I  might 
add  twilight,  night,  the  organ,  the  hymn,  the 
priest,  exhortation ;  and  so  by  a  mere  walk 
through  the  building,  a  more  serious  impression 
might  remain  in  their  young  hearts  than  after  a 
whole  year  of  common  church  routine.  Let 
every  hour  in  which  their  hearts  are  consecrated 
to  religion,  be  to  them  as  absorbing  as  that  in 
which  they  partake  for  the  first  time  of  the 
Lord's  Supper. 

Let  the  Protestant  child  show  reverence  to 
the  Catholic  images  of  saints  by  the  road-side — 
the  same  as  to  the  ancient  Druidical  oak  of  his 
ancestors.  Let  him  as  lovingly  accept  different 
forms  of  religion  among  men,  as  different  lan- 
guages, wherein  there  is  still  but  one  human 
mind  expressed.  Every  genius  has  most  power 
in  his  own  tongue,  and  every  heart  in  its  own 
religion. 

SUSCEPTIBILITY  OF  THE  SENSES  IN  CHILDREN. 

Who  has  not  felt  with  me,  that  frequently  a 
rural  nosegay,  which  was  our  delight  when  we 
were  children  in  the  village,  through  its  old  fra- 
grance produces  for  us  in  cities,  in  the  advanced 
years  of  manhood,  an  indescribably  rapturous 
return  to  godlike  childhood,  and  like  a  flowery 
divinity  wafts  us  upward  to  the  first  encircling 
Aurora-cloud  of  our  earliest  obscure  sensations. 
But  could  such  a  remembrance  so  forcibly  sur- 
prise us,  were  not  the  child's  perception  of 
flowers  most  powerful  and  interior  ? 

JOYOUSNESS  OF  CHILDREN. 

How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  I  can  bear  a 
melancholy  man,  but  never  a  melancholy  child. 
Into  whatever  quagmire  the  former  sinks,  he 
may  raise  his  eyes  either  to  the  realm  of  reason 
or  to  that  of  hope  ;  but  the  little  child  sinks  and 
perishes  in  a  single  black  poison-drop  of  the 
present  time. — Only  imagine  a  child  conducted 
to  the  scaffold — Cupid  in  a  German  coffin — or 
fancy  a  butterfly  crawling  like  a  caterpillar 
with  his  four  wings  pulled  off,  and  you  will 
feel  what  I  mean. 

TOYS. 

You  need  not  surround  your  children,  like 
those  of  the  nobility,  with  a  little  world  of  turn- 
er's toys.  Let  their  eggs  be  white,  not  figured 
and  painted ;  they  can  dress  them  out  of  their 
own  imaginations.  On  the  contrary,  the  older 
man  grows,  the  larger  reality  appears.  The 
fields  which  glisten  for  the  young  with  the 
morning  dew  of  love's  brightness,  chill  the  gray, 
half-blind  old  man  with  heavy  evening  damps, 
and  at  last  he  requires  an  entire  world,  even 
the  second,  barely  to  live  in. 


LANGUAGES. 

Do  not  torment  your  pupil  with  a  thousand 
tongues.  The  mere  learning  of  languages  is 
like  expending  one's  money  in  the  purchase  of 
fine  purses,  or  learning  the  Paternoster  in  every 
tongue,  but  never  praying  with  it. 

HArPY  FATHERS. 

Two  classes  of  men  are  happy  fathers.  The 
first  is  a  country  gentleman,  who  enjoys  such 
golden  means  of  exemption  from  other  occupa- 
tions, that  his  rural  mansion  can  be  a  benevo- 
lent asylum  for  his  children;  since  not  even 
cards,  hares,  or  rents  are  dearer  to  him  than  his 
posterity.  The  other  is  a  country  minister — the 
six  days  leisure,  the  rural  seclusion  from  the 
whirl  of  cities,  the  free  air,  the  office  itself, 
which  is  a  higher  school  of  education,  and  on 
every  seventh  day  presents  to  the  children  their 
dear  father  upon  a  glorious  elevation,  as  the 
pastor  and  the  saint,  thus  impressing  the  seal 
of  office  upon  the  instructions  of  the  week — all 
this  opens  to  the  clergyman  an  arena  for  educa- 
tion, into  which  he  may  introduce  with  advan- 
tage other  children,  as  well  as  his  own. 

FEMALE  DELICACY. 

Boys  may  derive  advantage  from  the  evil 
example  of  drunken  Helots;  girls  should  wit- 
ness only  what  is  good.  Even  boys  do  not 
come  forth  from  the  Augean  stable  of  world- 
discipline  without  some  smell  of  the  barn.  But 
girls  are  tender,  white,  Paris-apple  blossoms, 
parlor  flowers,  whose  delicate  freshness  cannot 
bear  to  be  handled,  but  may  only  be  touched 
with  the  finest  brush.  Like  the  priestesses  of 
antiquity,  they  should  be  brought  up  only  in 
holy  places;  the  harsh,  the  indecorous,  the  vio- 
lent, they  may  not  hear,  far  less  behold. 

SEWING. 

Most  of  the  finger-works,  whereby  the  female 
quicksilver  is  made  stationary,  bring  with  them 
this  mischief — the  mind,  remaining  idle,  either 
grows  rusty  with  dullness,  or  is  given  over  to 
the  circling  maze  of  fancy,  where  wave  succeeds 
to  wave.  Sewing  and  knitting-needles,  for  in- 
stance, keep  open  the  wounds  of  disappointed 
love  longer  than  all  the  romances  in  the  world  ; 
they  are  thorns  which  prick  through  the  droop- 
ing roses.  But  give  the  young  girl  such  an  oc- 
cupation as  young  men  generally  have,  which 
shall  require  a  new  thought  every  minute,  and 
the  old  one  cannot  be  continually  raying  up  and 
glaring  before  her.  Especially,  change  of  em- 
ployment contributes  to  heal  woman's  heart; 
constant  progress  in  some  one  thing,  man's. 

RELIGION. 

Upon  the  mount  of  religion,  man  may  indeed 
still  have  sorrows,  but  they  are  brief.  The 
nights  linger  in  valleys,  but  on  the  mountains 
they  are  shortened,  and  ever  a  small  red  streak 
points  towards  the  rising  day. 

36 


422 


RICHTER. 


THE  IDEAL. 

Ye  holy  matrons  of  by-gone  times !  As  little 
did  ye  know  of  the  ideal  heart,  as  of  the  circu- 
lation of  the  pure  blood  which  warmed  and 
colored  you,  when  ye  cried,  "I  do  this  for  my 
husband,  lor  my  children,"  and  appeared  in 
prosaic  subjection  to  your  cares  and  pursuits. 
Yet  that  holy  Ideal  was  passing  through  you, 
as  heaven's  fire  descends  to  the  earth  through 
clouds. 

MERRIMENT. 

Is  there  anything  in  life  so  lovely  and  poet- 
ical as  the  laugh  and  merriment  of  a  young  girl, 
who  still  in  harmony  v/ith  all  her  powers  sports 
with  you  in  luxuriant  freedom,  and  in  her 
mirthfulness  neither  despises  nor  dislikes  ?  Her 
gravity  is  seldom  as  innocent  as  her  playful- 
ness; still  less  that  haughty  discontent  which 
converts  the  youthful  Psyche  into  a  dull,  thick, 
buzzing,  wing- drooping  night- moth.  Among 
a  certain  Indian  tribe  the  youth  selected  at  a 
feast  that  maiden  for  marriage  who  laughed  in 
her  sport;  perhaps  my  opinion  inclines  the 
same  way. 

Laughing  cheerfulness  throws  day-light  upon 
all  the  paths  of  life;  discontent  blows  her  ill- 
omened  vapors  from  afar;  depression  produces 
more  confusion  and  distraction  of  thought  than 
the  above-named  giddiness.  If,  indeed,  the 
wife  could  stereotype  this  comedy  by  playing 
it  in  wedded  life,  and  sometimes  enliven  the 
dull  epic  of  the  husband  or  hero,  by  her  own 
comic-heroic  poetry,  she  would  enjoy  the  delight 
of  winning  and  enchanting  both  husband  and 
children.  Never  fear  that  feminine  playfulness 
will  exclude  depth  of  character  and  sensibility. 
The  still  energy  of  the  heart  is  ever  growing 
and  filling  itself  beneath  the  outward  glee. 
How  heavenly,  when  at  length  for  the  first  time 
the  laughing  eye  melts  in  love,  and  gushing 
tears  mirror  forth  the  whole  tender  soul ! 

Let  then  the  laughter-loving  creatures  giggle 
on  at  one  another,  and  especially  at  the  first 
clumsy  make-game  wight  who  comes  among 
them,  even  should  he  be  the  writer  of  this  pa- 
ragraph. 


Truthfulness  is  not  so  much  a  branch  as  a 
blossom  of  moral,  manly  strength.  The  weak, 
whether  they  will  or  not,  must  lie.  As  respects 
children,  for  the  first  five  years  they  utter  neither 
truth  nor  falsehood — they  only  speak.  Their 
talk  is  thinking  aloud  ;  and  as  one  half  of  their 
thought  is  often  an  affirmative,  and  the  other  a 
negative,  and,  unlike  us,  both  escape  from  them, 
they  seem  to  lie,  while  they  are  only  talking 
with  themselves.  Besides,  at  first  they  love  to 
sport  with  their  new  art  of  speech  ;  and  so  talk 
nonsense  merely  to  hear  themselves.  Often 
they  do  not  understand  your  question,  and  give 
an  erroneous,  rather  than  a  false  reply. — We 
may  ask,  besides,  whether,  when  children  seem 
to  imagine  and  falsify,  they  are  not  often  relat- 


ing their  remembered  dreams,  which  necessa- 
rily blend  in  them  with  actual  experience. 

Children  everywhere  fly  on  the  warm,  sunny- 
side  of  hope.  They  say,  when  the  bird  or  the 
dog  has  escaped  from  them,  without  any  reason 
for  the  expectation-— "  he  will  come  back  again 
soon."  And  since  they  are  incapable  of  distin- 
guishing hope,  that  is,  imagination,  from  reflec- 
tion or  truth,  their  self-delusion  consequently 
assumes  the  appearance  of  falsehood.  For  in- 
stance, a  truthful  little  girl  described  to  me  va- 
rious appearances  of  a  Christ-child,  telling  what 
it  had  said  and  done.  In  all  those  cases  in 
which  we  do  not  desire  to  mirror  before  the 
child  the  black  image  of  a  lie,  it  is  sufficient  to 
say,  «  Be  sober,  have  done  with  play." 

Finally,  we  must  distinguish  between  un- 
truths relating  to  the  future  and  the  past.  We 
do  not  attribute  to  a  grown  man  who  breaks 
his  word  in  reference  to  some  future  perform- 
ance, that  blackness  of  perjury  which  we  charge 
on  him  who  falsifies  what  has  been  already 
done ;  so  with  children,  before  whose  brief 
vision  time,  like  space,  is  immeasurable,  and 
who  are  as  unable  to  look  through  a  day,  as  we 
through  a  year,  we  should  widely  separate  un- 
truthfulness of  promise  from  untruthfulness  of 
assertion.  Truth  is  a  divine  blossom  upon  an 
earthly  root ;  of  course,  it  is  in  time  not  the 
earliest,  but  the  latest  virtue. 

THE  CLASSICS. 

The  bulwarks  around  the  city  of  God  have 
been  laid  by  the  ancients  for  every  age,  through 
the  history  of  their  own.  Manhood  at  the  pre- 
sent day  would  sink  immeasurably  low,  did 
not  our  youth  pass  through  the  still  temple  of 
the  great  old  times  and  men,  as  a  vestibule  to 
the  crowded  Fair  of  modern  life.  The  names 
of  Socrates,  Cato,  Epaminondas,  &c,  are  pyra- 
mids of  human  energy.  Rome,  Athens,  Sparta, 
are  three  coronation  cities  of  the  giant  Geryon, 
which,  like  primeval  mountains  of  humanity, 
grapple  with  youthful  manhood,  while  modern 
ones  only  attract  the  eye. 

KEVERENCE  FOR  LIFE. 

Only  place  all  life  before  the  child,  as  within 
the  realm  of  humanity,  and  thus  the  greater 
reveals  to  him  the  less.  Put  life  and  soul  into 
everything  :  describe  to  him  even  the  lily,  which 
he  would  pull  up  as  an  unorganized  thing,  as 
the  daughter  of  a  slender  mother,  standing  in 
her  garden-bed,  from  whom  her  little  white  off- 
spring derives  nutriment  and  moisture.  And 
let  not  this  be  done  to  excite  an  empty  ener- 
vated habit  of  pity,  a  sort  of  inoculation-hospital 
for  foreign  pains,  but  from  the  religious  cultiva- 
tion of  reverence  for  life,  the  God  all-moving  in 
the  tree-top  and  the  human  brain.  The  love 
of  animals,  like  maternal  affections,  has  this 
advantage,  that  it  is  disinterested  and  claims 
no  return,  and  can  also  at  every  moment  find 
an  object  and  an  opportunity  for  its  exercise. 


AUGUST  WILIIELM  VON  SCHLEGEL. 


Born  1767.   Died  1845. 


A.  W.  von  Schlegel,  the  eldest  of  the  two 
brothers  whose  several  and  joint  labors  have 
contributed  so  largely  to  the  literary  and  aes- 
thetic culture  of  their  nation  and  age,  occupies 
the  front  rank  among  the  scholars  and  critics 
of  this  century,  whether  we  regard  the  extent 
and  variety  of  his  learning  or  the  acuteness  of 
his  analysis  and  his  luminous  judgment.  As  a 
translator  he  surpasses  all  who  have  ever  la- 
bored in  that  line.  The  fidelity  with  which 
he  has  rendered  Shakspeare,  or  rather  the  skill 
with  which  he  has  reproduced  him,  has  natu- 
ralized that  poet  in  all  the  states  of  Germany, 
and  made  him  not  less  a  German  than  he  is  an 
English  classic, — perhaps  even  more  popular 
in  the  translation  than  in  the  original:-— a  soli- 
tary instance  of  literary  transplantation,  unless 
the  popular  versions  of  the  old  Hebrew  poets 
may  be  regarded  as  another.  "Such,"  says 
Mrs.  Austin,  "  is  Herr  von  Schlegel's  masterly 
handling  of  his  own  language,  and  the  exqui- 
site nicety  of  his  ear,  that  he  has,  in  many 
cases  (for  example,  Hamlet's  Soliloquy),  caught 
the  very  cadence  of  the  original.  With  no 
other  living  language,  perhaps,  than  the  Ger- 
man, would  this  be  possible ;  and  even  in  that 
it  is  a  wonderful  achievement."  "  Calderon 
presented  still  greater  difficulties  of  a  me- 
trical kind ;  these  Herr  von  Schlegel  has  tri- 
umphantly overcome ;  he  has  adhered  to  the 
original  even  in  metre,  rhyme,  and  assonance, 
and  has  combined  this  exact  imitation  of  form 
with  an.  equally  faithful  interpretation  of  the 
meaning.  The  translation  of  the  two  greatest 
dramatic  poets  of  two  nations,  so  unlike  in  ge- 
nius, shows  a  talent  for  discriminating,  and  a 
power  of  handling  all  the  forms  and  resources 
of  language,  which  have  never  been  surpassed." 

A.  W.  von  Schlegel  has  attained  no  mean 
reputation  as  an  original  poet,  and  would  pro- 
bably have  figured  more  illustriously  in  that 
capacity  had  not  his  poetic  labors  been  eclipsed 
by  his  critical.  His  chief  excellence,  as  a  poet, 
consists  in  the  perfection  which  he  has  given 
to  the  forms  of  poetic  composition,  and  his 
magic  mastery  of  language. 


He  was  born  at  Hanover,  on  the  5th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1767.  His  father  held  the  office  of 
Counsellor  of  the  Consistory  in  the  Lutheran 
Church.  He  received  his  early  education  in 
the  Lyceum  of  his  native  city,  where,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  he  recited  before  the  Public, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  King's  birth-day,  a  poem 
on  the  history  of  German  poetry,  which  at- 
tracted a  good  deal  of  attention  at  the  time. 
Tn  1786  he  entered  the  university  of  Gottingen, 
where  he  became  intimate  with  the  poet  Bur- 
ger, and  where  he  obtained  the  prize  for  a  Latin 
disquisition  on  the  geography  of  Homer.  After 
he  had  finished  his  philological  studies  at  the 
university,  he  resided  for  some  time  in  Amster- 
dam, in  the  capacity  of  private  tutor.  In  1796 
he  returned  to  Germany,  and  resided  at  Jena, 
where  he  became  a  diligent  contributor  to  va- 
rious literary  journals.  He  was  soon  made 
Professor  in  the  university  in  that  place,  and 
produced  a  great  impression  far  and  wide  by 
his  lectures  on  aesthetics.  In  connection  with 
his  brother  Friedrich,  with  Tieck,  Schelling, 
and  others,  he  edited  a  periodical  work,  in 
which  he  labored  to  establish  the  Romantic 
School  of  Art.  In  1802  he  removed  to  Berlin, 
where  he  lectured  on  literature  and  art,  and 
contributed  to  various  periodicals.  In  1804  he 
travelled  with  Madame  de  Stael,  and  resided 
with  her  successively  in  Italy,  in  France,  in 
Vienna,  and  finally  in  Stockholm,  where  the 
Crown -prince  of  Sweden  cultivated  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  employed  him  as  political 
writer,  and  afterwards  conferred  upon  him  the 
title  of  nobility.  In  1808  he  read,  in  Vienna, 
the  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art,  from  which  the 
following  extracts  are  taken.  In  1818  he  re- 
ceived an  appointment  as  Professor  at  the  new 
university  at  Bonn,  which  he  held  until  his 
death.  He  commenced,  in  1820,  a  journal  de- 
voted to  the  study  of  the  Oriental  languages, 
called  the  "Indian  Library."  He  also  pub- 
lished the  Bhagavad-  Gita,  a  philosophical 
poem  in  the  Sanscrit,  and  accompanied  it  with 
a  Latin  translation.  He  wrote  in  the  French 
and  in  the  Italian,  as  well  as  in  his  vernacular 

(423) 


424 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


tongue.  His  "Comparison  of  the  Phsedra  of 
Euripides  with  that  of  Racine,"  in  the  former 
of  those  languages,  and  his  treatise  on  the 
bronze  horses  at  Venice,  in  the  latter,  are 


among  the  most  important  of  his  essays.  He 
was  twice  married  and  twice  divorced.  He 
died  at  Bonn,  1845. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  LITERATURE. 

THE  GREEK  DRAMA. 

(From  the  translation  of  John  Black.) 

When  we  hear  the  word  theatre,  we  natu- 
rally think  of  what  with  us  bears  the  same 
name ;  and  yet  nothing  can  be  more  different 
from  our  theatre  than  the  Grecian,  in  every  part 
of  its  construction.  If  in  reading  the  Grecian 
pieces  we  associate  our  own  stage  with  them, 
the  light  in  which  we  shall  view  them  must  be 
false  in  every  respect. 

The  accurate  mathematical  dimensions  of  the 
principal  part  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  Vitruvius, 
who  also  distinctly  points  out  the  great  differ- 
ence between  the  Greek  and  Roman  theatres. 
But  these  and  similar  passages  of  the  ancient 
writers  have  been  most  perversely  interpreted 
by  architects  unacquainted  with  the  ancient 
dramatists  ;*  and  the  philologists  on  the  other 
hand,  who  were  altogether  ignorant  of  archi- 
tecture, have  also  fallen  into  egregious  errors. 
The  ancient  dramatists  are  still,  therefore,  alto- 
gether in  want  of  that  sort  of  illustration  which 
relates  to  scenic  regulation.  In  many  tragedies 
I  conceive  that  my  ideas  on  this  subject  are  suf- 
ficiently clear;  but  others  again  present  difficul- 
ties which  are  not  so  easily  solved.  We  find 
ourselves  most  at  a  loss  in  figuring  to  ourselves 
the  representation  of  the  pieces  of  Aristophanes  ; 
the  ingenious  poet  must  have  brought  his  won- 
derful inventions  before  the  eyes  of  his  au- 
dience in  a  manner  equally  bold  and  astonish- 
ing. Even  Barthelemy's  description  of  the 
Grecian  stage  is  not  a  little  confused,  and  the 
subjoined  plan  extremely  erroneous;  in  the 
place  which  he  assigns  for  the  representation 
of  the  pieces  in  Antigone  and  Ajax,  for  instance, 
he  is  altogether  wrong.  The  following  obser- 
vations will  not  therefore  appear  the  less  super- 
fluous, j" 

The  theatres  of  the  Greeks  were  quite  open 
above,  and  their  dramas  were  always  acted  in 
open  day,  and  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven. 


*  We  have  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  in  the  pre- 
tended ancient  theatre  of  Palladio,  at  Vicenza.  Hercu- 
laneum,  it  is  true,  had  not  then  been  discovered,  and  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  theatre  are  not  easily  understood, 
if  we  have  never  seen  one  in  an  entire  state. 

1 1  am  partly  indebted  for  them  to  the  illustrations  of 
a  learned  architect,  M.  Genelli,  of  Berlin,  author  of  the 
ingenious  Letters  on  Vitruvius.  We  have  compared 
several  Greek  tragedies  with  our  interpretation  of  this 
description  of  Vitruvius,  and  endeavored  to  figure  to 
ourselves  the  manner  in  which  they  were  represented; 
and  I  afterwards  found  my  ideas  confirmed,  on  examina- 
tion of  the  theatre  of  Herculaneum,  and  the  two  very 
small  theatres  at  Pompeii. 


The  Romans,  at  an  after  period,  endeavored  by 
a  covering  to  shelter  the  audience  from  the  rays 
of  the  sun  ;  but  this  degree  of  luxury  was  hardly 
ever  enjoyed  by  the  Greeks.  Such  a  state  of 
things  appears  very  inconvenient  to  us ;  but  the 
Greeks  had  nothing  of  effeminacy  about  them, 
and  we  must  not  forget,  too,  the  beauty  of  their 
climate.  When  they  were  overtaken  by  a  storm 
or  a  shower,  the  play  was  of  course  interrupted , 
and  they  would  much  rather  expose  themselves 
to  an  accidental  inconvenience,  than,  by  shut- 
ting themselves  up  in  a  close  and  crowded 
house,  entirely  destroy  the  serenity  of  a  religious 
solemnity,  which  their  plays  certainly  were* 
To  have  covered  in  the  scene  itself,  and  impri- 
soned gods  and  heroes  in  dark  and  gloomy 
apartments  with  difficulty  lighted  up,  would 
have  appeared  still  more  ridiculous  to  them. 
An  action  which  so  nobly  served  to  establish 
the  belief  of  the  relations  with  heaven  could 
only  be  exhibited  under  an  unobstructed  heaven, 
and  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  gods  as  it  were, 
for  whom,  according  to  Seneca,  the  sight  of  a 
brave  man  struggling  with  adversity  is  a  be- 
coming spectacle.  With  respect  to  the  supposed 
inconvenience,  which,  according  to  the  assertion 
of  many  modern  critics,  was  felt  by  the  poets 
from  the  necessity  of  always  laying  the  scene 
of  their  pieces  before  houses,  a  circumstance 
that  often  forced  them  to  violate  probability, 
this  inconvenience  was  very  little  felt  by  tragedy 
and  the  older  comedy.  The  Greeks,  like  so 
many  southern  nations  of  the  present  day,  lived 
much  more  in  the  open  air  than  we  do,  and 
transacted  many  things  in  public  which  usu- 
ally take  place  with  us  in  houses.  For  the 
theatre  did  not  represent  the  street,  but  a  place 
before  the  house  belonging  to  it,  where  the  altar 
stood  on  which  sacrifices  to  the  household  gods 
were  offered  up.  Here  the  women,  who  lived 
in  so  retired  a  manner  among  the  Greeks,  even 
those  who  were  unmarried,  might  appear  with 
out  impropriety.  Neither  was  it  impossible  for 
them  to  give  a  view  of  the  interior  of  the  houses; 
and  this  was  effected,  as  we  shall  immediately 
see,  by  means  of  the  encyclema. 

But  the  principal  reason  for  this  observance 
was  that  publicity,  according  to  the  republican 
notions  of  the  Greeks,  was  essential  to  a  grave 
and  important  transaction.  This  is  clearly 
proved  by  the  presence  of  the  chorus,  whose 

*  They  carefully  made  choice  of  a  beautiful  situation. 
The  theatre  at  Tauromenium,  at  present  Taormina,  *n 
Sicily,  of  which  the  ruins  are  still  visible,  was,  according 
to  Munter's  description,  situated  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  audience  had  a  view  of  iEtna  over  the  back-ground 
of  the  theatre. 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


425 


remaining  on  many  occasions  when  secret  trans- 
actions were  going  on,  has  been  judged  of  ac- 
cording to  rules  of  propriety  inapplicable  to  that 
country,  and  most  undeservedly  censured. 

The  theatres  of  the  ancients  were,  in  compa- 
rison with' the  small  scale  of  ours,  of  a  colossal 
magnitude,  partly  for  the  sake  of  containing  the 
whole  of  the  people,  with  the  concourse  of 
strangers  who  flocked  to  the  festivals,  and  partly 
to  correspond  with  the  majesty  of  the  dramas 
represented  in  them,  which  required  to  be  seen 
at  a  respectful  distance.  The  seats  of  the  spec- 
tators consisted  of  steps,  which  rose  backwards 
round  the  semicircle  of  the  orchestra  (called  by 
us  the  pit),  so  that  they  all  could  see  with  equal 
convenience.  The  effect  of  distance  was  reme- 
died by  an  artificial  heightening  of  the  subject 
represented  to  the  eye  and  ear,  produced  by 
means  of  masks,  and  contrivances  for  increasing 
the  loudness  of  the  voice,  and  the  size  of  the 
figures.  Vitruvius  speaks  also  of  vehicles  of 
sound,  distributed  throughout  the  building ;  but 
the  commentators  are  very  much  at  variance 
with  respect  to  them.  We  may  without  hesi- 
tation venture  to  assume,  that  the  theatres  of 
the  ancients  were  constructed  on  excellent 
acoustical  principles. 

The  lowest  step  of  the  amphitheatre  was  still 
raised  considerably  above  the  orchestra,  and  the 
stage  was  placed  opposite  to  it,  at  an  equal  de- 
gree of  elevation.  The  sunk  semicircle  of  the 
orchestra  contained  no  spectators,  and  was  des- 
tined for  another  purpose.  It  was  otherwise 
however  with  the  Romans,  but  we  are  not  at 
present  considering  the  distribution  of  their 
theatres. 

The  stage  consisted  of  a  strip  which  stretched 
from  one  end  of  the  building  to  the  other,  and 
of  which  the  depth  bore  little  proportion  to  this 
breadth.  This  was  called  the  logeum,  in  the 
Latin,  pulpitum,  and  the  usual  place  for  persons 
who  spoke  was  in  the  middle  of  it.  Behind 
this  middle  part,  the  scene  went  inward  in  a 
quadrangular  form,  with  less  depth,  however, 
than  breadth.  The  space  here  comprehended 
was  called  the  proscenium.  The  remaining 
part  of  the  logeum,  to  the  right  and  left  of  the 
scene,  had,  both  before,  the  brink  which  adjoined 
the  orchestra,  and  behind,  a  wall  possessing  no 
scenical  decorations,  but  entirely  simple,  or  at 
most  architecturally  ornamented,  which  was 
elevated  to  an  equal  height  with  the  uppermost 
steps  for  the  audience. 

The  decoration  was  contrived  in  such  a  man- 
ner, that  the  principal  object  in  front  covered 
the  back-ground,  and  the  prospects  of  distance 
were  given  at  two  sides,  the  very  reverse  of 
the  mode  adopted  by  us.  This  had  also  its 
rules :  on  the  left  appeared  the  town  to  which 
the  palace,  temple,  or  whatever  occupied  the 
middle,  belonged  ;  on  the  right  the  open  country, 
landscape,  mountains,  sea  shore,  &c.  The  late- 
ral decorations  were  composed  of  triangles, 
which  turned  on  an  axis  fastened  underneath ; 
and  in  this  manner  the  change  of  scene  was 
3d 


effected.*  In  the  hindmost  decoration  it  is  pro- 
bable that  many  things  were  exhibited  in  a 
bodily  form  which  are  only  painted  with  us. 
When  a  palace  or  temple  was  represented, 
there  appeared  in  the  proscenium  an  altar, 
which  answered  a  number  of  purposes  in  the 
performance  of  the  pieces. 

The  decoration  was  for  the  most  part  archi- 
tectural, but  it  was  also  not  unfrequently  a 
painted  landscape,  as  in  Prometheus,  where  it 
represented  Caucasus ;  or  in  Philoctetus,  where 
the  desert  island  of  Lemnos,  with  its  rocks  and 
his  cave,  were  exhibited.  It  is  clear,  from  a 
passage  of  Plato,  that  the  Greeks,  in  the  decep- 
tions of  theatrical  perspective,  carried  things 
much  farther  than  we  might  have  inferred 
from  some  wretched  landscapes  discovered  in 
Herculaneum. 

In  the  back  wall  of  this  scene  there  was  a 
large  main  entrance,  and  two  side  entrances. 
It  has  been  maintained,  that  from  them  it  might 
be  discovered  whether  an  actor  played  a  prin- 
cipal or  under  part,  as  in  the  first  case  he  came 
in  at  the  main  entrance,  and  in  the  second,  at 
the  side  doors.  But  this  should  be  understood 
with  the  distinction,  that  it  must  have  been  re- 
gulated according  to  the  nature  of  the  piece. 
As  the  hindmost  decoration  was  generally  a 
palace,  in  which  the  principal  characters  of 
royal  descent  resided,  they  naturally  came 
through  the  great  door,  while  the  servants  re- 
sided in  the  wings.  There  were  two  other  en- 
trances ;  the  one  at  the  end  of  the  logeum,  from 
whence  the  inhabitants  of  the  town  came ;  the 
other  underneath  in  the  orchestra,  which  was 
the  side  for  those  who  had  to  come  from  a  dis- 
tance :  they  ascended  a  staircase  of  the  logeum 
opposite  to  the  orchestra,  which  could  be  applied 
to  all  sorts  of  purposes,  according  to  circum- 
stances. The  entrance,  therefore,  with  respect 
to  the  lateral  decorations,  declared  the  place 
from  whence  the  players  were  supposed  to 
come ;  and  it  might  naturally  happen,  that  the 
principal  characters  were  in  a  situation  to  avail 
themselves  with  propriety  of  the  two  last-men- 
tioned entrances.  The  situation  of  these  en- 
trances serves  to  explain  many  passages  in  the 
ancient  dramas,  where  the  persons  standing  in 
the  middle  see  some  one  advancing,  long  before 
he  approaches  them.  Beneath  the  seats  of  the 
spectators  a  stair  was  somewhere  constructed, 
which  was  called  the  Charonic,  and  through 
which  the  shadows  of  the  departed,  without 
being  seen  by  the  audience,  ascended  into  the 
orchestra,  and  then,  by  the  stair  which  we  for- 
merly mentioned,  made  their  appearance  on  the 
stage.    The  nearest  brink  of  the  logeum  some- 


*  According  to  an  observation  on  Virgil,  by  Servius, 
the  change  of  scene  was  produced  partly  by  revolving, 
and  partly  by  withdrawing.  The  former  applies  to  the 
lateral  decorations,  and  the  latter  to  the  middle  or  back- 
ground. The  partition  in  the  middle  opened, disappeared 
at  both  sides,  and  exhibited  to  view  a  new  picture.  But 
all  the  parts  of  the  scene  were  not  always  changed  at  the 
same  time. 

36* 


426 


A.  W.  SCH 


LEGEL. 


times  represented  the  sea-shore.  The  Greeks 
were  well  skilled  in  availing  themselves  even 
of  what  lay  beyond  the  decoration,  and  making 
it  subservient  to  scenical  effect.  I  doubt  not, 
thereibre,  that  in  the  Eumenides  the  spectators 
were  twice  addressed  as  an  assembled  people  ; 
first,  by  Pythia,  when  she  calls  upon  the  Greeks 
to  consult  the  oracle ;  and  a  second  time,  when 
Pallas,  by  a  herald,  commands  silence  through- 
out the  place  of  judgment.  The  frequent  ad- 
dresses to  heaven  were  undoubtedly  directed 
to  a  real  heaven ;  and  when  Electra,  on  her 
first  appearance,  exclaims:  "0  holy  light,  and 
thou  air  which  fillest  the  expanse  between  earth 
and  heaven!"  she  probably  turned  towards  the 
rising  sun.  The  whole  of  this  procedure  is 
highly  deserving  of  praise;  and  though  modern 
critics  have  censured  the  mixture  of  reality  and 
imitation,  as  destructive  of  theatrical  illusion, 
this  only  proves  that  they  have  misunderstood 
the  essence  of  the  illusion  which  can  be  pro- 
duced by  an  artificial  representation.  If  we 
are  to  be  truly  deceived  by  a  picture,  that  is,  if 
we  are  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  the  object 
which  we  see,  we  must  not  perceive  its  limits, 
but  look  at  it.  through  an  opening;  the  frame  at 
once  declares  it  for  a  picture.  In  scenical  deco- 
rations we  are  now  unavoidably  compelled  to 
make  use  of  architectural  contrivances,  produc- 
tive of  the  same  effect  as  the  frames  of  pictures. 
It  is  consequently  much  better  to  avoid  this,  and 
to  renounce  the  modern  illusion,  though  it  may 
have  its  advantages,  for  the  sake  of  extending 
the  view  beyond  the  mere  decoration.  It  was, 
generally  speaking,  a  principle  of  the  Greeks, 
that  everything  imitated  on  the  stage  should,  if 
possible,  consist  of  actual  representation ;  and 
only  where  this  could  not  be  done  were  they 
satisfied  with  a  symbolical  exhibition. 

The  machinery  for  the  descent  of  the  gods 
through  (he  air,  or  the  withdrawing  of  men  from 
the  earth,  was  placed  aloft  behind  the  walls  of 
the  two  sides  of  the  scene,  and  consequently 
removed  from  the  sight  of  the  spectators.  Even 
in  the  time  of  iEschylus  great  use  was  made  of 
it,  as  he  not  only  brings  Oceanus  through  the  air 
on  a  griffin,  but  also  introduces  the  whole  choir 
of  ocean  nymphs,  at  least  fifteen  in  number,  in 
a  winged  chariot.  There  were  hollow  places 
beneath  the  stage,  and  contrivances  for  thunder 
and  lightning,  for  the  apparent  fall  or  burning 
of  a  house,  &c. 

An  upper  story  could  be  added  to  the  farther- 
most wall  of  the  scene,  when  they  wished  to 
represent  a  tower  with  a  wide  prospect,  or  any- 
thing similar.  The  encyclema  could  be  thrust 
behind  the  great  middle  entrance,  a  machine 
of  a  semicircular  form  within,  and  covered 
above,  which  represented  the  objects  contained 
in  it  as  in  a  house.  This  was  used  for  produc- 
ing a  great  theatrical  effect,  as  we  may  see  from 
many  pieces.  The  side  door  of  the  entrance 
would  naturally  be  then  open,  or  the  curtain 
which  covered  it  withdrawn. 

A  stage  curtain,  which,  we  clearly  see  from 


a  description  of  Ovid,  was  not  dropped,  but 
drawn  upwards,  is  mentioned  both  by  Greek 
and  Roman  writers,  and  the  Latin  appellation, 
auloeum,  is  even  borrowed  from  the  Greeks.  I 
suspect,  however,  that  the  curtain  on  the  Attic 
stage  was  not  in  use  at  its  commencement.  In 
the  pieces  of  iEschylus  and  Sophocles  the  scene 
is  evidently  empty  at  the  opening  as  well  as  the 
conclusion,  and  therefore  it  did  not  require  any 
contrivance  for  preventing  the  view  of  the  spec- 
tators. However,  in  many  of  the  pieces  of  Eu- 
ripides, perhaps  also  in  the  OEdipus  Tyrannus, 
the  stage  is  at  once  filled,  and  represents  a 
standing  group,  who  could  not  have  been  first 
assembled  under  the  eyes  of  the  spectators.  It 
must  be  recollected,  that  it  was  only  the  com- 
paratively small  proscenium,  and  not  the  logeum, 
which  was  covered  by  the  curtain ;  for,  from  its 
great  breadth,  to  have  attempted  to  screen  the 
logeum  would  have  been  almost  impracticable, 
without  answering  any  good  end. 

The  entrances  of  the  chorus  were  beneath  in 
the  orchestra,  in  which  it  generally  remained, 
and  in  which  also  it  performed  its  solemn  dance, 
going  backwards  and  forwards  during  the  choral 
songs.  In  the  front  of  the  orchestra,  opposite 
to  the  middle  of  the  scene,  there  was  an  eleva- 
tion with  steps,  resembling  an  altar,  as  high  as 
the  stage,  which  was  called  thymele.  This 
was  the  station  of  the  chorus  when  it  did  not 
sing,  but  merely  took  an  interest  in  the  action. 
The  leader  of  the  chorus  then  took  his  station 
on  the  top  of  the  thymele,  to  see  what  was 
passing  on  the  stage,  and  to  communicate  with 
the  characters.  For  though  the  choral  song  was 
common  to  the  whole,  yet  when  it  entered  into 
the  dialogue  one  person  spoke  for  the  rest ;  and 
hence  we  are  to  account  for  the  shifting  from 
thou  to  ye  in  addressing  them.  The  thymele 
was  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  the  building ; 
all  the  measurements  were  calculated  from  it, 
and  the  semicircle  of  the  amphitheatre  was  de- 
scribed round  that  point.  It  was,  therefore,  an 
excellent  contrivance  to  place  the  chorus,  who 
were  the  ideal  representatives  of  the  spectators, 
in  the  very  situation  where  all  the  radii  were 
concentrated. 

The  tragical  imitation  of  the  ancients  was 
altogether  ideal,  and  rhythmical ;  and  in  form- 
ing a  judgment  of  it,  we  must  always  keep  this 
in  view.  It  was  ideal,  as  its  chief  object  was 
the  highest  dignity  and  sweetness;  and  rhythm- 
ical, as  the  gestures  and  inflections  of  voice 
were  measured  in  a  more  solemn  manner  than 
in  real  life.  As  the  plastic  art  of  the  Greeks 
was  formed,  if  we  may  so  express  ourselves, 
with  scientific  strictness  on  the  most  general 
conception,  and  embodied  into  various  general 
characters  which  were  gradually  invested  with 
the  charms  of  animation,  so  that  individuality 
was  the  last  thing  to  which  they  turned  their 
attention ;  in  like  manner  in  the  mimetic  art, 
their  first  idea  was  to  exhibit  their  personages 
with  heroical  grandeur,  a  dignity  more  than 
human,  and  an  ideal  beauty :  their  second  was 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


427 


character ;  and  the  last  of  all  passion,  which  in 
the  collision  was  thus  forced  to  give  way.  The 
fidelity  of  the  representation  was  less  their  ob- 
ject than  its  beauty :  with  us  it  is  exactly  the 
reverse.  The  use  of  masks,  which  appears  as- 
tonishing to  us,  was  not  only  justifiable  on  this 

I  principle,  but  absolutely  essential ;  and  far  from 
considering  them  in  the  light  of  a  last  recourse, 
the  Greeks  would  with  justice  have  considered 
as  a  last  recourse  the  being  obliged  to  allow  a 
player  with  vulgar,  ignoble,  or  strongly  marked 
individual  features,  to  represent  an  Apollo  or  a 
Hercules.  To  them  this  would  have  appeared 
downright  profanation.  How  limited  is  the 
power  of  the  most  finished  actor,  in  changing 

,  the  character  of  his  features  !  And  yet  this  has 
the  most  unfavorable  influence  on  the  expres- 
sion of  the  passion,  as  all  passion  is  tinged  by 
the  character.  Neither  are  we  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  the  conjecture,  that  they  changed  the 
masks  in  the  different  scenes,  for  the  purpose 
of  assuming  a  greater  degree  of  joy  or  sorrow* 
This  would  by  no  means  have  been  sufficient, 
as  the  passions  are  often  changed  in  the  same 

•  scene ;  and  then  modern  critics  would  still  be 
obliged  to  suppose,  that  the  masks  exhibited  a 
different  appearance  on  one  side  from  what  they 
did  on  the  other,  and  that  that  side  was  turned 
towards  the  spectators  which  the  circumstances 
of  the  moment  required.-f-  No;  the  countenance 

I  remained  from  beginning  to  end  the  very  same, 
as  we  may  see  from  the  antique  masks  cut  out 
in  stone.  For  the  expression  of  the  passion,  the 
motion  of  the  arms  and  hands,  the  attitudes,  and 
the  tone  of  voice,  remained  to  them.  We  com- 
plain of  the  want  of  the  expression  of  the  face, 
without  reflecting,  that  at  such  a  great  distance 
its  effect  would  have  been  lost. 


*  I  call  it  conjecture,  though  Barthelemy,  in  his  Ana- 
charsis,  considers  it  a  settled  point.  He  cites  no  autho- 
rities, and  I  do  not  recollect  any. 

f  Voltaire,  in  his  essay  on  the  Tragedy  of  the  Ancients 
and  Moderns,  prefixed  to  Semirarnis,  has  actually  gone 
so  far.   Amidst  a  multitude  of  supposed  improprieties, 

1  which  he  crowds  together  to  confound  the  admirers  of 
ancient  tragedy,  the  following  is  one:  Aucune  nation 
(that  is  to  say,  excepting  the  Greeks)  ne  fait  paraitre  ses 
acteurs  sur  des  especes  d'echasses,  le  visage  couvert  d'un 
masque  qui  exprime  la  douleur  d'un  cote  et  la  joye  de 
l'autre.   In  a  conscientious  inquiry  into  the  evidence  for 

1  an  assertion  so  very  improbable,  and  yet  so  boldly  made, 
I  can  only  find  one  passage  in  Quinctilian,  lib.  11.  cap.  3, 
and  an  allusion  of  Platonius  still  more  vague.  (Vide 
Aristoph.  ed.  Kuster,  prolegom.  p.  10.)  Both  passages 
refer  only  to  the  new  comedy,  and  only  amount  to  this, 

:  that  in  some  characters  the  eyebrows  were  dissimilar. 
As  to  the  view  with  which  this  took  place,  I  shall  after- 
wards say  a  word  or  two  in  considering  the  new  Greek 
comedy.  Voltaire,  however,  is  without  excuse,  as  the 
mention  of  the  cothurnus  leaves  no  doubt  that  he  alluded 
to  tragic  masks.  But  his  error  had  probably  no  such 
learned  origin.  In  most  cases,  it  would  be  a  fruitless 
task  to  trace  the  source  of  his  ignorance.   The  whole 

I  description  of  the  Greek  tragedy,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
cothurnus  in  particular,  is  worthy  of  the  man  whose 

j    knowledge  of  antiquity  was  such,  that  in  his  Essay  on 

i  Tragedy,  prefixed  to  Brutus,  he  boasts  of  having  intro- 
duced the  Roman  Senate  on  the  stage  in  red  mantles. 


We  are  not  now  inquiring  whether,  without 
the  use  of  masks,  it  may  not  be  possible  to  attain 
a  higher  degree  of  separate  excellence  in  the 
mimetic  art.  This  we  would  very  willingly 
allow.  Cicero,  it  is  true,  speaks  of  the  expres- 
sion, the  softness,  and  delicacy  of  the  acting  of 
Roscius,  in  the  same  terms  that  a  modern  critic 
would  apply  to  Garrick  or  Schroder.  But  I 
will  not  lay  any  stress  on  the  acting  of  this  cele- 
brated player,  the  excellence  of  which  has  be- 
come proverbial,  because  it  appears  from  a 
passage  in  Cicero  that  he  frequently  played 
without  a  mask,  and  that  this  was  preferred  by 
his  contemporaries.  I  doubt,  however,  whether 
this  ever  took  among  the  Greeks.  But  the  same 
writer  relates,  that  actors  in  general,  for  the 
sake  of  acquiring  the  most  perfect  purity  and 
flexibility  of  voice  (and  not  merely  the  musical 
voice,  otherwise  the  examples  would  not  have 
been  applicable  to  the  orator),  submitted  to  such 
a  course  of  uninterrupted  exercises  as  our  mo- 
dern players,  even  the  French,  who  are  the 
strictest  in  their  discipline,  would  consider  a 
most  intolerable  oppression.  The  ancients  could 
show  their  dexterity  in  the  mimetic  art,  consi- 
dered by  itself  without  the  accompaniment  of 
words,  in  their  pantomimes,  which  they  carried 
to  a  degree  of  perfection  altogether  unknown  to 
the  moderns.  In  tragedy,  however,  the  great 
object  in  the  art  was  strict  subordination ;  the 
whole  was  to  appear  animated  by  one  spirit, 
and  hence,  not  merely  the  poetry,  but  the  mu- 
sical accompaniment,  the  scenical  decoration 
and  representation,  were  all  the  creation  of  the 
poet.  The  player  was  a  mere  tool,  and  his  ex- 
cellency consisted  in  the  accuracy  with  which 
he  filled  up  his  part,  and  by  no  means  in  arbi- 
trary bravura,  or  an  ostentatious  display  of  skill. 

As  from  the  quality  of  their  writing  materials 
they  had  not  the  convenience  of  many  copies, 
the  parts  were  studied  from  the  repeated  deli- 
very of  the  poet,  and  the  chorus  exercised  in  the 
same  manner.  This  was  called  teaching  a 
piece.  As  the  poet  was  also  a  musician,  and 
for  the  most  part  a  player  likewise,  this  must 
have  greatly  contributed  to  the  perfection  of  the 
representation. 

We  may  safely  allow  that  the  task  of  the 
modern  player,  who  must  change  his  person 
without  concealing  it,  is  much  more  difficult; 
but  this  difficulty  affords  us  no  just  criterion  for 
deciding  which  of  the  two  merits  the  preference 
as  a  representation  of  the  noble  and  the  beau- 
tiful. 

As  the  features  of  the  player  acquired  a  more 
decided  expression  from  the  mask,  as  his  voice 
was  strengthened  by  a  contrivance  for  that 
purpose,  the  cothurnus,  which  consisted  of  seve- 
ral considerable  additions  to  his  soles,  as  we 
may  see  in  the  ancient  statues  of  Melpomene, 
raised  in  like  manner  his  figure  considerably 
above  the  middle  standard.  The  female  parts 
were  also  played  by  men,  as  the  voice  and  other 
qualities  of  women  would  have  conveyed  an 
inadequate  idea  of  the  energy  of  tragic  heroines. 


428 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


The  forms  of  the  masks  *  and  the  whole  ap- 
pearance of  the  tragic  figures,  we  may  easily 
suppose,  were  sufficiently  beautiful  and  digni- 
fied. We  should  do  well  to  have  the  ancient 
sculpture  always  present  to  our  minds  ;  and  the 
most  accurate  conception,  perhaps,  that  we  can 
possibly  have,  is  to  imagine  them  so  many  sta- 
tues in  the  grand  style  endowed  with  life  and 
motion.  But,  as  in  sculpture,  they  were  fond 
of  dispensing  as  much  as  possible  with  dress, 
for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  the  more  essential 
beauty  of  the  figure ;  on  the  stage  they  would 
endeavour,  from  an  opposite  principle,  to  clothe 
as  much  as  they  could  well  do,  both  from  a  re- 
gard to  decency,  and  because  the  actual  forms 
of  the  body  would  not  correspond  sufficiently 
with  the  beauty  of  the  countenance.  They 
would  also  exhibit  their  divinities,  which  in 
sculpture  we  always  observe  either  entirely 
naked,  or  only  half  covered,  in  a  complete  dress. 
They  had  recourse  to  a  number  of  means  for 
giving  a  suitable  strength  to  the  forms  of  the 
limbs,  and  thus  restoring  proportion  to  the  in- 
creased height  of  the  player. 

The  great  breadth  of  the  theatre  in  proportion 
to  its  depth  must  have  given  to  the  grouping  of 
the  figures  the  simple  and  distinct  order  of  the 
bas-relief.  We  prefer  on  the  stage,  as  well  as 
everywhere  else,  groups  of  a  picturesque  de- 
scription, more  crowded,  in  part  covered  by 
themselves,  and  stretching  out  into  distance ; 
but  the  ancients  were  so  little  fond  of  foreshort- 
ening, that  even  in  their  painting  they  generally 

*  We  have  obtained  a  knowledge  of  them  from  the 
imitations  in  stone  which  have  come  down  to  us.  They 
display  both  beauty  and  variety.  That  great  variety 
must  have  taken  place  in  the  tragical  department  (in  the 
comic,  we  can  have  no  doubt  about  the  matter),  is  evi- 
dent from  the  rich  store  of  technical  expressions  in  the 
Greek  language  for  every  gradation  of  the  age,  and  cha- 
racter of  masks.  See  the  Onomasticon  of  Jul.  Pollux. 
In  the  marble  masks,  however,  we  can  neither  see  the 
thinness  of  the  mass  from  which  the  real  masks  were 
executed,  the  more  delicate  coloring,  nor  the  exquisite 
mechanism  of  their  joinings.  The  abundance  of  excel- 
lent workmen  possessed  by  Athens,  in  everything  which 
had  reference  to  the  plastic  arts,  will  warrant  the  con- 
jecture that  they  were  in  this  respect  inimitable.  Those 
who  have  seen  the  masks  of  wax  in  the  grand  style, 
which  in  some  degree  contain  the  whole  head,  lately 
contrived  at  the  Roman  carnival,  may  form  to  them- 
selves a  pretty  good  idea  of  the  theatrical  masks  of  the 
ancients.  They  imitate  life  even  to  its  movements  in  a 
most  masterly  manner,  and  at  such  a  distance  as  that 
from  which  the  ancient  players  were  seen,  the  deception 
is  most  perfect.  They  always  contain  the  apple  of  the 
eye,  as  we  see  in  the  ancient  masks,  and  the  person 
covered  sees  merely  through  the  aperture  left  for  the  iris. 
The  ancients  must  have  gone  still  farther,  and  contrived 
also  an  iris  for  the  masks,  according  to  the  anecdote  of 
the  singer  Thamyris,  who,  in  a  piece  which  was  probably 
of  Sophocles,  made  his  appearance  with  a  blue  and  a 
black  eye.  Even  accidental  circumstances  were  imi- 
tated; for  instance,  the  cheeks  of  Tyro,  down  which  the 
blood  had  rolled  from  the  cruel  conduct  of  his  stepmother. 
The  head  from  the  mask  must  no  doubt  have  appeared 
somewhat  large  for  the  rest  of  the  figure  ;  but  this  dispro- 
portion, in  tragedy  at  least,  would  not  be  perceived  from 
the  elevation  of  the  cothurnus. 


avoided  it.  The  gestures  accompanied  the 
rhythmus  of  the  declamation,  and  were  intended 
to  display  the  utmost  beauty  and  sweetness. 
The  poetical  conception  required  a  certain  de- 
gree of  repose  in  the  action,  and  that  the  whole 
should  be  kept  in  masses,  so  as  to  exhibit  a  suc- 
cession of  plastic  attitudes;  and  it  is  not  impro- 
bable that  the  player  remained  for  some  time 
motionless  in  the  same  position.  But  we  are 
not  to  suppose  from  this,  that  the  Greeks  wer? 
contented  with  a  cold  and  spiritless  representa- 
tion of  the  passions.  How  could  we  reconcile 
such  a  supposition  with  the  fact,  that  whole 
lines  in  their  tragedies  are  frequently  dedicated 
to  inarticulate  exclamations  of  pain,  with  which 
we  have  nothing  to  correspond  in  any  of  our 
modern  languages? 

It  has  been  often  conjectured  that  the  delivery 
of  their  dialogue  must  have  resembled  the  mo- 
dern recitative-  For  this  conjecture  there  is  no 
other  foundation  than  that  the  Greek,  like  almost 
all  the  southern  languages,  must  have  been  pro- 
nounced with  a  greater  musical  inflection  of  the 
voice  than  our  languages  of  the  north.  In  other 
respects  I  conceive  that  their  tragic  declamation 
must  have  been  altogether  unlike  recitative, 
much  more  measured,  and  far  removed  from 
its  learned  and  artificial  modulation. 

We  come  now  to  the  essence  of  the  Greek 
tragedy  itself.  In  stating  that  the  conception 
was  ideal,  we  are  not  to  understand  that  the 
different  characters  were  morally  perfect.  In 
this  case  what  room  could  there  be  for  such  an 
opposition  or  conflict,  as  the  plot  of  a  drama  re- 
quires? Weaknesses,  errors,  and  even  crimes, 
were  portrayed  in  them,  but  the  manners  were 
always  elevated  above  reality,  and  every  person 
was  invested  with  such  a  portion  of  dignity  and 
grandeur  as  was  compatible  with  the  share 
which  he  possessed  in  the  action.  The  ideality 
of  the  representation  chiefly  consisted  in  the 
elevation  to  a  higher  sphere.  The  tragical  po- 
etry wished  wholly  to  separate  the  image  of 
humanity  which  it  exhibited  to  us,  from  the 
ground  of  nature  to  which  man  is  in  reality 
chained  down,  like  a  feudal  slave.  How  was 
this  to  be  accomplished  1  By  exhibiting  to  us 
an  image  hovering  in  the  air  t  But  this  would 
have  been  incompatible  with  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation and  with  the  earthly  materials  of  which 
our  bodies  are  framed.  Frequently,  what  we 
praise  in  art  as  ideal  is  really  nothing  more. 
But  the  production  of  airy  floating  shadows  can 
make  no  durable  impression  on  the  mind.  The 
Greeks,  however,  succeeded  in  combining  in 
the  most  perfect  manner  in  their  art  ideality 
with  reality;  or,  dropping  school  terms,  an  ele- 
vation more  than  human  with  all  the  truth  of 
life,  and  all  the  energy  of  bodily  qualities.  They 
did  not  allow  their  flgures  to  flutter  without 
consistency  in  empty  space,  but  they  fixed  the 
statue  of  humanity  on  the  eternal  and  immov- 
able basis  of  moral  liberty ;  and  that  it  might 
stand  there  unshaken,  being  formed  of  stone  or 
brass,  or  some  more  solid  mass  than  the  living 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


429 


human  bodies,  it  made  an  impression  by  its 
own  weight,  and  from  its  very  elevation  and 
magnificence  it  was  only  the  more  decidedly 
subjected  to  the  law  of  gravity. 

Inward  liberty  and  external  necessity  are  the 
two  poles  of  the  tragic  world.  Each  of  these 
ideas  can  only  appear  in  the  most  perfect  man- 
ner hy  the  contrast  of  the  other.  As  the  feeling 
of  internal  dignity  elevates  the  man  above  the 
unlimited  dominion  of  impulse  and  native  in- 
stinct, and  in  a  word  absolves  him  from  the 
guardianship  of  nature,  so  the  necessity  which 
he  must  also  recognise  ought  to  be  no  mere  na- 
tural necessity,  but  to  lie  beyond  the  world  of 
sense  in  the  abyss  of  infinitude;  and  it  must 
consequently  be  represented  as  the  invincible 
power  of  fate.  Hence  it  extends  also  to  the 
world  of  gods ;  for  the  Grecian  gods  are  mere 
powers  of  nature,  and  although  immeasurably 
higher  than  mortal  man,  yet,  compared  with 
infinitude,  they  are  on  an  equal  footing  with 
himself.  In  Homer  and  the  tragedians  the  gods 
are  introduced  in  a  manner  altogether  different. 
In  the  former  their  appearance  is  arbitrary  and 
accidental,  and  can  communicate  no  higher  in- 
terest to  the  epic  poem  than  the  charm  of  the 
wonderful.  But  in  tragedy  the  gods  either  enter 
in  obedience  to  fate,  and  to  carry  its  decrees 
into  execution,  or  they  endeavor  in  a  godlike 
manner  to  assert  their  liberty  of  action,  and  ap- 
pear involved  in  the  same  struggles  with  destiny 
which  man  has  to  encounter. 

This  is  the  essence  of  the  tragic  in  the  sense 
of  the  ancients.  We  are  accustomed  to  give  to 
all  terrible  or  sorrowful  events  the  appellation 
of  tragic,  and  it  is  certain  that  such  events  are 
selected  in  preference  by  tragedy,  though  a  me- 
lancholy conclusion  is  by  no  means  indispensa- 
bly necessary ;  and  several  ancient  tragedies, 
viz.  the  Eumenides,  Philoctetes,  and  in  some 
degree  also  the  GZdipus  Colonus,  without  men- 
tioning many  of  the  pieces  of  Euripides,  have  a 
happy  and  enlivening  termination. 

But  why  does  tragedy  select  those  objects 
which  are  so  dreadfully  repugnant  to  the  wishes 
and  the  wants  of  our  sensible  nature?  This 
question  has  often  been  asked,  and  seldom  an- 
swered in  a  very  satisfactory  manner.  Some 
have  said  that  the  pleasure  of  such  representa- 
tions arises  from  the  comparison  between  the 
calmness  and  tranquillity  of  our  own  situation, 
and  the  storms  and  perplexities  to  which  the 
victims  of  passion  are  exposed.  But  when  we 
take  a  warm  interest  in  a  tragedy,  we  cease  to 
think  of  ourselves ;  and  when  this  is  not  the 
case,  it  is  the  best  of  all  proofs  that  we  take  but 
a  feeble  interest,  and  that  the  tragedy  has  failed 
in  its  effects.  Others  again  have  had  recourse 
to  our  feelings  for  moral  improvement,  which 
is  gratified  by  the  view  of  poetical  justice  in  the 
rewards  of  the  good  and  the  punishment  of  the 
wicked.  But  he  whom  the  aspect  of  such 
dreadful  examples  could  in  reality  improve, 
would  be  conscious  of  a  sentiment  of  depression 
and  humiliation,  very  far  removed  from  genuine 


morality  and  elevation  of  mind.  Besides,  poet- 
ical justice  is  by  no  means  indispensable  in  a 
good  tragedy;  it  may  end  with  the  suffering  of 
the  just  and  the  triumph  of  the  wicked,  when 
the  balance  is  once  restored  by  the  prospect  of 
futurity.  Small  will  be  our  improvement,  if 
with  Aristotle  we  say  that  the  object  of  tragedy 
is  to  purify  the  passions  by  pity  and  terror.  In 
the  first  place  the  commentators  have  never 
been  able  to  agree  as  to  the  meaning  of  this 
proposition,  and  have  had  recourse  to  the  most 
forced  explanations.  Look  for  instance  into  the 
Dramaturgic  of  Lessing.  Lessing  gives  a  new 
explanation,  and  conceives  he  has  found  in 
Aristotle  a  poetical  Euclid.  But  mathematical 
demonstrations  are  subject  to  no  misconception, 
and  geometrical  evidence  is  not  applicable  to 
the  theory  of  the  fine  arts.  Supposing  however 
tragedy  to  operate  this  moral  cure  in  us,  it  must 
do  so  by  the  painful  feelings  of  terror  and  com- 
passion ;  and  it  remains  to  be  proved  how  we 
should  take  a  pleasure  in  subjecting  ourselves 
to  such  an  operation. 

Others  have  been  pleased  to  say  that  we  are 
attracted  to  theatrical  representations  from  the 
want  of  some  violent  agitation  to  rouse  us  out 
of  the  torpor  of  every-day  life.  I  have  already 
acknowledged  the  existence  of  this  want,  when 
speaking  of  the  attractions  of  the  drama  :  and 
to  it  we  are  even  to  attribute  the  fights  of  wild 
beasts  and  gladiators  among  the  Romans.  But 
must  we  who  are  less  indurated,  and  more  in- 
clined to  tender  feelings,  be  desirous  of  seeing 
demi-gods  and  heroes  descend  into  the  bloody 
lists  of  the  tragic  stage,  like  so  many  desperate 
gladiators,  that  our  nerves  may  be  shaken  by 
the  aspect  of  their  sufferings  ?  No  :  it  is  not  the 
aspect  of  suffering  which  constitutes  the  charm 
of  a  tragedy,  or  the  amusement  of  a  circus  or 
wild  beast  fight.  In  the  latter  we  see  a  display 
of  activity,  strength,  and  courage,  qualities  re- 
lated to  the  mental  and  moral  powers  of  man. 
The  satisfaction  which  we  derive  from  the  re- 
presentation of  the  powerful  situations  and 
overwhelming  passions  in  a  good  tragedy,  must 
be  ascribed  either  to  the  feeling  of  the  dignity 
of  human  nature,  excited  by  the  great  models 
exhibited  to  us,  or  to  the  trace  of  a  higher  order 
of  things,  impressed  on  the  apparently  irregular 
progress  of  events,  and  secretly  revealed  in 
them  ;  or  to  both  of  these  causes  together. 

The  true  cause,  therefore,  why  in  tragical 
representations  we  cannot  exclude  even  that 
which  appears  harsh  and  cruel  is,  that  a  spirit- 
ual and  invisible  power  can  only  be  measured 
by  the  opposition  which  it  encounters  from  some 
external  force  that  can  be  taken  in  by  the  senses. 
The  moral  freedom  of  man  can  therefore  only 
be  displayed  in  a  conflict  with  the  impulse  of 
the  senses  :  so  long  as  it  is  not  called  into  action 
by  a  higher  power,  it  is  either  actually  dormant 
in  him,  or  appears  to  slumber,  as  it  can  fill  no 
part  as  a  mere  natural  entity.  The  moral  part 
of  our  nature  can  only  be  preserved  amidst 
struggles  and  difficulties,  and  if  we  were  there- 


430 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


fore  to  ascribe  a  distinctive  aim  to  tragedy,  as 
instructive,  it  should  be  this  :  that  all  these  suf- 
ferings must  be  experienced,  and  all  these  diffi- 
culties overcome,  to  establish  the  claims  of  the 
mind  to  a  divine  origin,  and  teach  us  to  estimate 
the  earthly  existence  as  vain  and  insignificant. 

With  respect  to  everything  connected  with 
this  point,  I  refer  my  hearers  to  the  Section  on 
the  Sublime  in  Kant's  Criticism  of  the  Judg- 
ment (Kritik  der  Urtheilskraft),  to  the  complete 
perfection  of  which  nothing  is  wanting  but  a 
more  definite  idea  of  the  tragedy  of  the  ancients, 
with  which  he  does  not  seem  to  have  been  very 
well  acquainted. 

I  come  now  to  another  peculiarity  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  tragedy  of  the  ancients  from  ours, 
I  mean  the  chorus.  We  must  consider  it  as  the 
personification  of  opinion  on  the  action  which 
is  going  on ;  the  incorporation  into  the  repre- 
sentation itself  of  the  sentiments  of  the  poet  as 
the  interpreter  for  the  whole  human  race.  This 
is  the  general  poetical  character  which  we  must 
here  assign  to  it,  and  that  character  is  by  no 
means  affected  by  the  circumstance  that  the 
chorus  had  a  local  origin  in  the  feasts  of  Bac- 
chus, and  that  it  always  had  a  peculiar  national 
signification  with  the  Greeks.  We  have  already 
said  that,  with  their  republican  way  of  thinking, 
publicity  was  considered  essential  to  every  im- 
portant transaction.  As  in  their  compositions 
they  went  back  to  the  heroic  ages,  they  gave  a 
certain  republican  cast  to  the  families  of  their 
heroes,  by  carrying  on  the  action  either  in  pre- 
sence of  the  elders  of  the  people,  or  those  per- 
sons whose  characters  entitled  them  to  respect. 
This  publicity  does  not,  it  is  true,  correspond 
with  Homer's  picture  of  the  manners  of  the  he- 
roic age ,  but  both  in  the  costume  and  the  my- 
thology, the  dramatic  poetry  generally  displayed 
a  spirit  of  independence  and  conscious  liberty. 

The  chorus  was  therefore  introduced  to  give 
the  whole  that  appearance  of  reality  which  was 
most  consistent  with  the  fable.  Whatever  it 
might  be  in  particular  pieces,  it  represented  in 
general,  first  the  national  spirit,  and  then  the 
general  participation  of  mankind.  In  a  word, 
the  chorus  is  the  ideal  spectator.  It  mitigates 
the  impression  of  a  heart-rending  or  moving 
story,  while  it  conveys  to  the  actual  spectator  a 
lyrical  and  musical  expression  of  his  own  emo- 
tions, and  elevates  him  to  the  region  of  consi- 
deration. 

The  modern  critics  have  never  known  what 
to  make  of  the  chorus ;  and  this  is  the  less  to 
be  wondered  at,  as  Aristotle  affords  no  satisfac- 
tory solution  of  the  difficulty.  The  business  of 
the  chorus  is  better  painted  by  Horace,  who  as- 
scribes  to  it  a  general  expression  of  moral  par- 
ticipation, instruction  and  admonition.  But  the 
critics  in  question  have  either  believed  that  its 
chief  object  was  to  prevent  the  stage  from  ever 
being  altogether  empty,  although  the  proper 
place  for  the  chorus  was  not  upon  the  stage ;  or 
they  have  censured  it  as  a  superfluous  and 
laughable  accompaniment,  and  seemed  asto- 


nished at  the  supposed  impropriety  of  carrying 
on  secret  transactions  in  the  presence  of  assem- 
bled multitudes.  This  they  consider  as  the 
principal  reason  for  the  observance  of  the  unity 
of  place,  as  it  could  not  be  changed  by  the  poet 
without  the  dismission  of  the  chorus,  an  act 
which  would  have  required  at  least  some  sort 
of  pretext ;  they  believe  that  the  chorus  owed 
its  continuance  from  the  first  origin  of  tragedy 
merely  to  accident ;  and  as  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
that  in  Euripides,  the  last  tragic  poet  which  we 
have,  the  choral  songs  have  frequently  little  or 
no  connection  with  the  fable,  and  form  a  mere 
episodical  ornament,  they  therefore  conclude 
that  the  Greeks  had  only  to  take  one  other  step 
in  dramatic  art  to  explode  the  chorus  altogether. 
To  refute  these  superficial  conjectures,  it  is  ouiy 
necessary  to  observe,  that  Sophocles  wrote  a 
Treatise  on  the  chorus,  in  prose,  in  opposition 
to  the  principles  of  some  other  poets,  and  that 
far  from  following  blindly  the  practice  -which 
he  found  established,  like  an  intelligent  artist 
he  could  assign  reasons  for  the  system  which 
he  adopted. 

Modern  poets  of  the  very  first  rank,  since  the 
revival  of  the  study  of  the  ancients,  have  often 
attempted  to  introduce  the  chorus  in  their  pieces, 
for  the  most  part  without  a  correct,  and  always 
without  a  vivid  idea  of  its  destination.  But  we 
have  no  suitable  singing  or  dancing,  neither 
have  we,  as  our  theatres  are  constructed,  any 
place  for  it ;  and  it  will  hardly  ever  succeed, 
therefore,  in  becoming  naturalized  with  us. 

The  Greek  tragedy,  in  its  pure  and  unaltered 
state,  will  always  for  our  theatre  remain  an 
exotic  plant,  which  we  can  hardly  hope  to  cul- 
tivate with  any  success,  even  in  the  hot-house 
of  learned  art  and  criticism.  The  Grecian  my- 
thology, which  constitutes  the  materials  of  an- 
cient tragedy,  is  as  foreign  to  the  minds  and 
imaginations  of  most  of  the  spectators,  as  its 
form  and  mode  of  representation.  But  to  en- 
deavor to  constrain  another  subject,  an  historical 
one  for  example,  to  assume  that  form,  must 
always  be  a  most  unprofitable  and  hopeless 
attempt. 

I  have  called  mythology  the  chief  material 
of  tragedy.  We  know,  indeed,  of  two  historical 
tragedies,  by  Grecian  authors :  the  Capture  of 
Miletus,  of  Phrynichus,  and  the  Persians,  of 
iEschylus,  a  piece  which  still  exists ;  but  these 
singular  exceptions,  both  belonging  to  an  epoch 
when  the  art  had  not  attained  its  full  maturity, 
among  so  many  hundred  examples  of  a  differ- 
ent description,  serve  to  establish  more  strongly 
the  truth  of  the  rule.  The  sentence  passed  by 
the  Athenians  on  Phrynichus,  whom  they  sub- 
jected to  a  pecuniary  fine  because,  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  contemporary  calamities  which 
with  due  caution  he  might  have  avoided,  he 
had  agitated  them  in  too  violent  a  manner, 
however  hard  and  arbitrary  it  may  appear  in  a 
judicial  point  of  view,  displays  nevertheless  a 
correct  feeling  with  respect  to  the  subject  and 
the  limits  of  art.    The  mind  suffering  under  the 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


431 


near  reality  of  the  subject  cannot  preserve  the 
necessary  repose  and  self-possession  which  are 
necessary  for  the  reception  of  pure  tragical  im- 
pressions. The  heroic  fables,  on  the  other  hand, 
appear  always  at  a  certain  distance,  and  in  the 
light  of  the  wonderful.  The  wonderful  pos- 
sesses the  advantage  of  being  believed,  and  in 
some  degree  disbelieved,  at  the  same  time  :  be- 
lieved in  so  far  as  it  is  founded  on  the  connec- 
tion with  other  opinions;  disbelieved  while  we 
never  take  such  an  immediate  interest  in  it  as 
we  do  in  what  wears  the  hue  of  the  every-day 
life  of  our  own  age.  The  Grecian  mythology 
was  a  web  of  national  and  local  traditions,  held 
in  equal  honor  as  a  part  of  religion  and  as  an 
introduction  to  history;  everywhere  preserved 
in  full  life  among  the  people  by  customs  and 
monuments,  and  by  the  numberless  works  of 
epic  and  mythical  poets.  The  tragedians  had 
only  therefore  to  engraft  one  species  of  poetry 
on  another :  they  were  always  allowed  their 
use  of  certain  established  fables,  invaluable  for 
their  dignity,  grandeur,  and  remoteness  from  all 
accessary  ideas  of  petty  description.  Every- 
thing, down  to  the  very  errors  and  weaknesses 
of  that  departed  race  of  heroes  who  claimed 
their  descent  from  the  gods,  was  consecrated  in 
the  eyes  of  the  people.  Those  heroes  were 
painted  as  beings  endowed  with  more  than 
human  strength ;  but,  so  far  from  possessing 
unerring  virtue  and  wisdom,  they  were  also 
represented  as  under  the  dominion  of  furious 
and  unbridled  passions.  It  was  a  wild  age  of 
effervescence :  the  cultivation  of  social  order 
had  not  as  yet  rendered  the  soil  of  morality 
arable,  and  it  yielded  at  the  same  time  the 
most  beneficent  and  poisonous  productions,  with 
the  fresh  and  luxuriant  fulness  of  a  creative 
nature.  Here  the  monstrous  and  ferocious  were 
not  a  necessary  indication  of  that  degradation 
and  corruption  with  which  they  are  necessarily 
associated  under  the  development  of  law  and 
order,  and  which  fill  us  with  sentiments  of  hcr- 
ror  and  aversion.  The  criminals  of  the  fabulous 
ages  are  not,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion, amenable  to  the  tribunals  of  men,  but  con- 
signed over  to  a  higher  jurisdiction.  Some  are 
of  opinion  that  the  Greeks,  in  their  republican 
zeal,  took  a  particular  pleasure  in  witnessing 
the  representation  of  the  outrages  and  conse- 
quent calamities  of  the  different  royal  families, 
and  are  almost  disposed  to  consider  the  ancient 
tragedy,  in  general,  as  a  satire  on  monarchical 
government.  This  party  view  would,  however, 
have  deadened  the  interest  of  the  audience,  and 
consequently  destroyed  the  effect  which  it  was 
the  aim  of  the  tragedy  to  produce.  But  we 
must  remark,  that  the  royal  families,  whose 
crimes  and  misfortunes  afforded  the  most  abun- 
dant materials  for  tragical  pictures  of  a  horrible 
description,  were  the  Pelopidae  of  Mycenae,  and 
the  Labdacidae  of  Thebes,  families  which  were 
foreign  to  the  Athenians,  for  whom  the  pieces 
were  composed.  We  do  not  see  that  the  Attic 
poets  endeavored  to  exhibit  the  ancient  kings 


of  their  country  in  an  odious  light;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  always  hold  up  their  national  hero, 
Theseus,  for  public  admiration,  as  a  model  of 
justice  and  moderation,  the  champion  of  the 
oppressed,  the  first  lawgiver,  and  even  the 
founder  of  their  liberty;  and  it  was  one  of  their 
favorite  modes  of  flattering  the  people,  to  per- 
suade them  that,  even  in  the  heroic  ages,  Athens 
was  distinguished  above  all  the  other  states  of 
Greece,  for  obedience  to  the  laws,  humanity, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  rights  of  nations.  The 
general  revolution,  by  which  the  independent 
kingdoms  of  ancient  Greece  were  converted 
into  a  community  of  free  states,  had  separated 
the  heroic  age  from  the  age  of  social  cultivation, 
by  a  wide  interval,  beyond  which  the  genealogy 
of  a  very  few  families  only  was  attempted  to 
be  traced.  This  was  extremely  advantageous 
for  the  ideal  elevation  of  the  characters  of  their 
tragedy,  as  few  human  things  will  admit  of  a 
close  inspection  into  them,  without  betraying 
their  imperfections.  But  in  the  very  different 
relations  of  the  age  in  which  those  heroes  lived, 
the  standard  of  mere  civil  and  domestic  mo- 
rality was  not  applicable,  and  the  feeling  must 
go  back  to  the  primary  ingredients  of  humanity. 
Before  the  existence  of  constitutions, — before  the 
proper  development  of  law  and  right,  the  sove- 
reigns and  rulers  were  their  own  lawgivers  in 
a  world  not  yet  subjected  to  order ;  and  the 
fullest  scope  was  thus  given  to  the  dominion  of 
will  for  good  and  for  bad  purposes.  Hereditary 
rule,  therefore,  exhibited  more  striking  instances 
of  sudden  changes  of  fortune  than  the  late  times 
of  political  equality.  In  these  respects  the  high 
rank  of  the  principal  characters  was  essential, 
or  at  least  favorable  to  tragic  representation, 
and  not  because,  according  to  the  idea  of  some 
moderns,  those  only  who  can  occasion  the  hap- 
piness or  misery  of  numbers  are  sufficiently  im- 
portant to  interest  us  in  their  behalf,  nor  because 
internal  elevation  of  sentiment  must  be  clothed 
with  external  dignity,  to  claim  our  honor  and 
admiration.  The  Greek  tragedians  paint  the 
downfall  of  kingly  houses  without  any  reference 
to  the  condition  of  the  people ;  they  show  us 
the  man  in  the  king,  and,  far  from  veiling  their 
heroes  from  our  sight  in  their  purple  mantles, 
they  allow  us  to  look  through  their  vain  splen- 
dor, into  a  bosom  torn  and  harrowed  up  by 
passions.  That  the  regal  pomp  was  not  so 
necessary  as  the  heroic  costume  is  evident,  not 
only  from  the  practice  of  the  ancients,  but  from 
the  tragedies  of  the  moderns  having  a  reference 
to  the  throne,  produced  under  different  circum- 
stances, namely,  the  existence  of  monarchical 
government.  They  dare  not  draw  from  existing 
reality,  for  nothing  is  less  suitable  for  tragedy 
than  a  court,  and  a  court  life.  When  they  do 
not  therefore  paint  an  ideal  kingdom  with  dis- 
tant manners,  they  fail  into  stiffness  and  for- 
mality, which  are  much  more  destructive  to 
freedom  and  boldness  of  character,  and  to  deep 
pathos,  than  the  narrow  circle  of  private  life. 
A  few  mythological  fables  only  seem  origi- 


432 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


nally  marked  out  for  tragedy :  such,  for  example, 
as  the  long-continued  alternation  of  aggressions, 
vengeance,  and  maledictions,  which  we  witness 
in  the  house  of  Atreus.  When  we  examine  the 
names  of  the  pieces  which  are  lost,  we  have 
great  difficulty  in  conceiving  how  the  mytholo- 
gical fables  on  which  they  are  founded,  as  they 
are  known  to  us,  could  afford  sufficient  mate- 
rials for  the  development  of  an  entire  tragedy. 
It  is  true,  the  poets,  in  the  various  relations  of 
the  same  story,  had  a  great  amplitude  of  selec- 
tion ;  and  this  very  variety  justified  them  in 
going  still  farther,  and  making  considerable  al- 
terations in  the  circumstances  of  an  event,  so 
that  the  inventions  added  to  one  piece  some- 
times contradict  the  accounts  given  by  the  same 
poet  in  another.  We  are,  however,  principally 
to  ascribe  the  productiveness  of  mythology,  for 
the  tragic  art,  to  the  principle  which  we  ob- 
serve so  powerful  throughout  the  whole  histo- 
rical range  of  Grecian  cultivation ;  namely,  that 
the  power  which  preponderated  for  the  time 
assimilated  everything  to  itself.  As  the  heroic 
fables,  in  all  their  deviations,  were  easily  de- 
veloped into  the  tranquil  fulness  and  light  va- 
riety of  epic  poetry,  they  were  afterwards 
adapted  to  the  object  which  the  tragedians  pro- 
posed to  accomplish,  by  earnestness,  energy, 
and  compression  ;  and  what  in  this  change  of 
destination  appeared  inapplicable  to  tragedy 
still  afforded  materials  for  a  sort  of  half  sportive, 
though  ideal  representation,  in  the  subordinate 
walk  of  the  satirical  drama. 

I  shall  be  forgiven,  I  hope,  if  I  attempt  to 
illustrate  the  above  reflections  on  the  essence 
of  the  ancient  tragedy,  by  a  comparison  bor- 
rowed from  the  plastic  arts,  which  will,  I  trust, 
be  found  somewhat  more  than  a  mere  fanciful 
allusion. 

The  Homeric  epic  is,  in  poetry,  what  half- 
raised  workmanship  is  in  sculpture,  and  tragedy 
the  distinctly  separated  group. 

The  poem  of  Homer,  sprung  from  the  soil  of 
the  traditionary  tale,  is  not  yet  purified  from  it, 
as  the  figures  of  a  bas-relief  are  borne  by  a 
back-ground  which  is  foreign  to  them.  These 
figures  appear  depressed,  and  in  the  epic  poem 
all  is  painted  as  past  and  remote.  In  the  bas- 
relief  they  are  generally  thrown  into  profile, 
and  in  the  epic  characterized  in  the  most  artless 
manner :  they  are,  in  the  former,  not  properly 
grouped,  but  follow  one  another ;  and  the  Ho- 
meric heroes,  in  like  manner,  advance  singly  in 
succession  before  us.  It  has  been  remarked 
that  the  Iliad  is  not  definitively  closed,  but  that 
we  are  left  to  suppose  something  both  to  pre- 
cede and  to  follow.  The  bas-relief  is  equally 
boundless,  and  may  be  continued  ad  infinitum, 
either  from  before  or  behind,  on  which  account 
the  ancients  preferred  the  selection  of  those 
objects  for  it  which  admitted  of  an  indefinite 
extension,  as  the  trains  at  sacrifices,  dances,  and 
rows  of  combatants,  &c.  Hence  they  also  ex- 
hibited bas-reliefs  on  round  surfaces,  such  as 
vases,  or  the  frieze  of  a  rotunda,  where  the  two 


ends  are  withdrawn  from  our  sight  by  the  curv- 
ature, and  where,  on  our  advancing,  one  object 
appears  as  another  disappears.  The  reading 
of  the  Homeric  poetry  very  much  resembles 
such  a  circumgyration,  as  the  present  object 
alone  arrests  our  attention,  while  that  which 
precedes  and  follows  is  allowed  to  disappear. 

But  in  the  distinctly  formed  group,  as  in  tra- 
gedy, sculpture  and  poetry  bring  before  our  eyes 
an  independent  and  definite  whole.    To  sepa- 
rate it  from  natural  reality,  the  former  places  it 
on  a  base,  as  on  an  ideal  ground.    It  also  re- 
moves as  much  as  possible  all  foreign  and  acci- 
dental accessaries,  that  the  eye  may  wholly  rest  I 
on  the  essential  objects,  the  figures  themselves.  ' 
These  figures  are  wrought  into  the  most  com-  I 
plete  rounding,  yet  they  refuse  the  illusion  of 
colours,  and  announce  by  the  purity  and  uni- 
formity  of  the  mass  of  which  they  are  con- 
structed, a  creation  not  endowed  with  perishable 
life,  but  of  a  higher  and  more  elevated  character. 

Beauty  is  the  object  of  sculpture,  and  .repose 
is  most  advantageous  for  the  display  of  beauty. 
Repose  alone,  therefore,  is  suitable  to  the  figure. 
But  a  number  of  figures  can  only  be  connected 
together  and  grouped  by  one  action.  The  group 
represents  beauty  in  motion,  and  the  object  of 
it  is  to  combine  both  in  the  highest  degree. 
This  can  only  be  effected  when  the  artist  finds 
means,  in  the  most  violent  bodily  or  mental 
anguish,  to  moderate  the  expression  by  manly 
resistance,  calm  grandeur,  or  inherent  sweet- 
ness, in  such  a  manner  that,  with  the  most 
moving  truth,  the  features  of  beauty  shall  yet 
in  nowise  be  disfigured.  The  observation  of 
Winkelmann  on  this  subject  is  inimitable.  He, 
says  that  beauty  with  the  ancients  was  the 
tongue  on  the  balance  of  expression,  and  in  this 
sense  the  groups  of  Niobe  and  Laocobn  are 
masterpieces ;  the  one  in  the  sublime  and  se- 
rious, the  other  in  the  learned  and  ornamental 
style. 

The  comparison  with  ancient  tragedy  is  the 
more  apposite  here  as  we  know  that  both  iEs- 
chylus  and  Sophocles  produced  a  Niobe,  and 
that  Sophocles  was  also  the  author  of  Laocoon. 
In  Laocoon  the  conflicting  sufferings  and  an- 
guish of  the  body,  and  the  resistance  of  the  soul , 
are  balanced  with  the  most  wonderful  equili- 
brium. The  children  calling  for  help,  tender 
objects  of  our  compassion,  and  not  of  our  admi- 
ration, draw  us  back  to  the  appearance  of  the 
father,  who  seems  to  turn  his  eyes  in  vain  to 
the  gods.  The  convolving  serpents  exhibit  to 
us  the  inevitable  destiny  which  unites  together 
the  characters  in  so  dreadful  a  manner.  And 
yet  the  beauty  of  proportion,  the  pleasing  flow 
of  the  attitude,  are  not  lost  in  this  violent  strug- 
gle ;  and  a  representation  the  most  frightful  to 
the  senses  is  yet  treated  with  a  degree  of  mode- 
ration, while  a  mild  breath  of  sweetness  is  dif- 
fused over  the  whole. 

In  the  group  of  Niobe  there  is  also  the  most 
perfect  mixture  of  terror  and  pity.  The  up- 
turned looks  of  the  mother,  and  the  mouth  half 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


433 


open  in  supplication,  seem  to  accuse  the  invi- 
sible wrath  of  Heaven.  The  daughter,  clinging 
in  the  agonies  of  death  to  the  bosom  of  her  mo- 
ther, in  her  infantine  innocence  can  have  no 
other  fear  than  for  herself:  the  innate  impulse 
of  self-preservation  was  never  represented  in  a 
i  manner  more  tender  and  affecting.  Can  there 
on  the  other  hand  be  exhibited  to  the  senses  a 
more  beautiful  image  of  self- devoting  heroic 
magnanimity  than  Niobe,  as  she  bends  her  body- 
forwards,  that  if  possible  she  alone  may  receive 
the  destructive  bolt?  Pride  and  repugnance 
are  melted  down  in  the  most  ardent  maternal 
love.  The  more  than  earthly  dignity  of  the 
features  is  the  less  disfigured  by  pain,  as  from 
the  quick  repetition  of  the  shocks  she  appears, 
as  in  the  fable,  to  have  become  insensible  and 
motionless.  But  before  this  figure,  twice  trans- 
formed into  stone,  and  yet  so  inimitably  ani- 
mated,— before  this  line  of  demarcation  of  all 
human  suffering,  the  most  callous  beholder  is 
dissolved  in  tears. 

In  all  the  agitation  produced  by  the  sight  of 
these  groups,  there  is  still  somewhat  in  them 
which  invites  us  to  composed  contemplation; 
and  in  the  same  manner,  the  tragedy  of  the 
ancients  leads  us,  even  in  the  course  of  the  re- 
presentation, to  the  most  elevated  reflections  on 
our  existence,  and  those  mysteries  in  our  destiny 
which  can  never  be  wholly  explained. 

.ESCHYLTJS. 

iEschylus  is  to  be  considered  as  the  creator 
of  tragedy,  which  sprung  from  him  completely 
armed,  liked  Pallas  from  the  head  of  Jupiter. 
He  clothed  it  in  a  state  of  suitable  dignity,  and 
gave  it  an  appropriate  place  of  exhibition  ;  he 
was  the  inventor  of  scenic  pomp,  and  not  only 
instructed  the  chorus  in  singing  and  dancing, 
but  appeared  in  the  character  of  a  player.  He 
was  the  first  who  gave  development  to  the  dia- 
logue, and  limits  to  the  lyrical  part  of  the  tra- 
gedy, which  still  however  occupies  too  much 
space  in  his  pieces.  He  draws  his  characters 
with  a  few  bold  and  strongly  marked  features. 
The  plans  are  simple  in  the  extreme :  he  did 
not  understand  the  art  of  enriching  and  varying 
an  action,  and  dividing  its  development  and 
catastrophe  into  parts,  bearing  a  due  proportion 
to  each  other.  Hence  his  action  often  stands 
still,  and  this  circumstance  becomes  still  more 
apparent,  from  the  undue  extension  of  his  choral 
songs.  But  all  his  poetry  betrays  a  sublime  and 
serious  mind.  Terror  is  his  element,  and  not 
the  softer  affections ;  he  holds  up  the  head  of 
Medusa  to  his  astonished  spectators.  His  man- 
ner of  treating  fate  is  austere  in  the  extreme: 
he  suspends  it  over  the  heads  of  mortals  in  its 
gloomy  majesty.  The  cothurnus  of  JEschylus 
has  as  it  were  an  iron  weight :  gigantic  figures 
alone  stalk  before  our  eyes.  It  seems  as  if  it 
j  required  an  effort  in  him  to  condescend  to  paint 
!  mere  men  to  us :  he  abounds  most  in  represen- 
tation of  gods,  and  seems  to  dwell  with  parti- 
cular delight  in  exhibiting  the  Titans,  those 
3  E 


ancient  gods  who  signify  the  dark  powers  of 
primitive  nature,  and  who  had  long  been  driven 
into  Tartarus  beneath  a  better  regulated  world 
He  endeavors  to  swell  out  his  language  to  a 
gigantic  sublimity,  corresponding  with  the  stan- 
dard of  his  character.  Hence  he  abounds  in 
harsh  combinations  and  overstrained  epithets, 
and  the  lyrical  parts  of  his  pieces  are  often  ob- 
scure in  the  extreme,  from  the  involved  nature 
of  the  construction.  He  resembles  Dante  and 
Shakspeare  in  the  very  singular  cast  of  his 
images  and  expressions.  These  images  are 
nowise  deficient  in  the  terrible  graces,  which 
almost  all  the  writers  of  antiquity  celebrate  in 
iEschylus. 

iEschylus  flourished  in  the  very  first  vigor 
of  the  Grecian  freedom,  after  its  successful 
struggle,  and  he  seems  to  have  been  thoroughly 
imbued  with  a  proud  feeling  of  the  superiority 
which  this  struggle  reflected  on  the  nation  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  was  an  eye-witness 
of  the  greatest  and  most  glorious  event  in  the 
history  of  Greece,  the  overthrow  and  annihila- 
tion of  the  Persian  hosts  under  Darius  and 
Xerxes,  and  had  fought  in  the  memorable  bat- 
tles of  Marathon  and  Salamis  with  distinguished 
bravery.  In  the  Persians  he  has,  in  an  indirect 
manner,  sung  the  triumph  which  he  contributed 
to  obtain,  while  he  paints  the  downfall  of  the 
Persian  projects,  and  the  ignominious  return  of 
the  fugitive  monarch  to  his  royal  residence.  He 
describes  in  the  most  vivid  and  glowing  colors 
the  battle  of  Salamis.  In  this  piece,  and  in  the 
Seven  before  Thebes,  a  warlike  vein  gushes 
forth ;  the  personal  inclination  of  the  poet  for 
the  life  of  a  hero  shines  throughout  with  the 
most  dazzling  lustre.  It  was  well  remarked 
by  Gorgias,  the  sophist,  that  Mars,  instead  of 
Bacchus,  dictated  this  last  drama ;  for  Bacchus, 
and  not  Apollo,  was  the  patron  of  tragic  poets, 
which  may  appear  somewhat  singular  on  a  first 
view  of  the  matter,  but  then  we  must  recollect 
that  Bacchus  was  not  merely  the  god  of  wine 
and  joy,  but  also  the  god  of  the  highest  degree 
of  inspiration. 

Among  the  remaining  pieces  of  ^Eschylus, 
we  have  what  is  highly  deserving  of  our  atten- 
tion, a  complete  triology.  The  antiquarian  ac- 
count of  triologies  is  this,  that  in  the  more  early 
times  the  poet  did  not  contend  for  the  prize 
with  a  single  piece,  but  with  three,  which  how- 
ever were  not  always  connected  together  by 
their  contents,  and  that  a  fourth  satirical  drama 
was  also  attached  to  them.  All  these  were 
successively  represented  in  one  day.  The  idea 
which  we  must  form  of  the  triology  in  relation 
to  the  tragic  art  is  this;  a  tragedy  cannot  be 
indefinitely  lengthened  and  continued,  like  the 
Homeric  epic  poem  for  example,  to  which  whole 
rhapsodies  have  been  appended  ;  for  this  is  too 
independent  and  complete  within  itself.  Not- 
withstanding this  circumstance,  however,  seve- 
ral tragedies  may  be  connected  together  by 
means  of  a  common  destiny  running  throughout 
all  their  actions  in  one  great  cycle.  Hence  the 
37 


434 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


fixing  on  the  number  three  admits  of  a  satisfac- 
tory explanation.  It  is  the  thesis,  the  antithesis, 
and  the  connection.  The  advantage  of  this 
conjunction  was  that,  in  the  consideration  of  the 
connected  fables,  a  more  ample  degree  of  grati- 
fication was  derived  than  could  possibly  be  ob- 
tained from  a  single  action.  The  objects  of  the 
three  tragedies  might  be  separated  by  a  wide  in- 
terval of  time,  or  follow  close  upon  one  another. 

The  three  pieces  of  the  triology  of  iEschylus 
are  Agamemnon,  the  Choephorss  or  Electra,  and 
the  Eumenides  or  Furies.  The  object  of  the 
first  is  the  murder  of  Agamemnon  by  Clytem- 
nestra,  on  his  return  from  Troy.  In  the  second, 
Orestes  avenges  his  father  by  killing  his  mother  : 
facto  pius  et  sceleratus  eodem.  This  deed,  although 
perpetrated  from  the  most  powerful  motives,  is 
repugnant  however  to  natural  and  moral  order. 
Orestes  as  a  prince  was,  it  is  true,  entitled  to 
exercise  justice  even  on  the  members  of  his 
own  family;  but  he  was  under  the  necessity 
of  stealing  in  disguise  into  the  dwelling  of  the 
tyrannical  usurper  of  his  throne,  and  of  going  to 
work  like  an  assassin.  The  memory  of  his 
father  pleads  his  excuse ;  but  although  Clytem- 
nestra  has  deserved  death,  the  blood  of  his 
mother  still  rises  up  in  judgment  against  him. 
This  is  represented  in  the  Eumenides  in  the 
form  of  a  contention  among  the  gods,  some  of 
whom  approve  of  the  deed  of  Orestes,  while 
others  persecute  him,  till  at  last  the  divine  wis- 
dom, under  the  figure  of  Minerva,  reconciles 
the  opposite  claims,  establishes  a  peace,  and 
puts  an  end  to  the  long  series  of  crimes  and 
punishments  which  desolated  the  royal  house 
of  Atreus. 

A  considerable  interval  takes  place  between 
the  period  of  the  first  and  second  pieces,  during 
which  Orestes  grows  up  to  manhood.  The 
second  and  third  are  connected  together  imme- 
diately in  the  order  of  time.  Orestes  takes  flight 
after  the  murder  of  his  mother  to  Delphi,  where 
we  find  him  at  the  commencement  of  the  Eu- 
menides. 

In  each  of  the  two  first  pieces,  there  is  a  visi- 
ble reference  to  the  one  which  follows.  In 
Agamemnon,  Cassandra  and  the  chorus  pro- 
phesy, at  the  close,  to  the  arrogant  Clytemnestra 
and  her  paramour  JEgisthus,  the  punishment 
which  awaits  them  at  the  hands  of  Orestes.  In 
the  Choephorae,  Orestes,  immediately  after  the 
execution  of  the  deed,  finds  no  longer  any  re- 
pose ;  the  furies  of  his  mother  begin  to  persecute 
him,  and  he  announces  his  resolution  of  taking 
refuge  in  Delphi. 

The  connection  is  therefore  evident  through- 
out, and  we  may  consider  the  three  pieces, 
which  were  connected  together  even  in  the  re- 
presentation, as  so  many  acts  of  one  great  and 
entire  drama.  I  mention  this  as  a  preliminary 
justification  of  Shakspeare  and  other  modern 
poets,  in  connecting  together  in  one  representa- 
tion a  larger  circle  of  human  destinies,  as  we 
can  produce  to  the  critics  who  object  to  this  the 
supposed  example  of  the  ancients. 


In  Agamemnon  it  was  the  intention  of  JEs- 
chylus  to  exhibit  to  us  a  sudden  fall  from  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  prosperity  and  fame,  into 
the  abyss  of  ruin.  The  prince,  the  hero,  the 
general  of  the  whole  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  very 
moment  when  he  has  succeeded  in  concluding 
the  most  glorious  action,  the  destruction  of  Troy, 
the  fame  of  which  is  to  be  re-echoed  from  the 
mouths  of  the  greatest  poets  of  all  ages,  on  en- 
tering the  threshold  of  his  house,  after  which 
he  has  long  sighed,  is  strangled  amidst  the  un 
suspected  preparations  for  a  festival,  according 
to  the  expression  of  Homer,  "like  an  ox  in  the 
stall,"  strangled  by  his  faithless  wife ;  her  un- 
worthy seducer  takes  possession  of  his  throne, 
and  the  children  are  consigned  to  banishment, 
or  to  hopeless  servitude. 

With  the  view  of  giving  the  greater  effect  to 
this  dreadful  alternation  of  fortune,  the  poet  has 
previously  thrown  a  splendor  over  the  destruc- 
tion of  Troy.  He  has  done  this  in  the  first  halt 
of  the  piece  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself, 
which,  however  singular,  must  be  allowed  to 
be  impressive  in  the  extreme,  and  to  lay  fast 
hold  of  the  imagination.  It  is  of  importance  to 
Clytemnestra  not  to  be  surprised  by  the  arrival 
of  her  husband.  She  has  therefore  arranged 
an  uninterrupted  series  of  signal-fires  from  Troy 
to  Mycenae  to  announce  to  her  the  great  event. 
The  piece  commences  with  the  speech  of  a 
watchman,  who  supplicates  the  gods  for  a  re- 
lease from  his  toils,  as  for  ten  long  years  he  hail 
been  exposed  to  the  cold  dews  of  night,  has 
witnessed  the  various  changes  of  the  stars,  and 
looked  in  vain  for  the  expected  signal ;  at  the 
same  time  he  sighs  in  secret  for  the  internal 
ruin  of  the  royal  house.  At  this  moment  he 
sees  the  blaze  of  the  long  wished-for  fires,  and 
hastens  to  announce  it  to  his  mistress.  A  chorus 
of  aged  persons  appears,  and  in  their  songs  they 
trace  back  the  Trojan  war,  throughout  all  its 
eventful  changes  of  fortune  from  its  first  origin, 
and  recount  all  the  prophecies  relating  to  it,  and 
the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  at  the  expense  of 
which  the  voyage  of  the  Greeks  was  purchased. 
Clytemnestra  declares  the  joyful  cause  of  the 
sacrifice  which  she  orders,  and  the  herald  Tal- 
thybius  immediately  makes  his  appearance,  who 
as  an  eye-witness  announces  the  drama  of  the 
conquered  and  plundered  city  consigned  as  a 
prey  to  the  flames,  the  joy  of  the  victors,  and  the 
glory  of  their  leader.  He  displays  with  reluc- 
tance, as  if  unwilling  to  shade  the  brilliancy  of 
his  picture,  the  subsequent  misfortunes  of  the 
Greeks,  their  dispersion,  and  the  shipwreck 
suffered  by  many  of  them,  an  immediate  symp- 
tom of  the  wrath  of  the  gods.  We  easily  see 
how  little  the  unity  of  place  was  observed  by 
the  poet,  and  that  he  rather  avails  himself  of 
the  prerogative  of  his  mental  dominion  over  the 
powers  of  nature,  and  adds  wings  to  the  circling 
hours  in  their  course  towards  their  dreadful 
goal.  Agamemnon  now  comes,  borne  in  a  sort 
of  triumphal  procession  ;  and  seated  in  another 
car,  laden  with  booty,  follows  Cassandra,  his 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


435 


prisoner  of  war  and  mistress,  according  to  the 
privilege  of  the  heroes  of  those  days.  Clytem- 
nestra  greets  him  with  hypocritical  joy  and 
veneration;  she  orders  her  slaves  to  cover  the 
ground  with  the  most  costly  embroideries  of 
purple,  that  it  might  not  be  touched  by  the  foot 

j  of  the  conqueror.  Agamemnon,  with  sage  mo- 
deration refuses  to  receive  an  honor  due  only  to 
the  gods  ;  at  last  he  yields  to  their  invitations 

'  and  enters  the  house.  The  chorus  then  begins 
to  utter  dark  forebodings.  Clytemnestra  returns 

I  to  allure  Cassandra  to  her  destruction  by  the 
art  of  soft  persuasion.  The  latter  remains  dumb 
and  motionless,  but  the  queen  is  hardly  gone, 
when,  seized  with  a  prophetic  rage,  she  breaks 

;      out  into  the  most  perplexing  lamentations,  after- 

;  wards  unveils  her  prophecies  more  distinctly  to 
the  chorus ;  she  sees  in  her  mind  all  the  enor- 
mities which  have  been  perpetrated  in  that 
house;  the  repast  of  Thyestes,  which  the  sun 
refused  to  look  on ;  the  shadows  of  the  dilace- 

:  rated  children  appear  to  her  on  the  battlements 
of  the  palace.  She  also  sees  the  death  prepared 
for  her  master,  and  although  horror-struck  at 
the .  atrocious  spectacle,  as  if  seized  with  an 
overpowering  fury,  she  rushes  into  the  house  to 
meet  her  inevitable  death  ;  we  then  hear  behind 
the  scenes  the  sighs  of  the  dying  Agamemnon. 
The  palace  opens ;  Clytemnestra  stands  beside 
the  body  of  her  king  and  husband,  an  undaunted 
criminal,  who  not  only  confesses  the  deed,  but 
boasts  of  it  as  a  just  requital  for  Agamemnon's 
ambitious  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia.  The  jealousy 
towards  Cassandra,  and  the  criminal  union  with 
the  unworthy  JEgisthus,  which  is  first  disclosed 
after  the  completion  of  the  murder  towards  the 
conclusion  of  the  piece,  are  motives  which  she 
throws  entirely  into  the  back-ground,  and  hardly 
touches  on ;  this  was  necessary  to  preserve  the 
dignity  of  the  object.  But  Clytemnestra  would 
have  been  improperly  portrayed  as  a  weak 

!  woman  seduced  from  her  duty ;  she  appeared 
with  the  features  of  that  heroic  age  so  rich  in 
bloody  catastrophes,  in  which  all  the  passions 

|  were  violent,  and  in  which,  both  in  good  and 
evil,  men  exceeded  the  ordinary  standard  of 
later  and  more  puny  ages.  What  is  so  revolt- 
ing, what  affords  such  a  deep  proof  of  the  de- 
generacy of  hurftan  nature,  as  the  spectacle  of 
horrid  crimes  conceived  in  a  pusillanimous  bo- 
som? When  such  crimes  are  to  be  portrayed 
by  the  poet,  he  must  neither  endeavor  to  em- 

;  bellish  them,  nor  to  mitigate  our  horror  and 
aversion.  The  consequence  which  is  thus  given 
to  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  has  this  particular 
advantage,  that  it  keeps  within  some  bounds 
our  discontent  at  the  fall  of  Agamemnon.  He 
cannot  be  pronounced  wholly  innocent;  an 
earlier  crime  recoils  on  his  own  head;  and  be- 
sides, according  to  the  religious  idea  of  the  an- 
cients, an  old  curse  hung  over  his  house :  iEgis- 
thus,  the  contriver  of  his  destruction,  is  a  son  of 
that  very  Thyestes  on  whom  his  father  Atreus 
took  such  an  unnatural  revenge ;  and  this  fatal 

1      connection  is  conveyed  to  our  minds  in  the  most 


vivid  manner  by  the  chorus,  and  more  espe- 
cially by  the  prophecies  of  Cassandra. 

The  scene  of  the  Choephora?  is  before  the 
royal  palace  ;  the  grave  of  Agamemnon  appears 
on  the  stage.  Orestes  is  seen  with  his  faithful 
Pylades,  and  opens  the  play  (which  is  unfor- 
tunately somewhat  mutilated  at  the  commence- 
ment) at  the  sepulchre  with  a  prayer  to  Mer- 
cury, and  with  an  invocation  to  his  father,  in 
which  he  promises  to  avenge  him,  and  to  whom 
he  consecrates  a  lock.  He  sees  a  female  train 
in  mourning  weeds  issue  from  the  palace,  who 
bring  a  libation  to  the  grave ;  and,  as  he  thinks 
he  recognizes  his  sister  among  them,  he  retires 
with  Pylades  that  he  may  first  overhear  them. 
The  chorus,  which  consists  of  captive  Trojan 
virgins,  reveals  with  mournful  gestures  the  oc- 
casion of  its  mission,  namely,  a  dreadful  dream 
of  Clytemnestra ;  it  adds  obscure  forebodings 
of  the  impending  revenge  for  the  bloody  crime, 
and  bewails  its  lot  in  being  obliged  to  serve 
unworthy  superiors.  Electra  asks  the  chorus  if 
they  mean  to  fulfil  the  commission  of  her  hostile 
mother,  or  if  they  are  to  pour  out  their  offering 
in  silence  ;  and  in  compliance  with  their  advice, 
she  also  offers  up  a  prayer  to  the  subterranean 
Mercury  and  the  soul  of  her  father,  in  her  own 
name  and  that  of  the  absent  Orestes,  that  he 
may  appear  and  avenge  him.  In  pouring  out 
the  offering  she  joins  in  the  lamentations  of  the 
chorus  for  the  departed.  She  then  conjectures, 
from  finding  a  lock  of  hair  resembling  her  own 
in  color,  and  seeing  footsteps  near  the  grave, 
that  her  brother  has  been  there;  and  when  she 
is  almost  frantic  with  joy  at  the  thought,  her 
brother  steps  forward  and  discovers  himself. 
He  soon  overcomes  her  doubts  by  exhibiting  to 
her  a  tissue  woven  by  herself:  they  give  them- 
selves np  to  their  joy ;  he  addresses  a  prayer 
to  Jupiter,  and  makes  known  that  Apollo  has 
called  on  him,  under  the  most  dreadful  threats 
of  persecution  from  the  furies  of  his  father,  to 
destroy  those  who  were  guilty  of  his  death  in 
the  same  manner  in  which  he  was  destroyed, 
namely,  by  guile  and  cunning.  We  have  now 
hymns  on  the  part  of  the  chorus  and  Electra, 
which  consist  of  prayers  to  her  father's  shade 
and  the  subterranean  divinities,  and  a  recapitu- 
lation of  the  motives  for  the  deed,  especially 
those  derived  from  the  death  of  Agamemnon. 
Orestes  inquires  into  the  vision  which  induced 
Clytemnestra  to  offer  the  libation,  and  hears 
that  she  dreamt  that  she  gave  her  breast  to  a 
dragon  in  her  son's  cradle  and  suckled  it  with 
her  blood.  He  now  resolves  to  become  the 
dragon,  and  announces  more  distinctly  his  in- 
tention of  stealing  into  the  house  as  a  disguised 
stranger,  and  attacking  both  her  and  iEgisthus 
by  surprise.  With  this  view  he  withdraws 
along  with  Pylades.  The  subject  of  the  next 
choral  hymn  is  the  boundless  audacity  of  men 
in  general,  and  especially  of  women  in  their 
illicit  passions,  confirmed  by  the  most  terrible 
mythical  examples,  and  the  avenging  justice 
which  always  at  last  overtakes  them.  Orestes 


436 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


returns  as  a  stranger,  with  Pylades,  and  desires 
admission  into  the  palace.  Clytemnestra  comes 
out,  and  when  she  learns  from  him  the  death 
of  Orestes,  at  which  Electra  assumes  a  feigned 
grief,  she  invites  him  to  enter  and  partake  of 
their  hospitality.  After  a  short  prayer  of  the 
chorus,  the  nurse  comes  and  mourns  her  foster 
child  ;  the  chorus  inspires  her  with  some  hopes 
of  his  being  still  in  life,  and  advises  her  to  con- 
trive to  bring  ^Egisthus  to  Clytemnestra  without 
his  body-guard.  On  the  approaching  aspect  of 
danger,  the  chorus  proffers  prayers  to  Jupiter 
and  Mercury  for  the  success  of  the  deed.  iEgis- 
thus  enters  into  conversation  with  the  messenger, 
can  hardly  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded  of  the 
truth  of  the  joyful  news  of  the  death  of  Orestes, 
and  hastens  into  the  house  for  the  purpose  of 
ascertaining  it,  from  whence,  after  a  short  prayer 
of  the  chorus,  we  hear  the  cries  of  the  murdered. 
A  servant  rushes  out  and  gives  the  alarm  at  the 
door  of  the  female  dwelling,  to  warn  Clytem- 
nestra. She  hears  it,  comes  forward,  and  de- 
mands an  axe  to  defend  herself;  but  as  Orestes 
rushes  instantaneously  on  her  with  the  bloody 
sword,  her  courage  fails  her,  and  she  holds  up 
to  him  the  maternal  breast  in  the  most  moving 
manner.  Hesitating  in  his  purpose,  he  asks  the 
counsel  of  Pylades,  who  in  a  few  lines  exhorts 
him  by  the  most  cogent  reasons  to  persist ;  after 
an  alternation  of  accusation  and  defence,  he 
pursues  her  into  the  house,  that  he  may  sacrifice 
her  beside  the  body  of  iEgisthus.  The  chorus 
rejoices  in  a  grave  hymn  at  the  completion  of 
the  retaliation.  The  great  door  of  the  palace 
opens,  and  exhibits  in  the  inside  the  two  dead 
bodies  on  one  bed.  Orestes  orders  the  servants 
to  unfold  the  capacious  vestment  in  which  his 
father  was  entangled  when  he  was  slain,  that 
it  may  be  seen  by  all  the  beholders ;  the  chorus 
recognize  the  bloody  spots  in  it,  and  mourn 
afresh  the  murder  of  Agamemnon.  Orestes, 
while  he  feels  that  his  mind  is  becoming  con- 
fused, lays  hold  of  an  opportunity  of  justifying 
himself;  he  declares  his  intention  of  repairing 
to  Delphi  to  purify  himself  from  the  bloody 
deed,  and  flies  with  terror  from  the  furies  of 
his  mother,  whom  the  chorus  does  not  perceive, 
but  conceives  to  be  a  mere  phantom  of  his  ima- 
gination, but  who  nevertheless  will  no  longer 
allow  him  any  repose.  The  chorus  concludes 
with  a  reflection  on  the  threefold  scene  of  mur- 
der, in  the  royal  palace,  since  the  repast  of 
Thyestes. 

The  fable  of  the  Eumenides  is,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  the  justification  and  absolution  of 
Orestes  from  his  bloody  crime ;  it  is  a  trial,  but 
a  trial  where  the  gods  are  accusers,  and  de- 
fenders, and  judges  ;  and  the  manner  in  which 
the  subject  is  treated  corresponds  with  its  ma- 
jesty and  importance.  The  scene  itself  brought 
before  the  eyes  of  the  Greeks  the  highest  objects 
of  veneration  which  were  known  to  them. 

It  opens  before  the  celebrated  temple  at  Del- 
phi, which  occupies  the  back-ground ;  the  aged 
Pythia  enters  in  sacerdotal  pomp,  addresses  her 


prayers  to  all  the  gods  who  presided,  or  still 
preside,  over  the  oracle,  harangues  the  assem- 
bled people  (the  actual),  and  goes  into  the  tem- 
ple to  seat  herself  on  a  tripod.  She  returns  full 
of  consternation,  and  describes  what  she  has 
seen  in  the  temple  :  a  man  stained  with  blood, 
supplicating  protection,  surrounded  by  sleeping 
women  with  serpent  hair ;  she  then  makes  her 
exit  by  the  same  entrance.  Apollo  now  appears  | 
with  Orestes  in  his  traveller's  garb,  and  a  sword 
and  an  olive  branch  in  his  hands.  He  promises 
him  his  farther  protection,  commands  him  to 
flee  to  Athens,  and  recommends  him  to  the  care 
of  the  present  but  invisible  Mercury,  to  whom 
travellers,  and  especially  those  who  were  under 
the  necessity  of  concealing  their  journey,  were 
usually  consigned. 

Orestes  goes  off  at  the  side  allotted  to  stran- 
gers;  Apollo  re-enters  the  temple,  which  re- 
mains open,  and  the  furies  are  seen  in  the  inte- 
rior sleeping  on  their  seats.  Clytemnestra  now 
ascends  by  the  charonic  stairs  through  the  or- 
chestra, and  appears  on  the  stage.  We  are  not 
to  suppose  her  a  haggard  skeleton,  but  a  figure 
with  the  appearance  of  life,  though  paler,  still 
bearing  her  wounds  in  her  breast,  and  shrouded 
in  ethereal -colored  vestments.  She  calls  re- 
peatedly to  the  Furies  in  the  language  of  vehe- 
ment reproach,  and  then  disappears,  probably 
through  a  trap-door.  The  Furies  awake,  and 
when  they  no  longer  find  Orestes,  they  dance 
in  wild  commotion  round  the  stage  during  the 
choral  song.  Apollo  returns  from  the  temple, 
and  expels  them  from  his  sanctuary  as  profana- 
tory  beings.  We  may  here  suppose  him  ap- 
pearing with  the  sublime  displeasure  of  the 
Apollo  of  the  Vatican,  with  bow  and  quiver,  or 
clothed  in  his  sacred  tunic  and  chlamys. 

The  scene  now  changes ;  but  as  the  Greeks 
on  such  occasions  were  fond  of  going  the  shortest 
way  to  work,  the  back-ground  remained  proba- 
bly unchanged,  and  had  now  to  represent  the 
temple  of  Minerva,  on  the  hill  of  Mars  (Areo- 
pagus), and  the  lateral  decorations  would  be 
converted  into  Athens  and  the  surrounding 
landscape.  Orestes  comes  as  from  another  land, 
and  embraces  as  a  suppliant  the  statue  of  Pallas 
placed  before  the  temple.  The  chorus  (who,  ' 
according  to  the  directions  of  the  poet,  were 
clothed  in  black,  with  purple  girdles,  and  ser- 
pents in  their  hair, — the  masks  with  something 
of  the  terrible  beauty  of  Medusa  heads,  and 
even  the  age  marked  on  plastic  principles, — ) 
follow  him  on  foot  to  this  place,  but  remain 
throughout  the  remainder  of  the  piece  beneath 
in  the  orchestra.  The  Furies  had  at  first  exhi- 
bited the  rage  of  beasts  of  prey  at  the  escape 
of  their  booty,  but  they  now  sing  with  tranquil 
dignity  their  high  and  terrible  office  among 
mortals,  claim  the  head  of  Orestes  as  forfeited 
to  them,  and  consecrate  it  with  mysterious 
charms  to  endless  pain.  Pallas,  the  warlike 
virgin,  appears  in  a  chariot  and  four  at  the  in- 
tercession of  the  suppliant.  She  listens  with 
calm  dignity  to  the  mutual  complaints  of  Orestes 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


437 


and  bis  adversaries,  and  finally  undertakes, 
after  due  reflection,  the  office  of  umpire,  at  the 
solicitation  of  the  two  parties.  The  assembled 
judges  take  their  seats  on  the  steps  of  the  tem- 
ple, the  herald  commands  silence  among  the 
people  by  sound  of  trumpets,  as  at  an  actunl 
tribunal.  Apollo  advances  to  advocate  the 
cause  of  the  youth,  the  Furies  in  vain  oppose 
his  interference,  and  the  arguments  for  and 
against  the  deed  are  gone  through  in  short 
speeches.  The  judges  throw  their  calculi  into 
the  urn,  Pallas  throws  in  a  white  one  ;  all  are 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  expectation ; 
Orestes  calls  out  full  of  anguish  to  his  protector: 

0  Phoebus  Apollo,  how  is  the  cause  decided  T 
The  Furies,  on  the  other  hand  : 

O  black  night,  mother  of  all  things,  dost  thou  behold  this  1 

In  the  enumeration  of  the  black  and  white 
pebbles,  they  are  found  equal  in  number,  and 
the  accused  is  therefore  declared  by  Pallas 
acquitted  of  the  charge.  He  breaks  out  into 
joyful  expressions  of  thanks,  while  the  Furies 
on  the  other  hand  declaim  against  the  arrogance 
of  the  young  gods,  who  take  such  liberties  with 
the  race  of  Titan.  Pallas  bears  their  rage  with 
equanimity,  addresses  them  in  the  language  of 
kindness,  and  even  of  veneration ;  and  these 
beings,  so  untractable  in  their  general  disposi- 
tion, are  unable  to  withstand  the  power  of  her 
mild  and  convincing  eloquence.  They  promise 
to  bless  the  land  over  which  she  has  dominion, 
while  Pallas  assigns  them  a  sanctuary  in  the 
Attic  territory,  where  they  are  to  be  called  the 
Eumenides,  that  is,  the  benevolent.  The  whole 
ends  with  a  solemn  procession  round  the  theatre, 
with  songs  of  invocation,  while  bands  of  child- 
ren, women,  and  old  men,  in  purple  robes,  and 
with  torches  in  their  hands,  accompany  the 
Furies  in  their  exit. 

Let  us  now  take  a  retrospective  view  of  the 
J  whole  triology.  In  Agamemnon  we  observe  in 
the  deed  which  is  planned  and  executed,  the 
greatest  display  of  arbitrary  will  and  power  : 
the  principal  character  is  a  great  criminal;  and 
the  piece  ends  with  the  revolting  impressions 
produced  by  the  sight  of  triumphant  tyranny 
and  crime.  I  have  already  alluded  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  a  previous  destiny. 

The  deed  in  the  Choephorce  is  partly  recom- 
i  mended  by  Apollo  as  an  appointment  of  fate,  and 
partly  originates  in  natural  motives :  the  desire 
of  avenging  the  father,  and  the  fraternal  love 
for  the  oppressed  Electra.  After  the  deed  the 
struggle  between  the  most  sacred  feelings  first 
becomes  manifest,  and  allows  no  repose  to  the 
distracted  youth. 

From  the  very  commencement,  the  Eume- 
nides stands  on  the  very  highest  tragical  eleva- 
tion :  all  the  past  is  concentrated  as  it  were  in 
one  focus.  Orestes  has  merely  been  the  passive 
instrument  of  fate ;  and  free  agency  is  trans- 
ferred to  the  more  elevated  sphere  of  the  gods. 
Pallas  is  properly  the  principal  character.  The 
opposition  between  the  most  sacred  relations, 


which  frequently  appears  beyond  the  power  of 
mortal  solution,  is  represented  as  a  contention 
in  the  world  of  the  gods. 

And  this  leads  me  to  the  deep  import  of  the 
whole.  The  ancient  mythology  is  in  general 
symbolical,  although  not  allegorical ;  for  the  two 
are  quite  distinct.  Allegory  is  the  personifica- 
tion of  an  idea,  a  fable  solely  undertaken  with 
such  a  view;  but  that  is  symbolical  which  has 
been  created  by  the  imagination  for  other  pur- 
poses, or  which  has  a  reality  in  itself  indepen- 
dent of  the  idea,  but  which  at  the  same  time  is 
easily  susceptible  of  a  symbolical  explanation, 
and  even  of  itself  suggests  it. 

The  Titans,  in  general,  mean  the  dark  pri- 
mary powers  of  nature  and  of  mind  ;  the  later 
gods,  what  enters  more  within  the  circle  of  con- 
sciousness. The  former  are  more  nearly  related 
to  the  original  chaos,  the  latter  belong  to  a  world 
already  subjected  to  order.  The  Furies  are  the 
dreadful  powers  of  conscience,  in  so  far  as  it 
rests  on  obscure  feelings  and  forebodings,  and 
yields  to  no  principles  of  reason.  In  vain 
Orestes  dwells  on  the  just  motives  for  the  deed— 
the  voice  of  blood  resounds  in  his  ear.  Apollo 
is  the  god  of  youth,  of  the  noble  ebullition  of 
passionate  discontent,  of  the  bold  daring  action  : 
hence  this  deed  was  commanded  by  him.  Pallas 
is  cool  wisdom,  justice,  and  moderation,  which 
alone  can  allay  the  dispute. 

Even  the  sleep  of  the  Furies  in  the  temple 
is  symbolical ;  for  only  in  the  holy  place,  in  the 
bosom  of  religion,  can  the  fugitive  find  rest  from 
the  stings  of  his  conscience.  Scarcely  however 
has  he  again  ventured  into  the  world,  when  the 
image  of  his  murdered  mother  appears,  and 
again  awakens  them.  The  very  speech  of 
Clytemnestra  is  symbolical,  as  well  as  the  attri- 
butes of  the  Furies,  the  serpents,  and  the  suck- 
ing of  blood.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the 
aversion  of  Apollo  for  them  ;  in  fact  this  sym- 
bolical application  runs  throughout  the  whole.— 
The  equal  cogency  of  the  motives  for  and 
against  the  deed  is  denoted  by  the  divided 
number  of  the  judges.  When  at  last  a  sanctuary 
is  allotted  to  the  softened  Furies  in  the  Athe- 
nian territory,  this  is  as  much  as  to  say  that 
reason  shall  not  everywhere  assert  her  power 
against  the  instinctive  impulse,  that  there  are 
certain  boundaries  in  the  human  mind  which 
are  not  to  be  passed,  and  which  every  person 
possessed  of  a  sentiment  of  reverence  will  be- 
ware of  touching,  if  he  wishes  lo  preserve  in- 
ward peace. 

So  much  for  the  deep  philosophical  import, 
which  we  are  not  to  wonder  at  finding  in  this 
poet,  who,  according  to  the  testimony  of  Cicero, 
was  a  Pythagorean.  JEschylus  had  also  his 
political  views.  The  first  of  these  was  the 
rendering  Athens  illustrious.  Delphi  was  the 
religious  centre  of  Greece,  and  yet  how  it  is 
thrown  into  the  shade!  It  can  only  shelter 
Orestes  from  the  first  onset  of  persecution,  but 
not  afford  him  a  complete  freedom  ;  this  is  re- 
served for  the  land  where  law  and  humanity 
37* 


438  A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


flourish.  His  principal  object  however  was  the 
recommending  as  essential  to  the  welfare  of 
Athens  the  Areopagus,*  an  uncorruptible  yet 
mild  tribunal,  in  which  the  white  pebble  of 
Pallas  in  favor  of  the  accused  does  honor  to  the 
humanity  of  the  Athenians.  The  poet  shows 
us  the  origin  of  an  institution  fraught  with  bless- 
ings to  humanity,  in  an  immense  circle  of 
crimes. 

But  it  will  be  asked,  are  not  aims  of  this  de- 
scription prejudicial  to  the  pure  poetical  impres- 
sion which  the  whole  ought  to  produce  1  Most 
undoubtedly,  in  the  manner  in  which  other 
poets,  and  especially  Euripides,  have  proceeded 
in  such  cases.  But  in  iEschylus  the  aim  is 
much  more  subservient  to  the  poetry  than  the 
poetry  to  the  aim.  He  does  not  lower  himself 
to  a  circumscribed  reality,  but  elevates  it  on  the 
contrary  to  a  higher  sphere,  and  connects  it  with 
the  most  sublime  conceptions. 

In  the  Orestiad  (for  so  the  three  connected 
pieces  are  called)  we  certainly  possess  one  of 
the  most  sublime  poems  that  ever  was  conceived 
by  the  human  imagination,  and  probably  the 
most  mature  and  faultless  of  all  the  productions 
of  his  genius.  The  period  of  their  composition 
confirms  this  supposition  ;  for  he  was  at  least 
sixty  years  old  when  he  brought  these  dramas 
on  the  stage,  the  last  which  he  ever  submitted 
in  competition  for  the  prize  at  Athens.  Every 
one  of  his  pieces  however  which  have  come 
down  to  us  is  remarkable  either  for  the  display 
of  some  peculiar  property  of  the  poet,  or  as  in- 
dicative of  the  step  in  the  art  on  which  he  stood 
at  the  time. 

The  Chained  Prometheus  is  the  representa- 
tion of  constancy  under  suffering,  and  that  the 
never-ending  suffering  of  a  god.  Exiled  to  a 
naked  rock  on  the  shore  of  the  encircling  ocean, 
this  drama  still  embraces  the  world,  the  Olym- 
pus of  the  gods,  and  the  earth  of  mortals,  all 
scarcely  yet  reposing  in  a  secure  state  above  the 
dread  abyss  of  the  dark  Titanian  powers.  The 
idea  of  a  self-devoting  divinity  has  been  myste- 


*  I  do  not  find  that  this  aim  has  ever  been  ascribed  to 
^Eschylus  by  the  express  testimony  of  any  ancient  writer. 
It  is  however,  not  to  be  mistaken,  especially  in  the 
speech  of  Pallas,  beginning  with  the  C80th  verse.  This 
coincides  with  the  account  that  in  the  very  year  when 
the  piece  was  represented,  Olymp.  Ixxx.  1,  a  certain 
Ephialtes  excited  the  people  against  the  Areopagus, 
which  was  the  best  guardian  of  the  old  and  more  austere 
constitution,  and  kept  democratic  extravagance  in  check. 
This  Ephialtes  was  murdered  one  night  by  an  unknown 
hand.  ^Eschylus  received  the  first  prize  in  the  theatrical 
games,  but  we  know  at  the  same  time  that  he  left  Athens 
immediately  afterwards,  and  passed  his  remaining  years 
in  Sicily.  It  is  possible  that,  although  the  theatrical 
judges  did  him  the  justice  to  which  he  was  entitled,  he 
might  be  held  in  aversion  by  the  multitude  notwithstand- 
ing, and  that  this  without  any  express  sentence  of  ba- 
nishment might  have  induced  him  to  leave  his  native 
city.  The  story  of  the  sight  of  the  terrible  chorus  of 
Furies  having  thrown  children  into  mortal  convulsions, 
and  caused  women  to  miscarry,  appears  to  me  fabulous. 
A  poet  would  hardly  have  been  crowned,  who  had  been 
the  occasion  of  profaning  the  festival  by  such  occurrences. 


riously  inculcated  in  many  religions,  as  a  con- 
fused foreboding  of  the  true;  here  however  it 
appears  in  a  most  alarming  contrast  with  the 
consolations  of  revelation.-'  For  Prometheus  does 
not  suffer  on  an  understanding  with  the  power 
by  whom  the  world  is  governed,  but  he  atones 
for  his  disobedience,  and  that  disobedience  con- 
sists in  nothing  but  the  attempt  to  give  perfection 
to  the  human  race.  It  is  thus  an  image  of  hu- 
man nature  itself:  endowed  with  a  miserable 
foresight  and  bound  down  to  a  narrow  exist- 
ence, without  an  ally,  and  with  nothing  to  op- 
pose to  the  combined  and  inexorable  powers  of 
nature,  but  an  unshaken  will  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  elevated  claims.  The  other  poems  of 
the  Greek  tragedians  are  single  tragedies:  but 
this  may  be  called  tragedy  itself:  its  purest 
spirit  is  revealed  with  all  the  annihilating  and 
overpowering  influence  of  its  first  unmitigated 
austerity. 

There  is  little  external  action  in  this  piece  : 
Prometheus  merely  suffers  and  resolves  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end ;  and  his  sufferings 
and  resolutions  are  always  the  same.  But  the 
poet  has  contrived  in  a  masterly  manner  to  in- 
troduce variety  and  progress  into  that  which  in 
itself  was  determinately  filled,  and  given  us  a 
scale  for  the  measurement  of  the  matchless 
power  of  his  sublime  Titans  in  the  objects  by 
which  he  has  surrounded  them.  We  have  the 
first  silence  of  Prometheus  while  he  is  chained 
down  under  the  harsh  inspection  of  Strength 
and  Force,  whose  threats  serve  only  to  excite  a 
useless  compassion  in  Vulcan,  who  carries  them 
into  execution  ;  then  his  solitary  complaints,  the 
arrival  of  the  tender  ocean  nymphs,  whose  kind 
but  disheartening  sympathy  induces  him  to  give 
vent  to  his  feelings,  to  relate  the  causes  of  his 
fall,  and  to  reveal  the  future,  though  with  pru- 
dent reserve  he  reveals  it  only  in  part;  the  visit 
of  the  ancient  Oceanus,  a  kindred  god  of  the 
race  of  Titans,  who,  under  the  pretext  of  a 
zealous  attachment  to  his  cause,  advises  him  to 
submission  towards  Jupiter,  and  who  is  on  that 
account  dismissed  with  proud  contempt;  the 
introduction  of  the  raving  Io,  driven  about  from 
place  to  place,  the  victim  of  the  same  tyranny 
from  which  Prometheus  himself  suffers;  his 
prophecy  of  the  wanderings  to  which  she  is  still 
doomed,  and  the  fate  which  at  last  awaits  her, 
connected  in  some  degree  with  his  own,  as  from 
her  blood  he  is  to  receive  a  deliverer  after 
the  lapse  of  many  ages ;  the  appearance  of 
Mercury  as  a  messenger  of  the  tyrant  of  the 
world,  who  with  threats  commands  him  to  dis- 
close the  secret  by  which  Jupiter  may  remain 
on  his  throne  secure  from  all  the  malice  of  fate; 
and  lastly,  the  yawning  of  the  earth  before  Pro- 
metheus has  well  declared  his  refusal,  amidst 
thunder  and  lightning,  storms  and  earthquake, 
by  which  he  himself  and  the  rock  to  which  he 
is  chained  are  swallowed  up  in  the  abyss  of 
the  nether  world.  The  triumph  of  subjection 
was  never  celebrated  in  more  glorious  strains, 
and  we  have  difficulty  in  conceiving  how  the 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


439 


poet  in  the  Freed  Prometheus  could  sustain 
himself  on  such  an  elevation. 

In  the  dramas  of  iEschylus  we  have  one  of 
many  examples  that,  in  every  art  as  well  as 
nature,  gigantic  productions  precede  those  that 
evince  regularity  of  proportion,  which  again  in 
their  turn  decline  gradually  into  littleness  and 
insignificance,  and  that  poetry  in  its  original 
appearance  approaches  always  the  nearest  to 
the  reverence  of  religion,  whatever  form  the 
latter  may  assume  among  the  various  races  of 
men. 

A  saying  of  the  poet,  which  has  been  pre- 
served, affords  us  a  proof  that  he  endeavored 
to  maintain  himself  on  this  elevation,  and  pur- 
posely avoided  all  artificial  cultivation,  which 
might  have  the  effect  of  lowering  the  divinity 
of  his  character.  His  brethren  stimulated  him 
to  write  a  new  Paean.  He  answered :  "  The 
old  one  of  Tynachus  is  the  best,  and  the  same 
thing  would  happen  here  that  was  observable 
in  a  comparison  between  the  ancient  and  mo- 
dern statues ;  for  the  former  with  all  their  sim- 
plicity were  considered  as  divine,  and  the  mo- 
dern, with  all  the  care  bestowed  on  their 
execution,  were  indeed  admired,  but  bore  much 
less  the  impression  of  a  divinity."  He  carries 
his  boldness  in  religious  matters,  as  in  every- 
thing else,  to  the  utmost  limits;  and  he  was 
even  accused  of  having  in  one  of  his  pieces 
disclosed  the  Eleusinian  mysteries,  and  only 
absolved  on  the  intercession  of  his  brother 
Amynias,  who  displayed  the  wounds  which  he 
had  received  in  the  battle  of  Salamis.  He  per- 
haps believed  that  in  the  poetic  communication 
was  contained  the  initiation  into  the  mysteries, 
and  that  nothing  was  in  this  way  revealed  to 
any  one  who  was  not  worthy  of  it. 

The  tragic  style  of  JEschylus  is  still  imper- 
fect, and  not  unfrequently  runs  into  the  unmixed 
epic  and  lyric.  It  is  often  disjointed,  irregular, 
and  hard.  To  compose  more  regular  and  skil- 
ful tragedies  than  those  of  iEschylus  was  by  no 
means  difficult ;  but  in  the  more  than  mortal 
grandeur  which  he  displayed,  it  was  impossible 
that  he  should  ever  be  surpassed ;  and  even 
Sophocles,  his  younger  and  more  fortunate  rival, 
did  not  in  this  respect  equal  him.  The  latter, 
in  speaking  of  iEschylus,  gave  a  proof  that  he 
was  himself  a  reflecting  artist :  "  ^Eschylus  does 
what  is  right  without  knowing  it."  These  few 
simple  words  exhaust  the  whole  of  what  we 
understand  by  powerful  genius  unconscious  of 
its  powers. 

SOPHOCLES. 

The  birth-year  of  Sophocles  was  nearly  at  an 
equal  distance  between  that  of  his  predecessor 
and  of  Euripides,  so  that  he  was  about  half  a 
life-time  from  each :  in  this  all  the  accounts  are 
found  to  coincide.  He  was  however  during 
the  greater  part  of  his  life  the  contemporary  of 
both.  He  frequently  contended  for  the  tragic 
garland  with  JEschylus,  and  he  outlived  Euri- 
pides, who  himself  attained  a  good  age.    If  I 


may  speak  in  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  religion, 
it  seems  that  a  beneficent  Providence  wished 
to  evince  to  the  human  race,  in  the  instance  of 
this  individual,  the  dignity  and  felicity  of  their 
lot,  as  he  was  endowed  with  every  divine  gift, 
with  all  that  can  adorn  and  elevate  the  mind 
and  heart,  and  crowned  with  every  blessing 
imaginable  in  this  life.  Descended  from  rich 
and  honored  parents,  and  born  a  free  citizen  of 
the  most  cultivated  state  of  Greece,  such  were 
the  advantages  with  which  he  entered  the 
world.  Beauty  of  body  and  of  soul,  and  the 
uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  both  in  the  utmost 
perfection,  till  the  extreme  limits  of  human  ex- 
istence ;  an  education  the  most  extensive,  yet 
select,  in  gymnastics  and  music,  the  former  so 
important  in  the  development  of  the  bodily 
powers,  and  the  latter  in  the  communication  of 
harmony ;  the  sweet  blossom  of  youth,  and  the 
ripe  fruit  of  age;  the  possession  and  continued 
enjoyment  of  poetry  and  art,  and  the  exercise 
of  serene  wisdom ;  love  and  respect  among  his 
fellow  citizens,  fame  in  other  countries,  and  the 
countenance  and  favor  of  the  gods ;  these  are 
the  general  features  of  the  life  of  this  pious  and 
virtuous  poet.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  gods,  in 
return  for  his  dedicating  himself  at  an  early  age 
to  Bacchus,  as  the  giver  of  all  joy,  and  the  author 
of  the  cultivation  of  the  human  race,  by  the  re- 
presentatiou  of  tragical  dramas  for  his  festivals, 
had  wished  to  confer  immortality  on  him,  so 
long  did  they  delay  the  hour  of  his  death  ;  but 
as  this  was  impossible,  they  extinguished  his 
life  as  gently  as  possible,  that  he  might  imper- 
ceptibly change  one  immortality  for  another, 
the  long  duration  of  his  earthly  existence  for  an 
imperishable  name.  When  a  youth  of  sixteen, 
he  was  selected,  on  account  of  his  beauty,  to 
play  on  the  lyre,  and  to  dance  in  the  Greek 
manner  before  the  chorus  of  youths  who,  after 
the  battle  of  Salamis  (in  which  ^Eschylus  fought, 
and  which  he  has  so  nobly  described),  executed 
the  Paean  round  the  trophy  erected  on  that  oc- 
casion;  so  that  the  fairest  development  of  his 
youthful  beauty  coincided  with  the  moment 
when  the  Athenian  people  had  attained  the 
epoch  of  their  highest  glory.  He  held  the  rank 
of  general  along  with  Pericles  and  Thucydides, 
and,  when  arrived  at  a  more  advanced  age,  the 
priesthood  of  a  native  hero.  In  his  twenty-fifth 
year  he  began  to  represent  tragedies ;  twenty 
times  he  was  victorious ;  he  often  gained  the  se- 
cond place,  and  he  never  was  ranked  in  the  third. 
In  this  career  he  proceeded  with  increasing  suc- 
cess till  he  reached  his  ninetieth  year  ;  and  some 
of  his  greatest  works  were  even  the  fruit  of  a  still 
later  period.  There  is  a  story  of  an  accusation 
brought  against  him  by  one  or  more  of  his  elder 
sons,  of  having  become  childish  from  age,  be- 
cause he  was  too  fond  of  a  grandchild  by  a 
second  wife,  and  of  being  no  longer  in  a  condi- 
tion to  manage  his  own  affairs.  In  his  defence 
he  merely  read  to  his  judges  his  CEdipus  in  Co- 
lonos,  which  he  had  then  composed  in  honor  of 
Colonos,  his  birth-place;  and  the  astonished 


440 


A.  W.  SCHLEGEL. 


judges,  without  farther  consultation,  conducted 
him  in  triumph  to  his  house.  If  it  be  true  that 
the  second  (Edipus  was  written  at  so  late  an 
age,  as  from  its  mature  serenity  and  total  free- 
dom from  the  impetuosity  and  violence  of  youth 
we  have  good  reason  to  conclude  that  it  actually 
was,  it  affords  us  at  once  a  pleasing  picture  of 
the  delight  and  reverence  which  attended  his 
concluding  years.  Although  the  various  ac- 
counts of  his  death  appear  fabulous,  they  all 
coincide  in  this,  that  he  departed  without  a 
struggle,  while  employed  in  his  art,  or  some- 
thing connected  with  it,  and  that  like  an  old 
swan  of  Apollo,  he  breathed  out  his  life  in  song. 
I  consider  also  the  story  of  the  Lacedemonian 
general  who  had  fortified  the  burying-ground 
of  his  fathers,  and  who,  twice  exhorted  by  Bac- 
chus in  a  vision  to  allow  Sophocles  to  be  there 
interred,  despatched  a  herald  to  the  Athenians 
on  the  subject,  with  a  number  of  other  circum- 
stances, as  the  strongest  possible  proof  of  the 
established  reverence  in  which  his  name  was 
held.  In  calling  him  virtuous  and  pious,  I  spoke 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  words ;  for  although  his 
works  breathe  the  real  character  of  ancient 
grandeur,  sweetness  and  simplicity,  of  all  the 
Grecian  poets  he  is  also  the  individual  whose 
feelings  bear  the  strongest  affinity  to  the  spirit 
of  our  religion. 

One  gift  alone  was  refused  to  him  by  nature: 
a  voice  attuned  to  song.  He  could  only  call 
forth  and  direct  the  harmonious  effusions  of 
other  voices;  he  was  therefore  compelled  to 
depart  from  the  established  practice  of  the  poet 
acting  a  part  in  his  own  pieces,  and  only  once 
(a  very  characteristic  trait)  made  his  appear- 
ance in  the  character  of  the  blind  singer  Tha- 
myris  playing  on  the  cithera. 

As  iEschylus,  who  raised  tragic  poetry  from 
its  rude  beginnings  to  the  dignity  of  the  cothur- 
nus, was  his  predecessor  ;  the  historical  relations 
in  which  he  stood  to  Sophocles  enabled  the  latter 
to  avail  himself  of  the  inventions  of  his  original 
master,  so  that  jEschylus  appears  as  the  rough 
designer,  and  Sophocles  as  the  finished  successor. 
The  more  artful  construction  of  the  dramas  of 
the  latter  is  easily  perceived  :  the  limitation  of 
the  chorus  with  respect  to  the  dialogue,  the 
polish  of  the  rhythmus,  and  the  pure  Attic  dic- 
tion, the  introduction  of  a  greater  number  of 
characters,  the  increase  of  contrivance  in  the 
fable,  the  multiplication  of  incidents,  a  greater 


degree  of  development,  the  more  tranquil  con- 
tinuance of  all  the  moments  of  the  action,  and 
the  greater  degree  of  theatrical  effect  given  to 
incidents  of  a  decisive  nature,  the  more  perfect 
rounding  of  the  whole,  even  considered  in  a 
mere  external  point  of  view.  But  he  excelled 
iEschylus  in  somewhat  still  more  essential,  and 
proved  himself  deserving  of  the  good  fortune 
of  having  such  a  preceptor,  and  of  entering  into 
competition  with  him  in  the  same  subjects:  I 
mean  the  harmonious  perfection  of  his  mind, 
by  which  he  fulfilled  from  inclination  every 
duty  prescribed  by  the  laws  of  beauty,  and  of 
which  the  impulse  was  in  him  accompanied 
by  the  most  clear  consciousness.  It  was  im- 
possible to  exceed  iEschylus  in  boldness  of 
conception ;  I  am  inclined  however  to  believe 
that  Sophocles  appears  only  less  bold  from  his 
wisdom  and  moderation,  as  he  always  goes  to 
work  with  the  greatest  energy,  and  perhaps 
with  even  a  more  determined  severity,  like  a 
man  who  knows  the  extent  of  his  powers,  and 
is  determined,  when  he  does  not  exceed  them, 
to  stand  up  with  the  greater  confidence  for  his 
rights.  As  iEschylus  delights  in  transporting 
us  to  the  convulsions  of  the  primary  world  of 
the  Titans,  Sophocles  on  the  other  hand  never 
avails  himself  of  the  gods  but  when  their  ap- 
pearance is  necessary;  he  formed  men,  accord- 
ing to  the  general  confession  of  antiquity,  better, 
that  is,  not  more  moral,  or  exempt  from  error, 
but  more  beautiful  and  noble  than  they  appeared 
in  real  life ;  and  while  he  took  everything  in 
the  most  human  signification,  he  was  at  the 
same  time  aware  of  their  superior  destination. 
According  to  all  appearance  he  was  also  more 
moderate  than  JEschylus  in  his  scenic  orna- 
ments ;  he  displayed  perhaps  more  taste  and 
selection  in  his  objects,  but  did  not  attempt  the  | 
same  colossal  pomp. 

To  characterize  the  native  sweetness  and 
affection  so  eminent  in  this  poet,  the  ancients 
gave  him  the  appellation  of  the  Attic  bee. 
Whoever  is  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  feeling 
of  this  property  may  flatter  himself  that  a  sense 
for  ancient  art  has  arisen  within  him  ;  for  the 
affected  sentimentality  of  the  present  day,  far 
from  coinciding  with  him  in  this  opinion,  would 
both  in  the  representation  of  bodily  sufferings, 
and  in  the  language  and  economy  of  the  trage- 
dies of  Sophocles,  find  much  of  an  unsupportable 
austerity. 


FRIEDRICH  DANIEL  ERNST  SCHLEIERMACHER. 


Born  1769.   Died  1834. 


The  respected  divine  who  bore  this  name, 
distinguished  alike  by  his  intellectual  pre-emi- 
nence and  his  beautiful  piety,  somewhat  resem- 
bles Fenelon  in  his  relation  to  his  time,  and  the 
kind  of  influence  which  went  forth  from  him. 
With  nothing  of  the  mysticism  of  the  French 
saint,  he  possessed  the  same  practical  depth 
of  spirit  and  the  same  devout  earnestness; 
strongly  contrasted  in  this  respect  with  the  ra- 
tionalistic theologians  of  his  day.  As  a  German 
and  a  theologian,  he  was  learned,  of  course; 
but  he  was  far  more  than  that ;  he  was  also  a 
profound  philosopher,  and,  in  philosophy,  a  Pla- 
tonist.  No  modern  has  entered  more  fully  into 
the  meaning  and  spirit  of  the  immortaj  Greek, 
whose  works  he  translated  in  part.  The  great 
aim  of  his  life  was  to  reconcile  philosophy  with 
Christianity,  and  to  revive  the  religious  senti- 
ment in  an  age  when  the  atheistic  philosophy 
of  France  had  brought  a  temporary  blight  upon 
all  the  nobler  products  of  the  soul.  The  "Dis- 
courses on  Religion,"  from  which  the  following 
extract  is  taken,  is  a  contribution  to  this  end. 
His  last  and  his  most  important  work  is  the 
Christliche  Glaubenslehre  (Doctrine  of  Chris- 
tianity). 

Schleiermacher  was  born  at  Breslau,  and 
educated  as  a  Moravian  at  the  Seminary  of  the 
United  Brethren  at  Niesky.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  he  left  the  society  of  the  Moravians, 
and  studied  theology  at  Halle.  Having  been 
ordained  as  a  preacher,  he  was  minister  for  six 
years  at  the  hospital,  Charite,  in  Berlin.  During 
this  time,  he  published  his  Monologues  and  the 
Discourses  on  Religion,  and  translated  Blair's 
and  Fawcett's  sermons.    In  1802,  he  was  ap- 


pointed professor  "extraordinary"  of  theology  at 
Halle,  and  preached  to  the  University.  During 
the  troublous  period  of  the  French  invasion  in 
1807,  when  Halle  was  taken  from  the  Prus- 
sians, he  returned  to  Berlin,  and  lectured  and 
preached  with  patriotic  boldness  on  the  state 
of  the  times,  unawed  by  Davoust,  who  then 
occupied  the  city.  In  1809,  he  was  appointed 
preacher  to  the  Trinity  church  in  Berlin,  and 
was  married  the  same  year.  In  1810,  at  the 
establishment  of  the  University  at  Berlin,  he 
was  made  Professor  of  theology  in  that  institu- 
tion. This  post  he  retained  until  his  death. 
In  1833,  he  visited  England,  and  opened  the 
German  church  at  the  Savoy. 

In  person,  Schleiermacher  was  diminutive 
and  deformed.  As  a  preacher,  he  was  un- 
boundedly popular,  although  his  discourses  had 
none  of  those  qualities  which  stir  the  blood,  but 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  in  plain  practical 
appeals  to  the  understanding  and  the  conscience. 
He  preached  extempore,  and,  it  is  said,  with  no 
other  preparation  than  that  which  he  allowed 
himself  on  Sunday  morning, — an  hour  before 
service.  His  conduct  during  his  last  hours,  as 
related  by  his  wife,  was  characteristic,  and 
illustrated  the  Christian  faith  and  piety  which 
distinguished  him  through  life.  His  last  act,  a 
few  minutes  before  death,  was  to  administer 
the  service  of  the  Eucharist  to  himself  and  his 
family.  "In  these  words  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures," he  said,  "I  place  my  trust;  they  are 
the  corner-stone  of  my  faith :"  then  turning  to 
his  wife  and  children,  "  In  this  love  and  com- 
munion of  souls,  then,  we  are  and  shall  be  one 
and  undivided."    He  died  February  12, 1834. 


DISCOURSE  IV. 

ON  THE  SOCIAL  ELEMENT  IN  RELIGION  ;  OR  ON  THE  CHURCH  AND 
PRIESTHOOD. 
Translated  by  Mr.  George  Ripley. 

Those  among  you  who  are  accustomed  to  re- 
gard religion  as  a  disease  of  the  human  mind, 
cherish  also  the  habitual  conviction,  that  it  is  an 
evil  more  easily  borne,  if  it  cannot  be  restrained, 
3F 


so  long  as  it  is  only  insulated  individuals  here 
and  there  who  are  infected  with  it;  but  that 
the  common  danger  is  raised  to  the  highest  de- 
gree, and  everything  put  at  stake,  as  soon  as  a 
too  close  connexion  is  permitted  between  many 
patients  of  this  character.  In  the  former  case 
it  is  possible  by  a  judicious  treatment,  as  it  M  ere 
by  an  antiphlogistic  regimen,  and  by  a  healthy, 

(441) 


44.2 


SCHLEIERMACHER. 


spiritual  atmosphere,  to  ward  off  the  violence  of 
the  paroxysms ;  and  if  not  to  entirely  conquer 
the  exciting  cause  of  the  disease,  to  attenuate  it 
to  such  a  degree  that  it  shall  be  almost  inno- 
cuous. But  in  the  latter  case,  we  must  despair 
of  every  other  means  of  cure,  except  that  which 
may  proceed  from  some  internal  beneficent  ope- 
ration of  Nature.  For  the  evil  is  attended  with 
more  alarming  symptoms,  and  is  more  fatal  in 
its  effects,  when  the  too  great  proximity  of  other 
infected  persons  feeds  and  aggravates  it  in  every 
individual;  the  whole  mass  of  vital  air  is  then 
quickly  poisoned  by  a  few  ;  the  most  vigorous 
frames  are  smitten  with  the  contagion ;  all  the 
channels  in  which  the  functions  of  life  should 
go  on  are  destroyed;  all  the  juices  of  the  system 
are  decomposed ;  and,  seized  with  a  similar 
feverous  delirium,  the  sound  spiritual  life  and 
productions  of  whole  ages  and  nations  are  in- 
volved in  irremediable  ruin.  Hence  your  anti- 
pathy to  the  church,  to  every  institution  which 
is  intended  for  the  communication  of  religion, 
is  always  more  prominent  than  that  which  you 
feel  to  religion  itself:  hence,  also,  priests,  as  the 
pillars  and  the  most  efficient  members  of  such 
institutions,  are,  of  all  men,  the  objects  of  your 
greatest  abomination. 

Even  those  among  you  who  hold  a  little  more 
indulgent  opinion  with  regard  to  religion,  and 
deem  it  rather  a  singularity  than  a  disorder  of 
the  mind,  an  insignificant  rather  than  a  danger- 
ous phenomenon,  cherish  quite  as  unfavourable 
impressions  of  all  social  organization  for  its  pro- 
motion. A  slavish  immolation  of  all  that  is  free 
and  peculiar,  a  system  of  lifeless  mechanism 
and  barren  ceremonies, — these,  they  imagine, 
are  the  inseparable  consequences  of  every  such 
institution ;  and  these,  the  ingenious  and  elabo- 
rate work  of  men,  who,  with  almost  incredible 
success,  have  made  a  great  merit  of  things  which 
are  either  nothing  in  themselves,  or  which  any 
other  person  was  quite  as  capable  of  accom- 
plishing as  they.  I  should  pour  out  my  heart 
but  very  imperfectly  before  you,  on  a  subject  to 
which  I  attach  the  utmost  importance,  if  I  did 
not  undertake  to  give  you  the  correct  point  of 
view  with  regard  to  it.  I  need  not  here  repeat 
how  many  of  the  perverted  endeavors  and  me- 
lancholy fortunes  of  humanity  you  charge  upon 
religious  associations ;  this  is  clear  as  light,  in  a 
thousand  indications  of  your  predominant  indi- 
viduals; nor  will  I  stop  to  refute  these  accusa- 
tions, one  by  one,  in  order  to  fix  the  evil  upon 
other  causes.  Let  us  rather  submit  the  whole 
conception  of  the  church  to  a  new  examination, 
and  from  its  central  point,  throughout  its  whole 
extent,  erect  it  again  upon  a  new  basis,  without 
regard  to  what  it  has  actually  been  hitherto,  or 
to  what  experience  may  suggest  concerning  it. 

If  religion  exists  at  all,  it  must  needs  possess 
a  social  character ;  this  is  founded  not  only  in 
the  nature  of  man,  but  still  more  in  the  nature 
of  religion.  You  will  acknowledge  that  it  indi- 
cates a  state  of  disease,  a  signal  perversion  of 


nature,  when  an  individual  wishes  to  shut  up 
within  himself  anything  which  he  has  produced 
and  elaborated  by  his  own  efforts.  It  is  the  dis- 
position of  man  to  reveal  and  to  communicate 
whatever  is  in  him,  in  the  indispensable  rela- 
tions and  mutual  dependence  not  only  of  practical 
life,  but  also  of  his  spiritual  being,  by  which  he 
is  connected  with  all  others  of  his  race ;  and  the 
more  powerfully  he  is  wrought  upon  by  any- 
thing, the  more  deeply  it  penetrates  his  inward 
nature,  so  much  the  stronger  is  this  social  im- 
pulse, even  if  we  regard  it  only  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  universal  endeavor  to  behold 
the  emotions  which  we  feel  ourselves,  as  they 
are  exhibited  by  others,  so  that  we  may  obtain 
a  proof  from  their  example  that  our  own  expe- 
rience is  not  beyond  the  sphere  of  humanity. 

You  perceive  that  I  am  not  speaking  here  of 
the  endeavor  to  make  others  similar  to  ourselves, 
nor  of  the  conviction  that  what  is  exhibited  in 
one  is  essential  to  all ;  it  is  merely  my  aim  to 
ascertain  the  true  relation  between  our  indivi- 
dual life  and  the  common  nature  of  man,  and 
clearly  to  set  it  forth.  But  the  peculiar  object 
of  this  desire  for  communication  is  unquestion- 
ably that  in  which  man  feels  that  he  is  origin- 
ally passive,  namely,  his  perceptions  and  emo- 
tions. He  is  here  impelled  by  the  eager  wish 
to  know  whether  the  power  which  has  produced 
them  in  him  be  not  something  foreign  and  un- 
worthy. Hence  we  see  man  employed,  from  his 
very  childhood,  with  making  revelations,  which, 
for  the  most  part,  are  of  this  character ;  the  con- 
ceptions of  his  understanding,  concerning  whose 
origin  there  can  be  no  doubt,  he  allows  to  rest 
in  his  own  mind,  and  still  more  easily  he  deter- 
mines to  refrain  from  the  expression  of  his  judg- 
ments; but  whatever  acts  upon  his  senses,  what- 
ever awakens  his  feelings,  of  that  he  desires  to  I 
obtain  witnesses,  with  regard  to  that  he  longs 
for  those  who  will  sympathise  with  him.  How 
should  he  keep  to  himself  those  very  operations 
of  the  world  upon  his  soul  which  are  the  most 
universal  and  comprehensive,  which  appear  to 
him  as  of  the  most  stupendous  and  resistless 
magnitude'?  How  should  he  be  willing  to  lock 
up  within  his  own  bosom  those  very  emotions 
which  impel  him  with  the  greatest  power  be- 
yond himself,  and  in  the  indulgence  of  which, 
he  becomes  conscious  that  he  can  never  under- 
stand his  own  nature  from  himself  alone?  It 
will  rather  be  his  first  endeavor,  whenever  a 
religious  view  gains  clearness  in  his  eye,  or  a 
pious  feeling  penetrates  his  soul,  to  direct  the 
attention  of  others  to  the  same  object,  and,  as  far 
as  possible,  to  communicate  to  their  hearts  the 
elevated  impulses  of  his  own. 

If,  then,  the  religious  man  is  urged  by  his  na- 
ture to  speak,  it  is  the  same  nature  which  se- 
cures to  him  the  certainty  of  hearers.  There  is 
no  element  of  his  being  with  which,  at  the  same 
time,  there  is  implanted  in  man  such  a  lively 
feeling  of  his  total  inability  to  exhaust  it  by  him« 
self  alone,  as  with  that  of  religion.  A  sense  of 
religion  has  no  sooner  dawned  upon  him,  than 


SCHLEIERMACHER.  443 


he  feels  the  infinity  of  its  nature  and  the  limita- 
tion of  his  own ;  he  is  conscious  of  embracing 
but  a  small  portion  of  it;  and  that  which  he 
cannot  immediately  reach,  he  wishes  to  perceive, 
as  far  as  he  can,  from  the  representations  of 
others  who  have  experienced  it  themselves,  and 
to  enjoy  it  with  them.  Hence,  he  is  anxious  to 
observe  every  manifestation  of  it;  and,  seeking 
to  supply  his  own  deficiencies,  he  watches  for 
every  tone  which  he  recognizes  as  proceeding 
from  it.  In  this  manner,  mutual  communica- 
tions are  instituted;  in  this  manner,  every  one 
feels  equally  the  need  both  of  speaking  and 
hearing. 

But  the  imparting  of  religion  is  not  to  be 
sought  in  books,  like  that  of  intellectual  con- 
ceptions and  scientific  knowledge.  The  pure 
impression  of  the  original  product  is  too  far  de- 
stroyed in  this  medium,  which,  in  the  same  way 
that  dark-colored  objects  absorb  a  great  propor- 
tion of  the  rays  of  light,  swallows  up  everything 
belonging  to  the  pious  emotions  of  the  hearty 
which  cannot  be  embraced  in  the  insufficient 
symbols  from  which  it  is  intended  again  to  pro- 
ceed. Nay,  in  the  written  communications  of 
religious  feeling,  everything  needs  a  double 
and  triple  representation;  for  that  which  origin- 
ally represented,  must  be  represented  in  its 
turn ;  and  yet  the  effect  on  the  whole  man,  in 
its  complete  unity,  can  only  be  imperfectly  set 
forth  by  continued  and  varied  reflections.  It  is 
only  when  religion  is  driven  out  from  the  society 
of  the  living,  that  -it  must  conceal  its  manifold 
life  under  the  dead  letter. 

Neither  can  this  intercourse  of  heart  with 
heart,  on  the  deepest  feelings  of  humanity,  be 
carried  on  in  common  conversation.  Many  per- 
sons, who  are  filled  with  zeal  for  the  interests 
of  religion,  have  brought  it  as  a  reproach  against 
the  manners  of  our  age,  that  while  all  other  im- 
portant subjects  are  so  freely  discussed  in  the 
intercourse  of  society,  so  little  should  be  said 
concerning  God  and  divine  things.  I  would 
defend  ourselves  against  this  charge  by  main- 
taining that  this  circumstance,  at  least,  does  not 
indicate  contempt  or  indifference  towards  reli- 
gion, but  a  happy  and  very  correct  instinct.  In 
the  presence  of  joy  and  merriment,  where  ear- 
nestness itself  must  yield  to  raillery  and  wit, 
there  can  be  no  place  for  that  which  should  be 
always  surrounded  with  holy  veneration  and 
awe.  Religious  views,  pious  emotions,  and  se- 
rious considerations  with  regard  to  them, — these 
we  cannot  throw  out  to  each  other  in  such  small 
crumbs  as  the  topics  of  a  light  conversation ; 
and  when  the  discourse  turns  upon  sacred  sub- 
jects, it  would  rather  be  a  crime  than  a  virtue 
to  have  an  answer  ready  for  every  question, 
and  a  rejoinder  for  every  remark.  Hence,  the 
religious  sentiment  retires  from  such  circles  as 
are  too  wide  for  it,  to  the  more  confidential  in- 
tercourse of  friendship,  and  to  the  mutual  com- 
munications of  love,  where  the  eye  and  the 
countenance  are  more  expressive  than  words, 
and  where  even  a  holy  silence  is  understood. 


But  it  is  impossible  for  divine  things  to  be 
treated  in  the  usual  manner  of  society,  where 
the  conversation  consists  in  striking  flashes  of 
thought,  gaily  and  rapidly  alternating  with  each 
other  ;  a  more  elevated  style  is  demanded  for 
the  communication  of  religion,  and  a  different 
kind  of  society,  which  is  devoted  to  this  pur- 
pose, must  hence  be  formed.  It  is  becoming 
indeed  to  apply  the  whole  richness  and  magni- 
ficence of  human  discourse  to  the  loftiest  subject 
which  language  can  reach, — not  as  if  there  were 
any  adornment,  with  which  religion  could  not 
dispense,  but  because  it  would  show  a  frivolous 
and  unholy  disposition  in  its  heralds,  if  they  did 
not  bring  together  the  most  copious  resources 
within  their  power,  and  consecrate  them  all  to 
religion:  so  that  they  might  thus  perhaps  ex- 
hibit it  in  its  appropriate  greatness  and  dignity. 
Hence,  it  is  impossible  without  the  aid  of  po- 
etry, to  give  utterance  to  the  religious  sentiment, 
in  any  other  than  an  oratorical  manner,  with 
all  the  skill  and  energy  of  language,  and  freely 
using,  in  addition,  the  service  of  all  the  arts, 
which  can  contribute  to  flowing  and  impas- 
sioned discourse.  He,  therefore,  whose  heart 
is  overflowing  with  religion,  can  open  his  mouth 
only  before  an  auditory,  where  that  which  i9 
presented,  with  such  a  wealth  of  preparation, 
can  produce  the  most  extended  and  manifold 
effects. 

Would  that  I  could  present  before  you  an 
image  of  the  rich  and  luxurious  life  in  this  city 
of  God,  when  its  inhabitants  come  together  each 
in  the  fulness  of  his  own  inspiration,  which  is 
ready  to  stream  forth  without  constraint,  but  at 
the  same  time,  each  filled  with  a  holy  desire  to 
receive  and  to  appropriate  to  himself  everything 
which  others  wish  to  bring  before  him.  If  one 
comes  forward  before  the  rest,  it  is  not  because 
he  is  entitled  to  this  distinction,  in  virtue  of  an 
office  or  of  a  previous  agreement,  nor  because 
pride  and  conceitedness  have  given  him  pre- 
sumption :  it  is  rather  a  free  impulse  of  the 
spirit,  a  sense  of  the  most  heart- felt  unity  of  each 
with  all,  a  consciousness  of  entire  equality,  a 
mutual  renunciation  of  all  First  and  Last,  of 
all  the  arrangements  of  earthly  order.  He 
comes  forward,  in  order  to  communicate  to 
others,  as  an  object  of  sympathizing  contempla- 
tion, the  deepest  feelings  of  his  soul  while  under 
the  influence  of  God  ;  to  introduce  them  within 
the  sphere  of  religion,  in  which  he  breathes  his 
native  air ;  and  to  infect  them  with  the  conta- 
gion of  his  own  holy  emotions.  He  speaks  forth 
the  Divine  which  stirs  his  bosom,  and  in  holy 
silence  the  assembly  follows  the  inspiration  of 
his  words.  Whether  he  tmveils  a  secret  mys- 
tery, or  with  prophetic  confidence  connects  the 
future  with  the  present;  whether  he  strengthens 
old  impressions  by  new  examples,  or  is  led  by 
the  lofty  visions  of  his  burning  imagination  into 
other  regions  of  the  world  and  into  another 
order  of  things ;  the  practised  sense  of  his  au- 
dience everywhere  accompanies  his  own  ;  and 
when  he  returns  into  himself  from  his  wander- 


444 


SCHLEIERMACHER. 


ings  through  the  kingdom  of  God,  his  own  heart 
and  that  of  each  of  his  hearers  are  the  common 
dwelling-place  of  the  same  emotion. 

If  now  the  agreement  of  his  sentiments  with 
that  which  they  feel  be  announced  to  him, 
whether  loudly  or  low,  then  are  holy  mysteries 
— not  merely  significant  emblems,  but,  justly  re- 
garded, natural  indications  of  a  peculiar  con- 
sciousness, and  peculiar  feelings — invented  and 
celebrated,  a  higher  choir,  as  it  were,  which  in 
its  own  lofty  language  answers  to  the  appealing 
voice.  But  not  only,  as  it  were ;  for  as  such  a 
discourse  is  music  without  tune  or  measure,  so 
there  is  also  a  music  among  the  Holy,  which 
may  be  called  discourse  without  words,  the 
most  distinct  and  expressive  utterance  of  the 
inward  man.  The  Muse  of  Harmony,  whose 
intimate  relation  with  religion,  although  it  has 
been  for  a  long  time  spoken  of  and  described, 
is  yet  recognized  only  by  few,  has  always  pre- 
sented upon  her  altars  the  most  perfect  and 
magnificent  productions  of  her  selectest  scholars, 
in  honor  of  religion.  It  is  in  sacred  hymns  and 
choirs,  with  which  the  words  of  the  poet  are 
connected  only  by  slight  and  airy  bands,  that 
those  feelings  are  breathed  forth  which  precise 
language  is  unable  to  contain ;  and  thus  the 
tones  of  thought  and  emotion  alternate  with  each 
other  in  mutual  support,  until  all  is  satisfied  and 
filled  with  the  Holy  and  the  Infinite.  Of  this 
character  is  the  influence  of  religious  men  upon 
one  another ;  such  is  their  natural  and  eternal 
union.  Do  not  take  it  ill  of  them,  that  this  hea- 
venly bond, — the  most  consummate  product  of 
the  social  nature  of  man,  but  to  which  it  does 
not  attain  until  it  becomes  conscious  of  its  own 
high  and  peculiar  significance, — that  this  should 
be  deemed  of  more  value  in  their  sight,  than 
the  political  union,  which  you  esteem  so  far 
above  everything  else,  but  which  will  nowhere 
ripen  to  manly  beauty,  and  which  compared 
with  the  former,  appears  far  more  constrained 
than  free,  far  more  transitory  than  eternal. 

But  where  now,  in  the  description  which  I 
have  given  of  the  community  of  the  pious,  is 
that  distinction  between  priests  and  laymen, 
which  you  are  accustomed  to  designate  as  the 
source  of  so  many  evils'?  A  false  appearance 
has  deceived  you.  This  is  not  a  distinction 
between  persons,  but  only  one  of  condition  and 
employment.  Every  man  is  a  priest,  so  far  as 
he  draws  around  him  others,  in  the  sphere  which 
he  has  appropriated  to  himself,  and  in  which 
he  professes  to  be  a  master.  Every  one  is  a 
layman,  so  far  as  he  is  guided  by  the  counsel 
and  experience  of  another,  within  the  sphere 
of  religion,  where  he  is  comparatively  a  stran- 
ger. There  is  not  here  the  tyrannic  aristocracy, 
which  you  describe  with  such  hatred  ;  but  this 
society  is  a  priestly  people,  a  perfect  repub- 
lic, where  every  one  is  alternately  ruler  and 
citizen,  where  everyone  follows  the  same  power 
in  another  which  he  feels  also  in  himself,  and 
with  which  he  too  governs  others. 

How  then  could  the  spirit  of  discord  and  di- 


vision,—  which  you  regard  as  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  all  religious  combinations, — find 
a  congenial  home  within  this  sphere?  I  see 
nothing  but  that  All  is  One,  and  that  all  the  dif- 
ferences which  actually  exist  in  religion,  by 
means  of  this  very  union  of  the  pious,  are  gently 
blended  with  each  other.  I  have  directed  your 
attention  to  the  different  degrees  of  religious- 
ness, I  have  pointed  out  to  you  the  different 
modes  of  insight,  and  the  different  directions  in 
which  the  soul  seeks  for  itself  the  supreme  ob- 
ject of  its  pursuit.  Do  you  imagine  that  this 
must  needs  give  birth  to  sects,  and  thus  destroy 
all  free  and  reciprocal  intercourse  in  religion1? 
It  is  true  indeed  in  contemplation,  that  every- 
thing which  is  separated  into  various  parts,  and 
embraced  in  different  divisions,  must  be  opposed 
and  contradictory  to  itself;  but  consider,  I  pray 
you,  how  Life  is  manifested  in  a  great  variety 
of  forms,  how  the  most  hostile  elements  seek 
out  each  other  here,  and  for  this  very  reason, 
what  we  separate  in  contemplation,  all  flows 
together  in  life.  They,  to  be  sure,  who  on  one 
of  these  points  bear  the  greatest  resemblance 
to  each  other,  will  present  the  strongest  mutual 
attraction  :  but  they  cannot,  on  that  account, 
compose  an  independent  whole  ;  for  the  degrees 
of  this  affinity  imperceptibly  diminish  and  in- 
crease, and  in  the  midst  of  so  many  transitions 
there  is  no  absolute  repulsion,  no  total  separa- 
tion, even  between  the  most  discordant  ele- 
ments. Take  which  you  will  of  these  masses, 
which  have  assumed  an  organic  form  accord- 
ing to  their  own  inherent  energy;  if  you  do 
not  forcibly  divide  them  by  a  mechanical  ope- 
ration, no  one  will  exhibit  an  absolutely  dis- 
tinct and  homogeneous  character,  but  the  ex- 
treme points  of  each  will  be  connected  at  the 
same  time  with  those  which  display  different 
properties  and  properly  belong  to  another 
mass. 

If  the  pious  individuals,  who  stand  on  the 
same  degree  of  a  lower  order,  formed  a  closer 
union  with  each  other,  there  are  yet  some  al- 
ways included  in  the  combination  who  have  a 
presentiment  of  higher  things.  These  are  better 
understood  by  all  who  belong  to  a  higher  social 
union,  than  they  understand  themselves ;  and 
there  is  a  point  of  sympathy  between  the  two 
which  is  concealed  only  from  the  latter.  If 
those  combine  together,  in  whom  one  of  the 
modes  of  insight,  which  I  have  described,  is 
predominant,  there  will  always  be  some  among 
them  who  understand  at  least  both  of  the  modes, 
and  since  they  in  some  degree  belong  to  both, 
they  form  a  connecting  link  between  two  spheres 
which  would  otherwise  be  separated.  Thus 
the  individual  who  is  more  inclined  to  cherish 
a  religious  connection  between  himself  and  na- 
ture, is  yet  by  no  means  opposed,  in  the  essen- 
tials of  religion,  to  him  who  prefers  to  trace  the 
footsteps  of  the  Godhead  in  history:  and  there 
will  never  be  wanting  those  who  can  pursue 
both  paths  with  equal  facility.  Thus  in  what- 
ever manner  you  divide  the  vast  province  of 


SCHLEIERMACHER.  445 


religion,  you  will  always  come  back  to  the  same 
point. 

If  unbounded  universality  of  insight  be  the 
first  and  original  condition  of  religion,  and  hence 
also,  most  naturally,  its  fairest  and  ripest  fruit, 
you  perceive  that  it  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
that,  in  proportion  as  an  individual  advances  in 
religion,  and  the  character  of  his  piety  becomes 
more  pure,  the  whole  religious  world  will  more 
and  more  appear  to  him  as  an  indivisible  whole. 
The  spirit  of  separation,  in  proportion  as  it  in- 
sists upon  a  rigid  division,  is  a  proof  of  imper- 
fection :  the  highest  and  most  cultivated  minds 
always  perceive  a  universal  connection,  and  for 
the  very  reason  that  they  perceive  it,  they  also 
establish  it.  Since  every  one  comes  in  contact 
only  with  his  immediate  neighbor,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  has  an  immediate  neighbor  on  all 
sides  and  in  every  direction,  he  is,  in  fact,  in- 
dissolubly  linked  in  with  the  whole.  Mystics 
and  Naturalists  in  religion,  they  to  whom  the 
Godhead  is  a  personal  Being,  and  they  to  whom 
it  is  not,  they  who  have  arrived  at  a  systematic 
view  of  the  Universe,  and  they  who  behold  it 
only  in  its  elements  or  only  in  obscure  chaos, — 
all,  notwithstanding,  should  be  only  one  :  one 
band  surrounds  them  ail ;  and  they  can  be  to- 
tally separated  only  by  a  violent  and  arbitrary 
force;  every  specific  combination  is  nothing 
but  an  integral  part  of  the  whole,  its  peculiar 
characteristics  are  almost  evanescent,  and  are 
gradually  lost  in  outlines  that  become  more  and 
more  indistinct ;  and  at  least  those  who  feel 
themselves  thus  united  will  always  be  the  su- 
perior portion. 

Whence,  then,  but  through  a  total  misunder- 
standing, have  arisen  that  wild  and  disgraceful 
zeal  for  proselytism  to  a  separate  and  peculiar 
form  of  religion,  and  that  horrible  expression 
—"no  salvation  except  with  us."  As  I  have 
described  to  you  the  society  of  the  pious,  and 
as  it  must  needs  be  according  to  its  intrinsic 
nature,  it  aims  merely  at  reciprocal  communi- 
cation, and  subsists  only  between  those  who  are 
already  in  possession  of  religion,  of  whatever 
character  it  may  be ;  how  then  can  it  be  its 
vocation  to  change  the  sentiments  of  those  who 
now  acknowledge  a  definite  system,  or  to  intro- 
duce and  consecrate  those  who  are  totally  desti- 
tute of  one?  The  religion  of  this  society,  as 
such,  consists  only  in  the  religion  of  all  the  pious 
taken  together ;  as  each  one  beholds  it  in  the 
rest,  —  it  is  Infinite,  no  single  individual  can 
embrace  it  entirely,  since  so  far  as  it  is  indivi- 
dual, it  ceases  to  be  one,  and  hence  no  man  can 
attain  such  elevation  and  completeness,  as  to 
raise  himself  to  its  level.  If  any  one  then,  has 
chosen  a  part  in  it  for  himself,  whatever  it  may 
be,  were  it  not  an  absurd  procedure  for  the  so- 
ciety to  wish  to  deprive  him  of  that  which  is 
adapted  to  his  nature, — since  it  ought  to  com- 
prise this  also  within  its  limits,  and  hence  some 
one  must  needs  possess  it? 

And  to  what  end  should  it  desire  to  cultivate 
those  who  are  yet  strangers  to  religion?  Its 


own  especial  characteristic — the  Infinite  Whole 
— of  course  it  cannot  impart  to  them  ;  and  the 
communication  of  any  specific  element  cannot 
be  accomplished  by  the  Whole,  but  only  by  in- 
dividuals. But  perhaps  then,  the  Universal,  the 
Indeterminate,  which  might  be  presented,  when 
we  seek  that  which  is  common  to  all  the  mem- 
bers ?  But  you  are  aware,  that  as  a  general 
rule,  nothing  can  be  given  or  communicated,  in 
the  form  of  the  Universal  and  Indeterminate: 
specific  object  and  precise  form  are  requisite 
for  this  purpose  ;  otherwise,  in  fact,  that  which 
is  presented  would  not  be  a  reality  but  a  nullity. 
Such  a  society,  accordingly,  can  never  find  a 
measure  or  rule  for  this  undertaking. 

And  how  could  it  so  far  abandon  its  sphere 
as  to  engage  in  this  enterprise?  The  want  on 
which  it  is  founded,  the  essential  principle  of 
religious  society,  points  to  no  such  purpose. 
Individuals  unite  with  each  other  and  compose 
a  Whole :  the  Whole,  accordingly,  rests  in  itself, 
and  needs  not  to  strive  for  anything  beyond. 
Hence,  whatever  is  accomplished  in  this  way 
for  religion  is  the  private  affair  of  the  indivi- 
dual for  himself,  and  if  I  may  say  so,  more  in 
his  relations  out  of  the  church  than  in  it.  Com- 
pelled to  withdraw  into  the  inferior  scenes  of 
life,  from  the  circle  of  religious  communion, 
where  the  mutual  existence  and  life  in  God 
afford  hiin  the  most  elevated  enjoyment,  and 
where  his  spirit,  penetrated  with  holy  feelings, 
soars  to  the  highest  summit  of  consciousness,  it 
is  his  consolation  that  he  can  connect  everything 
with  which  he  must  there  be  employed,  with 
that  which  always  retains  the  deepest  signifi- 
cance in  his  heart.  As  he  descends  from  those 
lofty  regions,  among  those  whose  whole  endea- 
vor and  pursuit  are  limited  to  earth,  he  easily 
believes — and  you  must  pardon  him  the  feeling 
—  that  he  has  passed  from  intercourse  with 
Gods  and  Muses,  to  a  race  of  coarse  barbarians. 
He  feels  like  a  steward  of  religion  among  the 
unbelieving,  a  herald  of  piety  among  the  sa- 
vages ;  he  hopes,  like  an  Orpheus  or  an  Am- 
phion,  to  charm  the  multitude  with  his  heavenly 
tones ;  he  presents  himself  among  them,  like  a 
priestly  form,  clearly  and  brightly  exhibiting  the 
lofty,  spiritual  sense,  which  fills  his  soul,  in  all 
his  actions  and  in  the  whole  compass  of  his 
Being.  If  the  contemplation  of  the  Holy  and 
the  Godlike  awakens  a  kindred  emotion  in 
them,  how  joyfully  does  he  cherish  the  first 
presages  of  religion  in  a  new  heart,  as  a  delight- 
ful pledge  of  its  growth  even  in  a  harsh  and 
foreign  clime!  With  what  triumph  does  he 
bear  the  neophyte  with  him  to  the  exalted  as- 
sembly!  This  activity  for  the  promotion  of  re- 
ligion is  only  the  pious  yearning  of  the  stranger 
after  his  home,  the  endeavor  to  carry  his  father- 
land with  him  in  all  his  wanderings,  and  every- 
where to  find  again  its  laws  and  customs  as  the 
highest  and  most  beautiful  elements  of  his  life ; 
but  the  father-land  itself,  happy  in  its  own  re- 
sources, perfectly  sufficient  for  its  own  wants, 
knows  no  such  endeavor. 

38 


GEORGE  WILHELM  F 


RIEDRICH  HEGEL.* 


Born  1770. 

George  Wilhelm  Friedrich  Hegel,  the 
last  of  the  four  great  German  philosophers, 
was  born  August  27th,  1770,  at  Stuttgart,  in 
the  kingdom  of  Wurtemberg.  "  It  is  quite  re- 
markable," says  his  biographer,  "  that  one  of 
his  sponsors  was  a  professor  of  philosophy."  He 
was  matriculated  as  a  student  of  theology  in 
the  University  of  Tubingen,  in  the  year  1788. 
After  completing  his  University  career,  he  pur- 
sued an  extensive  and  severe  course  of  study 
in  comparative  retirement,  being  meanwhile 
chiefly  employed  as  a  teacher  in  private  fami- 
lies. In  1801  he  became  a  public  lecturer  in 
the  University  of  Jena,  dedicating  his  first  work 
to  an  examination  of  the  difference  between 
the  systems  of  Fichte  and  Schelling.  Here  he 
continued  to  give  courses  of  lectures,  and  to 
develope  his  system,  until  the  taking  of  Jena 
by  the  French  in  1806.  For  the  next  two  years 
he  edited  a  newspaper,  then  he  was  rector  of  a 
gymnasium  in  Nuremberg,  where  he  perfected 
his  most  important  work,  in  which  he  gave  a 
new  character  to  the  whole  system  of  Logic. 
While  professor  of  philosophy  in  Heidelberg 
(1816-18)  he  published  his  Encyclopaedia,  in 
which  his  whole  scheme  of  philosophy  is  con- 
tained. He  was  called  to  Berlin  in  the  year 
1818,  and  remained  there  until  his  death,  on 
the  fourteenth  of  November,  1831,  when  he 
fell  a  victim  to  the  cholera. 

His  philosophy  claims  to  be  the  absolute  sys- 
tem, the  result  and  culmination  of  all  other 
systems.  In  it  he  resumes  the  whole  progress 
of  the  human  mind,  and  alleges  that  his  sys- 
tem, and  that  alone,  is  able  to  explain  the  whole 
course  of  history,  all  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
all  the  problems  of  speculation.  There  is  one 
Absolute  Substance  pervading  all  things.  That 
Substance  is  Spirit.  This  Spirit  is  endued 
with  the  power  of  development;  it  produces 
from  itself  the  opposing  powers  and  forces  of 
the  universe.  All  that  we  have  to  do  is  to 
stand  by  and  see  the  process  going  on.  The 
process  is  at  first  the  evolution  of  antagonistic 

*  For  this  account  of  Hegel,  and  the  translations  from 
his  writings  which  follow,  with  the  exception  of  the  last, 
the  editor  is  indebted  to  a  friend. 


Died  1831. 

forces ;  then  a  mediation  between  them.  All 
proceeds  by  triplicates;  there  is  the  positive, 
then  the  negative,  then  the  mediation  between 
them,  which  produces  a  higher  unity.  This 
again  is  but  the  starting  point  for  a  new  series. 
And  so  the  process  goes  on,  from  stage  to  stage, 
until  the  Absolute  Spirit  has  passed  through  all 
the  stadia  of  its  evolutions,  and  is  exhibited  in 
its  highest  form  in  the  Hegelian  system  of  phi- 
losophy. The  system  comprises  three  depart- 
ments: Logic,  Natural  Philosophy,  and  the 
Philosophy  of  Spirit.  Logic  is  the  science  of 
the  Absolute  Idea,  in  its  abstract  character; 
in  the  Philosophy  of  Nature  we  have  the  same 
Absolute  in  another,  an  external  form ;  in  the 
Philosophy  of  Spirit  we  have  its  highest  stage. 
Here  it  manifests  itself  as  the  Subjective  Spirit, 
the  Objective  Spirit,  and  the  Absolute  Spirit. 
The  Absolute  Spirit,  in  fine,  has  three  stages 
of  development,  which  are  Religion,  Art,  and 
Philosophy. 

The  collective  works  of  this  philosopher  have 
been  published  in  eighteen  octavo  volumes. 
They  embrace,  besides  those  already  specified, 
extensive  courses  of  lectures  upon  Ethics,  Art, 
the  Philosophy  of  History,  the  History  of  Phi- 
losophy, and  the  Philosophy  of  Religion.  His 
system  has  produced  a  profound  impression 
upon  the  German  mind.  The  theological  and 
philosophical  controversies  of  the  day  rage 
around  it.  It  is  reputed  to  be  the  most  com- 
prehensive and  analytic  of  pantheistic  schemes. 
Its  author  and  some  of  his  disciples  assert,  that 
it  is  the  same  system  in  the  form  of  philosophy, 
which  Christianity  gives  us  in  the  form  of  faith. 
But  its  present  position  is  that  of  hostility  to 
Christianity. 

The  style  of  Hegel  is  declared  by  one  of  his 
friends  to  be  "strong,  pithy,  and  sometimes 
knotty."  His  terminology  is  often  obscure. 
These  characteristics  may  be  noted  in  the  fol- 
lowing translations,  which  are  chiefly  taken 
from  his  Philosophy  of  History.  Though  this 
work  was  published  after  his  death,  yet  the 
first  portion  of  it,  from  which  our  extracts  are 
derived,  was  printed  from  a  full  manuscript  of 
the  author. 

(446) 


HEGEL. 


417 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PHILOSOPHY 
OF  HISTORY. 

The  subject  of  this  course  of  Lectures  is  the 
Philosophical  History  of  the  World.  By  this  is 
not  meant  general  reflections  upon  history,  such 
as  one  might  draw  from  it  and  illustrate  by 
appropriate  examples,  but  the  History  of  the 
World  itself.  That  its  true  nature  may  be 
clearly  seen,  it  seems  to  be  necessary  first  of 
all  to  go  through  with  the  other  modes  in  which 
history  is  treated.  There  are  three  general 
classes  into  which  historical  works  may  be 
divided : 

1.  Primitive  History. 

2.  Systematic  History,  or  History  accompanied 
by  the  reflections  of  the  author. 

3.  Philosophical  History. 

1.  PRIMITIVE  HISTORY. 

To  give  a  definite  image  of  what  I  mean  by 
this  kind  of  history,  I  need  only  cite  the  names 
of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  and  other  historians 
of  this  stamp,  who  describe  chiefly  the  deeds, 
events,  and  conditions  which  they  had  directly 
before  them,  and  in  the  spirit  of  which  they 
themselves  participated.  That  which  was  ex- 
ternally present,  they  transferred  in  their  his- 
tories into  the  domain  of  mental  conceptions. 
The  external  phenomenon  is  here  presented 
again  in  the  form  of  an  internal  conception. 
So,  for  example,  the  poet  takes  the  materials 
which  his  experience  and  emotions  give  him, 
and  elaborates  them  into  distinct  and  finished 
pictures.  These  primitive  historians  have  also 
at  hand  the  reports  and  narratives  of  other 
men,  (it  is  not  possible  for  one  man  to  see  every- 
thing.) but  only  as  the  poet  has  an  ingredient 
in  the  cultivated  language  to  which  he  owes 
so  much.  What  memory  carelessly  keeps,  the 
historian  compounds  into  one  whole,  places  it 
in  the  temple  of  Mnemosyne,  and  thus  gives  it 
immortal  duration.  Sagas,  popular  songs  and 
traditions  are  to  be  excluded  from  such  primi- 
tive history,  for  these  are  confused  and  unsettled 
things,  and  hence  are  peculiar  to  people  that 
have  not  yet  obtained  a  definite  historical  cha- 
racter. The  sphere  of  events  actually  seen,  or 
that  could  be  seen,  gives  a  firmer  basis  than 
does  the  dim  antiquity  where  these  sagas  and 
fables  grow  up,  and  they  do  not  constitute  a 
part  of  the  history  of  nations  which  have  at- 
tained a  fixed  individuality. 

These  primitive  historians  now  fashion  the 
events,  deeds,  and  conditions  which  were  ac- 
tually before  them,  into  a  work  that  gives  to 
others  a  distinct  picture  of  their  times.  The 
contents  of  such  histories  cannot,  of  course,  be 
of  great  outward  compass,  (see  the  works  of 
Herodotus,  Thucydides,  and  Guicciardini;)  for 
they  are  essentially  made  up  of  what  is  present 
and  living  around  the  authors.  The  state  of 
culture  of  the  author  is  identical  with  that  in 
which  those  events  were  transacted,  which  he 
fashions  into  a  work ;  the  spirit  of  the  author 


and  the  spirit  of  the  deeds  he  narrates  are  one 
and  the  same.  He  describes  that  of  which  he  has 
been  more  or  less  a  part,  or  in  the  midst  of 
which  he  has  lived.  There  are  short  periods 
of  time,  distinct  images  of  men  and  events,  in- 
dividual traits  not  reflected  upon,  from  which 
he  gathers  his  picture,  in  order  to  bring  the  scene 
and  persons  as  definitely  to  the  conception  of 
after-times,  as  they  stood  before  his  own  mind, 
whether  in  actual  vision  or  in  graphic  narratives. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  with  reflections  upon  what 
he  describes,  for  he  lives  in  the  spirit  of  the 
times,  and  has  not  yet  got  out  beyond  it :  if  he 
belong,  as  did  Caesar,  to  the  class  of  generals  or 
statesmen,  then  his  own  ends  and  aims  are  the 
ones  which  come  out  as  historical.  When  it  is 
here  said  that  such  a  historian  does  not  reflect, 
but  that  the  persons  and  people  themselves  come 
forward,  this  seems  to  be  contradicted  by  the 
speeches  which  we  read,  for  example,  in  Thu- 
cydides, and  which,  it  is  quite  certain,  were  not 
delivered  as  they  are  reported.  But  speeches 
are  acts  among  men,  and  essentially  effective 
acts  also.  People  do  indeed  often  say,  it  was 
only  a  speech,  and  mean  by  this  that  it  was  a 
harmless  affair.  Such  speeches  are  mere  talk, 
and  talk  has  the  important  advantage  of  being 
harmless.  But  speeches  from  one  people  to  an- 
other, orations  addressed  to  people  and  princes 
are  integral  parts  of  history.  Even  if  Thucy- 
dides did  compose  the  speeches  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Pericles,  the  most  highly  cultivated, 
genuine,  and  noble  of  statesmen,  yet  are  they 
not  foreign  to  Pericles.  In  these  speeches,  these 
men  speak  out  the  maxims  of  their  people,  of 
their  own  selves,  their  consciousness  of  their 
political  relations,  as  well  as  of  their  moral  and 
spiritual  natures,  the  principles  which  guided 
their  aims  and  acts.  What  the  historian  lets 
them  say  is  not  a  loaned  consciousness,  but  ex- 
presses the  very  culture  of  the  orators. 

Of  such  writers  of  history,  whom  we  must 
study  into,  and  by  whom  we  must  linger,  if  we 
would  live  with  the  nations.,  and  sink  ourselves 
into  their  spirit — of  such  historians,  in  whom  we 
seek  not  merely  learning,  but  deep  and  genuine 
delight,  there  are  not  so  many  to  be  found  as 
we  might  perchance  suppose.  Herodotus,  the 
father,  that  is  the  originator  of  history,  and 
Thucydides,  have  been  already  named.  Xeno- 
phon's  Return  of  the  Ten  Thousand  is  a  book 
equally  original;  Csesar's  Commentaries  are  the 
simple  master-piece  of  a  great  spirit.  Irl  an- 
cient times,  these  historians  were  necessarily 
great  captains  and  statesmen;  in  the  middle 
ases,  if  we  except  the  bishops  who  stood  at  the 
centre  of  state  affairs,  the  monks  as  naive  chro- 
niclers are  to  be  reckoned  here ;  but  they  were 
as  isolated  from  the  events  they  describe,  as 
those  men  of  antiquity  were  connected  with 
them.  In  later  times,  all  the  relations  of  things 
have  changed.  Our  culture  is  essentially  compre- 
hensive, and  immediately  transforms  all  events 
into  reports  which  give  a  distinct  picture  of 
them.    We  have  admirable,  simple,  definite 


448 


HEGEL. 


narratives  of  this  kind,  especially  of  military 
transactions,  which  may  well  be  placed  by  the 
side  of  Caesar's,  and  are  even  more  instructive 
than  his,  on  account  of  the  fulness  of  their  con- 
tents, and  the  details  of  means  and  conditions. 
The  French  Memoirs  also  belong  here.  Many 
of  these  are  written  by  men  of  talent  and  wit 
about  matters  of  limited  interest,  and  they  fre- 
quently contain  much  of  anecdote;  but  others  are 
true  historical  master-pieces,  as  those  of  Cardinal 
de  Retz,  and  bring  to  view  a  wider  historical 
field.  In  Germany  there  are  but  few  masters 
in  this  art;  Frederic  the  Great  (histoire  de  mon 
temps)  is  an  honorable  exception.  Such  works 
can  fitly  come  only  from  men  in  high  stations. 
Only  he  who  stands  above  can  rightly  survey 
the  field,  and  look  at  everything;  not  he  who 
has  looked  from  below  upwards  through  a 
scanty  opening. 

2.  SYSTEMATIC  HISTORY. 

The  second  kind  of  history  we  may  call  Sys- 
tematic History,  or  history  accompanied  by  the 
reflections,  and  composed  in  view  of  the  gene- 
ral scheme  of  the  author.  It  is  history,  in  the 
exhibition  of  which  we  are  led  beyond  mere 
present  and  passing  events,  not  in  reference  to 
time,  but  in  respect  of  the  spirit  or  views  with 
which  it  is  composed.  Under  this  second  genus, 
there  are  wholly  different  species  to  be  dis- 
tinguished. 

a.  We  wish  for  a  general  view  of  the  whole 
history  of  a  people  or  country,  or  of  the  world, 
in  short,  what  we  call  General  History.  Here 
the  chief  thing  is  the  working  up  of  the  histori- 
cal materials,  and  to  this  labor  the  author  comes 
with  a  spirit  which  is  different  from  the  spirit 
of  the  periods  of  which  he  treats.  In  doing  this, 
the  points  of  chief  importance  will  be,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  principles  which  the  author  ap- 
plies in  judging  of  the  character  and  tendency 
of  the  acts  and  events  he  describes,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  those  which  guide  him  in  the  com- 
position of  the  history.  The  reflections  and 
judgments  of  us  Germans  upon  these  points 
have  been  very  manifold ;  every  writer  of  his- 
tory has  got  his  own  special  way  in  his  own 
head.  The  English  and  French,  as  a  general 
thing,  know  how  history  should  be  written:  their 
stage  of  culture  is  more  general  and  national; 
among  us,  each  one  thinks  out  some  subtle  pecu- 
liarity, and  instead  of  writing  history,  we  are 
always  trying  to  find  out  the  way  in  which  his- 
tory should  be  written.  This  first  species  of 
excogitated  history  is  near  akin  to  primitive  his- 
tory, when  it  has  no  farther  aim  than  to  exhibit 
the  whole  history  of  a  country.  Such  compila- 
tions (here  belong  the  histories  of  Livy,  Diodo- 
rus,  Siculus,  von  Midler's  History  of  Switzer- 
land) when  well  made  are  highly  serviceable. 
It  would  be  best,  if  the  historians  would  ap- 
proximate to  those  of  the  first  genus,  and  de- 
scribe things  so  graphically,  that  the  reader 
might  suppose  he  was  hearing  contemporaries 
and  eye-witnesses  relate  the  events.    But  the 


peculiar  tone  of  mind  which  every  individual 
must  have,  who  belongs  to  a  particular  stage  of 
national  culture,  frequently  becomes  modified 
by  the  periods  through  which  such  a  history 
takes  its  course,  and  the  spirit  which  speaks 
from  the  historian  is  another  than  the  spirit  of 
these  times.  Thus  Livy  lets  the  old  kings  of 
Rome,  the  consuls  and  generals  hold  speeches 
befitting  only  a  skilful  advocate  of  the  times  of 
Livy,  and  which  besides  are  most  strongly  con- 
trasted with  the  genuine  tales  preserved  from 
those  ancient  times ;  for  example,  the  fable  of 
Menenius  Agrippa.  Thus,  too,  the  same  author 
gives  us  descriptions  of  battles,  as  though  he 
had  himself  seen  them,  the  outlines  of  which, 
however,  might  be  used  for  the  battles  of  all 
ages;  and  the  definitiveness  of  whose  details, 
again,  is  in  strong  contrast  with  the  want  of 
connection  and  inconsistency  with  which  in 
other  passages  he  often  speaks  of  the  most  im- 
portant matters.  The  difference  between  such 
a  compiler  and  a  primitive  historian  may  be 
best  seen  by  comparing  the  work  of  Polybius, 
so  far  as  it  has  been  preserved  to  us,  with  the 
mode  in  which  Livy  makes  use  of  extracts  from, 
and  abridges  it  in  the  corresponding  portions 
of  his  history.  John  von  Miilier,  in  the  endeavor 
to  be  true  in  his  descriptions  to  the  times  which 
he  describes,  has  given  to  his  history  a  formal, 
grandiloquent  and  pedantic  air.  One  would 
much  rather  read  such  things  in  the  old  Swiss 
chronicler,  Tschudy  himself;  everything  is  more 
simple  and  natural  than  in  such  a  mere  made- 
up  and  affected  antiquatedness. 

A  history  of  this  kind  which  surveys  long 
periods,  or  the  whole  history  of  the  world,  must 
in  truth  give  up  the  exhibition  of  individual 
facts,  and  abridge  by  abstractions,  not  merely 
by  leaving  out  events  and  actions,  but  by  mak- 
ing the  author's  thoughts  the  great  means  of 
epitomising.  A  battle,  a  great  victory,  a  siege, 
are  no  longer  themselves,  but  are  condensed 
into  the  simplest  statements.  When  Livy  tells 
of  the  wars  with  the  Volsci,  he  says  sometimes, 
(short  enough,)  this  year  war  was  carried  on 
with  the  Volsci. 

b.  A  second  kind  of  systematic  history  is  the 
pragmatical.  When  we  have  to  do  with  what 
is  past,  and  busy  ourselves  about  a  remote  world, 
the  mind,  by  its  own  activity,  creates  for  itself 
a  present  there,  which  is  the  reward  of  its  toil. 
The  events  are  different,  but  what  is  universal 
and  internal  in  them,  the  connection,  is  one. 
This  abolishes  the  past,  and  makes  the  event 
present.  Pragmatical  reflections,  abstract  as  they 
may  be,  do  thus  make  the  narrative  of  past 
events  into  a  matter  of  present  interest,  and 
vivify  them  as  with  present  life.  Whether  such 
reflections  are  really  interesting  and  enlivening, 
depends  upon  the  spirit  of  the  author.  Here 
we  are  especially  called  upon  to  make  mention 
of  those  moral  reflections,  and  that  moral  in- 
struction to  be  got  from  history,  for  the  sake  of 
which  it  has  often  been  worked  up.  Although 
it  may  be  said  that^  examples  of  virtue  elevate 


HEGEL. 


449 


the  soul,  and  are  to  be  applied  in  the  moral  in- 
struction of  children,  in  order  to  impress  them 
with  a  love  of  excellence  ;  yet  the  destinies  of 
nations  and  states,  their  complicated  interests, 
conditions  and  conflicts  are  quite  another  field. 
Regents,  statesmen,  and  nations  are  very  em- 
phatically referred  to  the  experience  of  history 
for  their  instruction.  But  what  experience  and 
history  teach  is  this,  that  nations  and  govern- 
ments have  never  learned  anything  from  his- 
tory, nor  acted  according  to  the  lessons  which 
might  have  been  drawn  from  it.  Every  period 
has  such  peculiar  circumstances,  has  such  an 
individual  character,  that  in  it  we  must  and  can 
judge  in  view  of  its  own  circumstances  alone. 
In  the  pressure  of  the  world's  events,  neither  a 
general  principle,  nor  the  recollection  of  similar 
relations  is  of  service ;  for  these,  like  a  dim  re- 
membrance, have  no  power  against  the  living 
force  and  freedom  of  the  present.  Nothing,  in 
this  respect,  is  emptier  than  the  oft-repeated 
appeal  to  Greek  and  Roman  examples,  so  often 
made  among  the  French  in  the  time  of  their 
revolution.  Nothing  can  be  more  diverse  than 
the  character  of  those  people  and  of  our  own 
times.  John  von  Muller  had  such  moral  ends  in 
view  in  his  Universal  as  well  as  in  his  Swiss  his- 
tory; he  prepared  such  instructions  for  princes, 
governments  and  people,  especially  for  the  Swiss ; 
(he  made  special  collections  of  such  maxims 
and  reflections,  and  often  in  his  correspondence 
gives  the  exact  number  of  such  reflections,  which 
he  had  finished  in  a  week :)  but  all  this  can 
hardly  be  reckoned  among  the  best  things  he 
has  accomplished.  It  is  only  a  thorough,  free 
and  comprehensive  view  of  the  situations,  and 
the  deep  significancy  of  the  idea  by  which  we 
judge  of  them,  (as,  for  example,  in  Montesquieu's 
Spirit  of  the  Laws,)  which  can  give  truth  and 
interest  to  such  reflections.  Hence  one  such 
history  supersedes  another;  the  materials  are 
open  to  every  writer,  every  one  can  easily  think 
himself  able  to  arrange  and  elaborate  them, 
and  to  make  his  own  spirit  pass  for  the  spirit 
of  the  times  he  describes.  From  satiety  with 
such  histories,  men  have  frequently  gone  back, 
and  given  a  picture  of  some  one  important 
event,  described  from  all  points  of  view.  Such 
works  are  certainly  of  some  value,  but  they 
give,  for  the  most  part,  only  materials.  The 
Germans  are  content  with  them  ;  the  French, 
on  the  contrary,  give  such  a  spirited  description 
of  the  past,  as  makes  it  seem  living  and  pre- 
sent; they  bring  the  past  into  direct  connection 
with  present  circumstances. 

c.  The  third  kind  of  systematic  history  is  the 
critical.  This  is  rather  history  of  history,  criti- 
cism of  narratives,  and  investigation  of  their 
truth  and  credibility.  Whatever  there  is  extra- 
ordinary in  it,  and  intended  to  be  so,  does  not 
consist  in  the  subject-matter,  but  in  the  acute- 
ness  of  the  writer,  whose  object  is  to  pare  away 
something  from  the  narratives.  The  difference 
between  what  was  before  held  to  be  fact,  and 
what  is  now  to  be  so  held,  is  the  measure  of 
3o 


the  fame  of  such  a  critical  investigator  of  his- 
tory; and  it  is  not  often  considered,  on  the  other 
hand,  how  arbitrary  are  the  notions  and  com- 
binations to  which  he  may  have  surrendered 
himself. 

d.  The  last  kind  of  systematic  history  is  that 
which  does  not  pretend  to  be  more  than  the 
history  of  some  one  department,  as  Art,  Law, 
or  Religion.  The  special  subject  is  here,  indeed, 
taken  by  itself,  but  since  its  history  is  written 
from  general  points  of  view,  it  forms  a  transi- 
tion to  the  Philosophical  History  of  the  World. 
In  our  times  this  kind  of  history  has  been  more 
cultivated ;  the  philosophical  principles  con- 
tained in  these  different  branches  have  been 
made  more  prominent.  Such  branches  have  a 
connection  with  the  whole  of  a  people's  history; 
the  main  thing  is,  whether  this  connection  is 
truly  exhibited,  or  is  sought  for  only  in  external 
relations.  If  the  latter,  then  these  separate  de- 
partments seem  to  be  only  accidental  and  indi- 
vidual peculiarities  of  the  nations. 

3.  PHILOSOPHICAL  HISTORY. 

The  third  kind  of  history  is  the  Philosophical. 
In  respect  to  the  two  previous  divisions,  there 
was  no  need  of  clearing  up  their  meaning;  this 
was  understood  of  itself;  but  it  is  otherwise 
with  this  last  kind,  which  seems  to  demand 
some  explanation  or  justification. 

The  philosophy  of  history,  then,  in  the  most 
general  point  of  view,  signifies  nothing  other 
than  a  thoughtful  consideration  of  history.  As 
rational  beings,  we  can  never  leave  off  thinking; 
thus  we  are  distinguished  from  the  brutes.  In 
our  sensations,  in  our  knowledge  and  apprehen- 
sion, in  our  impulses  and  will,  so  far  as  they  are 
human,  there  is  thought.  It  may  seem  that  this 
appeal  to  thought,  in  connection  with  history,  is 
unsatisfactory,  since  in  history  our  thoughts  must 
be  subordinate  to  what  actually  exists,  to  the 
data  given  us,  —  must  be  founded  upon,  and 
guided  by,  the  facts ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  said  philosophy  has  thoughts  of  its  own, 
engendered  by  mere  speculation,  without  regard 
to  what  actually  exists.  If  it  goes  to  work  upon 
history  with  such  speculative  notions,  then  it 
only  handles  it  as  so  much  mere  material;  does 
not  leave  it  as  it  is,  but  fashions  it  after  the 
thought,  constructs  it  a  priori,  as  we  say.  And 
since  the  only  office  of  history  is  to  grasp  what 
is  and  has  been,  events  and  acts,  and  as  it  is 
more  true  in  proportion  as  it  adheres  to  its  data, 
it  seems  as  though  the  business  of  philosophy 
were  in  contradiction  with  such  a  procedure. 
This  apparent  contradiction,  and  the  objection 
to  a  speculative  treatment  of  history  which 
springs  from  it,  we  will  here  explain  and  refute, 
without,  however,  going  into  a  rectification  of 
the  infinitely  varied  and  right  special  awry  no- 
tions which  are  current,  or  always  invented 
anew,  respecting  the  end,  the  interests  and  the 
treatment  of  history,  and  its  relation  to  philo- 
sophy. 

38* 


450 


HEGEL. 


The  only  idea  which  philosophy  brings  along 
with  it  to  the  consideration  of  history,  is  the 
simple  idea  of  reason,  that  reason  rules  the 
world.  This  conviction  and  insight  is  indeed 
an  assumption  in  respect  to  history,  as  such ;  in 
philosophy,  however,  it  is  no  assumption.  In 
philosophy,  by  means  of  speculative  knowledge, 
it  is  evinced  that  reason — and  we  may  here  be 
allowed  to  abide  by  this  expression,  without 
entering  into  an  investigation  of  the  relation  in 
which  reason  stands  to  God — that  reason  is  the 
substance  of  all  things,  as  well  as  the  infinite 
power  by  which  they  are  moved ;  is  itself  the 
illimitable  material  of  all  natural  and  spiritual 
life,  as  well  as  the  source  of  the  infinite  variety 
of  forms  in  which  this  material  is  livingly  mani- 
fested. It  is  the  substance  of  all  things,  that  is, 
it  is  that  whereby  and  wherein  all  that  really 
exists  has  its  being  and  continuance ;  it  is  the 
infinite  power, — for  reason  is  not  so  impotent  that 
it  can  produce  only  an  ideal,  a  something  which 
ever  should  be  and  never  is,  and  which  has  its 
being  outside  of  and  beyond  all  that  actually 
does  exist,  nobody  knows  where,  some  very 
special  thing  in  the  heads  of  some  men  ;  it  is 
the  illimitable  material  of  all  essentiality  and 
truth, — for  it  is  not  subjected,  as  is  finite  action, 
to  the  conditions  forced  upon  it  by  external  ma- 
terials, from  which  it  must  receive  nourishment 
and  objects  for  its  activity;  it  feeds  upon  itself, 
it  creates  its  materials,  viz.  the  infinite  variety  of 
extant  forms  ;  for  only  in  the  shape  which  reason 
prescribes  and  justifies  do  phenomena  come  into 
being,  and  begin  to  live.  That  it  reveals  itself 
in  the  world,  and  that  nothing  in  the  world  but 
this  is  revealed ;  that  its  honor  and  glory  are 
there,  this  is  what,  as  we  said,  is  proved  by  phi- 
losophy, and  is  here  assumed  as  proved. 

Though  we  have  said  that  we  here  assume 
that  reason  rules  the  world,  yet  it  is,  in  fact,  not 
so  much  an  assumption,  as  it  is  the  result  of  the 
investigation  we  have  started  upon.  From  the 
consideration  of  the  history  of  the  world  itself, 
we  shall  come  to  the  result,  that  there  has  been 
a  rational  process  of  things  in  it ;  that  it  has 
been  the  rational  and  necessary  course  of  the 
spirit  which  moves  in  the  world,  —  a  spirit 
whose  nature  does  indeed  ever  remain  one  and 
the  same,  but  which,  in  the  existence  of  the 
world,  unfolds  this  its  one  nature.  This  must, 
as  was  said,  be  the  product  of  history.  The  his- 
tory itself,  however,  we  have  to  take  as  it  is ; 
we  are  to  go  to  work  historically,  empirically. 
It  might  be  stated,  as  the  first  condition,  that 
we  should  truly  comprehend  the  historical  ma- 
terials ;  but  in  such  general  expressions  as  truly 
and  comprehend,  there  is  an  ambiguity.  The  or- 
dinary and  moderate  historian,  who  thinks  and 
declares  that  he  stands  only  as  a  recipient,  and 
gives  himself  up  to  the  data,  is  yet  not  passive 
with  his  thinking;  he  brings  with  him  some 
categories,  through  which  he  looks  at  what  is 
before  him.  In  everything,  especially,  which  is 
meant  to  be  scientific,  reason  may  not  slumber, 
reflection  must  be  applied.    He  who  looks  at 


the  world  rationally,  him  the  world  also  looks  at 
rationally ;  the  two  are  reciprocal. 

There  are  some  considerations  which  may 
serve  to  illustrate  the  general  conviction,  that 
reason  has  ruled  in  the  world,  and  in  its  history, 
also.  These  will  give  us  an  opportunity  to 
touch  upon  some  of  the  chief  points  of  difficulty. 

One  is  the  historical  fact,  that  Anaxagoras, 
the  Greek,  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  to  main- 
tain that  the  vovj,  understanding  in  general  or 
reason,  rules  the  world, — not  an  intelligence,  in 
the  sense  of  self-conscious  reason  —  not  a  spirit, 
as  such  —  for  the  two  are  to  be  carefully  distin- 
guished from  each  other.  The  movements  of 
the  solar  system  follow  unchangeable  laws; 
these  laws  are  the  reason  of  this  system ;  but 
neither  the  sun,  nor  the  planets  which  describe 
their  orbits  around  it,  according  to  these  laws, 
have  any  consciousness  thereof.  Such  an  idea 
as  this,  that  there  is  reason  in  nature,  that  it  is 
immutably  governed  by  general  laws,  does  not 
strike  us  as  strange ;  we  are  used  to  the  like, 
and  do  not  make  much  out  of  them.  One  rea- 
son, therefore,  why  I  mention  this  historical  cir- 
cumstance is,  to  make  it  apparent  that  history 
teaches  us  that  such  like  notions,  which  may 
seem  to  us  trivial,  have  not  always  been  in  the 
world ;  that  such  thoughts  make  epochs  in  the 
history  of  the  human  mind.  Aristotle  says  of 
Anaxagoras,  as  the  originator  of  this  thought: 
That  he  appeared  like  a  sober  man  in  the  midst 
of  the  drunken.  Socrates  received  this  thought 
from  Anaxagoras,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
the  notion  of  Epicurus,  who  ascribed  all  events 
to  chance,  it  first  became  the  predominant  one 
in  philosophy.  Plato  represents  Socrates  as  say- 
ing :  I  rejoiced  therein,  and  hoped  that  I  had 
found  a  teacher  who  would  interpret  nature  for 
me  in  accordance  with  reason,  —  who  would 
show  me  in  the  special  its  special  end,  and  in 
the  whole  its  general  purpose ;  this  hope  I 
would  not  have  given  up  for  much.  But  how 
greatly  was  I  deceived,  when  I  now  zealously 
took  up  the  writings  of  Anaxagoras  himself,  and 
found  that  he  only  brought  forward  external 
causes,  as  air,  ether,  water  and  the  like,  instead 
of  reason.  We  see  that  what  Socrates  found  to 
be  unsatisfactory  in  the  principle  of  Anaxagoras 
was  not  the  principle  itself,  but  the  failing  to 
apply  it  to  nature  in  the  concrete ;  the  latter 
was  not  understood,  comprehended,  by  means 
of  the  principle ;  the  principle  was  held  in  the 
mere  abstract,  nature  was  not  grasped  as  a  de- 
velopment of  it,  as  an  organization  produced  by 
reason.  I  would  call  your  attention  here,  in  the 
very  beginning,  to  the  point;  the  difference  there 
is  between  holding  a  formula,  a  principle,  a 
truth  only  in  the  abstract,  and  the  carrying  it  on 
and  out  in  definitive  and  exact  application  into 
the  concrete  development.  This  difference  is 
of  the  widest  application. 

This  idea,  that  reason  governs  the  world,  is 
also  connected  with  another  application  of  it, 
well  known  to  us  in  the  form  of  the  religious 
truth,  that  the  world  is  not  given  over  to  acci- 


HEGEL. 


451 


dent,  or  to  external  and  accidental  causes,  but  is 
under  the  government  of  a  Providence.  1  might 
appeal  to  your  belief  in  this  principle  in  this  re- 
ligious form,  if  it  were  not  the  peculiarity  of  the 
science  of  philosophy,  that  it  does  not  allow 
authority  to  any  assumptions ;  or  to  speak  from 
another  point  of  view,  if  it  were  not  that  the 
science  of  which  we  here  treat  is  itself  to  fur- 
nish the  proof,  though  not  of  the  truth,  yet  of 
the  correctness  of  that  principle.  The  truth, 
now,  that  a  Providence,  that  the  Divine  Provi- 
dence presides  over  the  events  of  the  world, 
corresponds  with  the  above  principle;  for  the 
Divine  Providence  is  wisdom  and  infinite 
power,  realizing  its  purposes,  —  that  is,  the  ab- 
solute, the  rational  end  and  destiny  of  the 
world;  reason  is  thought,  determining  itself 
with  perfect  freedom.  But,  when  further  con- 
sidered, the  difference,  the  opposition  even,  of 
this  faith  and  of  our  principle  shows  itself  in 
the  same  way  as  with  the  demand  of  Socrates 
in  respect  to  the  maxim  of  Anaxagoras.  This 
faith  is  equally  indefinite,  is  what  is  called 
faith  in  Providence  in  general,  and  does  not  go 
forward  to  what  is  definite,  —  to  an  application 
to  the  whole  comprehensive  course  of  the 
world's  history.  Explaining  history,  generally 
means  only  the  unveiling  of  the  passions  of 
men,  their  genius,  their  active  powers ;  and  the 
definite  ends  of  Providence  are  called  its  plan. 
But  it  is  this  plan  which  is  said  to  be  concealed 
from  our  eyes,  which  it  is  audacity  even  to 
wish  to  know.  The  ignorance  of  Anaxagoras 
as  to  the  mode  in  which  the  understanding 
(yovs)  reveals  itself  in  actual  existence,  was  an 
unprejudiced  one;  he  had  not  become  conscious, 
nor  had  any  one  then  in  Greece,  of  any  further 
application  of  his  views;  he  was  not  yet  able 
to  apply  his  general  principle  to  the  concrete, 
to  understand  the  latter  by  the  former ;  for  So- 
crates took  the  first  step  in  grasping  the  union 
of  the  concrete  with  the  universal.  Anaxagoras 
was,  then,  not  hostile  to  such  an  application; 
but  this  common  faith  in  Providence  is  polemi- 
cal, at  least  against  the  application  of  its  prin- 
ciple to  any  wide  extent,  or  against  the  attempt 
to  understand  the  general  plan  of  Providence. 
For,  in  special  cases,  those  who  hold  it  are  will- 
ing sometimes  to  allow  pious  minds  to  see,  in 
some  single  occurrences,  not  what  is  casual,  but 
the  very  appointments  of  God  ;  when,  for  ex- 
ample, help  unexpectedly  comes  to  an  individual 
in  great  distress  and  need ;  but  such  Providen- 
tial ends  are  only  of  a  limited  kind,  are  only 
the  special  ends  of  this  individual.  In  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  however,  we  have  to  do  with 
individuals  which  are  nations,  with  wholes 
which  are  states ;  we  cannot  then  limit  our- 
selves to  such  retailing  of  faith  in  Providence, 
nor  yet  to  that  merely  abstract,  undefined  faith, 
which  only  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  there  is  a 
Providence  in  general,  but  will  not  advance  to 
the  statement  of  its  more  definite  acts.  We 
should  rather  earnestly  endeavor  to  understand 
the  ways  of  Providence,  its  means  and  mani- 


festations in  history,  and  to  bring  those  into 
connexion  with  our  general  principle. 

history  as  the  manifestation  op  spirit. 

The  true  sphere  of  the  history  of  the  world 
is  spiritual.  The  world  comprises  in  itself  both 
the  physical  and  the  psychical  nature  ;  physical 
nature  plays  a  large  part  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  But  spirit,  with  the  course  of  its  deve- 
lopment, is  the  substance  of  it.  Nature  is  not 
here  to  be  considered,  so  far  as  it  is  in  itself,  as 
it  were,  a  system  of  reason,  exhibited  in  a  spe- 
cial and  peculiar  element,  but  only  as  it  stands 
related  to  spirit.  Spirit,  however,  in  the  theatre 
of  the  world's  history,  exists  in  its  most  concrete 
form,  comes  to  its  most  real  manifestations.  In 
order  to  understand  its  connexions  with  history, 
we  must  make  some  preliminary  and  abstract 
statements  respecting  the  nature  of  spirit. 

The  nature  of  spirit  may  be  easily  understood 
by  comparison  with  that  which  is  the  entire  op- 
posite of  it, — that  is,  matter.  The  substance  of 
matter  is  weight,  which  is  only  this,  that  it  is 
heavy ;  the  substance,  the  essence  of  spirit,  on 
the  contrary,  is  freedom.  Every  one  finds  it  im- 
mediately credible  that  spirit,  among  other  attri- 
butes, also  possesses  freedom ;  but  philosophy 
teaches  us  that  all  the  attributes  of  spirit  exist 
only  through  freedom,  that  they  all  are  only  the 
means  of  which  freedom  makes  use,  that  this 
alone  is  what  they  all  seek  for  and  produce. 
The  speculative  philosophy  recognises  this  fact, 
that  freedom  is  the  only  truth  of  spirit.  Matter 
shows  that  it  is  weight,  by  its  tendency  to  one 
centre  of  gravity;  it  is  essentially  made  up  of 
parts,  which  parts  exist  separate  from,  and  ex- 
ternal to,  each  other;  and  it  is  ever  seeking  their 
unity,  and  thus  seeks  to  abolish  itself,  —  seeks 
the  opposite  of  what  it  really  is ;  if  it  attained 
this  unity,  it  were  no  longer  matter,  it  were  de- 
stroyed ;  it  strives  to  realize  an  idea,  for  in 
unity  it  is  merely  ideal.  Spirit,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  just  this,  that  it  has  its  centre  in  itself; 
its  unity  is  not  outside  of  itself,  but  it  has  found 
it;  it  is  in  itself  and  with  itself.  Matter  has  its 
substance  out  of  itself;  spirit  consists  in  being 
with  itself.  This  is  freedom  ;  for  when  I  am  de- 
pendent, I  refer  myself  to  something  else  which 
is  not  myself;  I  cannot  be  without  something 
external ;  but  I  am  free  when  I  am  with  myself. 
This  is  self-consciousness,  the  consciousness  of 
one's  self.  Two  things  are  here  to  be  distin- 
guished :  first,  that  I  know  or  am  conscious ; 
secondly,  what  I  know  or  am  conscious  of.  In 
self-consciousness,  the  two  come  together,  for 
spirit  knows  itself;  it  judges  of  its  own  nature. 

In  this  sense,  we  may  say  that  the  history  of 
the  world  is  the  exhibition  of  the  process  by 
which  spirit  comes  to  the  consciousness  of  that 
which  it  really  is,  —  of  the  signiiicancy  of  its 
own  nature.  And  as  the  seed  contains  in  itself 
the  whole  nature  of  the  tree,  even  to  the  taste 
and  form  of  the  fruit,  so  do  the  first  traces  of 
spirit  virtually  contain  the  whole  of  history. 


452 


HEGEL. 


The  Oriental  world  did  not  know  that  spirit, 
man  as  such,  is  of  himself  free  ;  since  they  knew 
it  not,  they  were  not  free;  they  only  knew  that 
one  is  free ;  but  just  on  this  account  their  free- 
dom was  only  arbitrariness,  wildness,  obtuse 
passion  ;  or,  if  not  so,  yet  a  mildness  and  tame- 
ness  of  the  passions,  which  is  nothing  but  an 
accident  or  caprice  of  nature.  This  one  is,  there- 
fore, only  a  despot,  not  a  free  man.  Among  the 
Greeks,  the  consciousness  of  freedom  first  arose, 
and  therefore  they  were  free  ;  but  they,  as  the 
Romans  also,  only  knew  that  some  are  free,  not 
that  man,  as  such,  is  free.  Even  Plato  and 
Aristotle  did  not  know  this.  Hence,  the  Greeks 
not  only  held  slaves,  and  had  their  life  and  the 
continuance  of  their  fair  freedom  bound  thereby, 
but  their  freedom  itself  was  partly  only  an  ac- 
cidental and  perishable  flower,  and  partly  a 
hard  servitude  of  the  human  and  humane.  The 
German  nations,  under  the  influence  of  Chris- 
tianity, first  came  to  the  consciousness  that  man, 
as  man,  is  free, —  that  freedom  of  soul  consti- 
tutes his  own  proper  nature.  This  conscious- 
ness came  first  into  existence  in  religion,  —  in 
the  deepest  religion  of  the  spirit.  But  to  fashion 
the  world  after  this  principle,  was  a  further  pro- 
blem ;  the  solution  and  application  of  which, 

:  demanded  a  severe  and  long  labor.  With  the 
reception  of  the  Christian  religion,  for  example, 

j  slavery  did  not  at  once  come  to  an  end,  still  less 
did  freedom  at  once  become  predominant  in  the 
States;  their  governments  and  constitutions  were 
not  immediately  organized  in  a  rational  manner, 
or  even  based  upon  the  principle  of  freedom. 
This  application  of  the  principle  to  the  world 
at  large,  this  thorough  penetration  and  reforma- 
tion of  the  condition  of  the  world  by  means  of 
it,  is  the  long  process  which  the  history  of  the 
nations  brings  before  our  eyes.  I  have  already 
called  attention  to  the  difference  between  a 
principle,  as  such,  and  its  application,  —  that  is, 
the  introduction  of  it  into  the  actual  operations 

,  of  spirit  and  life,  and  carrying  it  through  all  of 
them ;  this  is  a  fundamental  position  in  our 
science,  and  it  is  essential  that  we  hold  it  fast 
in  our  thoughts.  Here  we  have  brought  it  out 
distinctly,  in  respect  to  the  Christian  principle 
of  self-consciousness,  of  freedom ;  but  it  is  no 
less  essential  in  respect  to  the  principle  of  free- 
dom in  general.  The  history  of  the  world  is 
the  progress  in  the  consciousness  of  freedom, — 
a  progress  which  we  shall  have  to  recognise  in 
its  necessity. 

What  we  have  now  said,  in  general  terms, 
upon  the  difference  in  the  knowledge  of  free- 
dom which  we  find  in  different  ages  of  the 
world,  gives  us,  also,  the  true  division  of  the 
history  of  the  world,  and  the  mode  in  which 
we  shall  proceed  to  its  discussion.  The  scheme 
is  this:  the  Oriental  world  only  knew  that  one  is 
free ;  the  Greek  and  Roman  world  knew  that 
some  are  free ;  but  we  know  that  all  men,  in 
their  true  nature,  are  free,  —  that  man,  as  man, 
is  free. 


THE  RELATION  OF  INDIVIDUALS  TO  THE  WOBLd's 
HISTORY. 

In  the  history  of  the  world  something  else  19 
generally  brought  out  by  means  of  the  actions 
of  individual  men  than  they  themselves  aim  at 
or  attain,  than  they  directly  know  of  or  will  j 
they  achieve  their  own  ends,  but  something  far- 
ther is  brought  to  pass  in  connection  with  their 
acts,  which  also  lies  therein,  but  which  did  not 
lie  in  their  consciousness  and  purposes.  As  an 
analogous  example  we  cite  the  case  of  a  man, 
who,  out  of  revenge,  which  may  have  been 
justly  excited,  that  is,  by  an  unjust  injury,  goes 
to  work  and  sets  fire  to  the  house  of  another 
man.  Even  in  doing  this,  there  is  a  connection 
made  between  the  direct  act,  and  other,  although 
themselves  merely  external  circumstances,  which 
do  not  belong  to  this  act,  taken  wholly  and  di- 
rectly by  itself.  This  act,  as  such,  is  the  holding 
perhaps  of  a  small  flame  to  a  small  spot  of  a 
wooden  beam.  What  is  not  yet  accomplished 
by  this  act  goes  on  and  is  done  of  itself;  the 
part  of  the  beam  that  was  set  on  fire  is  con- 
nected with  other  parts  of  the  same  beam,  this 
too  with  the  rafters  and  joists  of  the  whole 
house,  this  house  with  other  houses,  and  a  wide- 
spread conflagration  ensues,  which  destroys  the 
property  and  goods  of  many  other  men  besides 
the  one  against  whom  the  revenge  was  directed, 
and  even  costs  many  men  their  lives.  All  this 
lay  not  in  the  general  act,  nor  in  the  intention 
of  him  who  began  it  all.  But,  still  farther,  this 
action  has  another  general  character  and  desti- 
nation :  in  the  purpose  of  the  actor  it  was  only 
revenge  against  an  individual  by  means  of  the 
destruction  of  his  property;  but  it  is  also  a  crime, 
and  this  involves,  farther,  a  punishment.  This 
may  not  have  been  included  in  the  conscious- 
ness, and  still  less  in  the  will  of  the  doer,  but 
still  such  is  his  act  in  itself,  the  general  cha- 
racter, the  very  substance  of  it,  that  which  is 
achieved  by  it.  In  this  example  all  that  we 
would  hold  fast  is,  that  in  the  immediate  action 
there  can  lie  something  more  than  what  was  in 
the  will  and  consciousness  of  the  actor.  The 
substance  of  the  action,  and  thereby  the  act 
itself,  here  turns  round  against  the  doer  ;  it  be- 
comes a  return-blow  against  him,  which  ruins 
him.  We  have  not  here  to  lay  any  emphasis 
upon  the  action  considered  as  a  crime ;  it  is  in- 
tended only  as  an  analogous  example,  to  show, 
that  in  the  definite  action  there  may  be  some- 
thing more  than  the  end  directly  willed. 

One  other  case  may  be  adduced  which  will 
come  up  later  in  its  own  place,  and  which, 
being  itself  historical,  contains,  in  the  special 
form  which  is  essential  to  our  purpose,  the  union 
of  the  general  with  the  particular,  of  an  end 
necessary  in  itself  with  an  aim  which  might 
seem  accidental.  It  is  that  of  Caesar,  in  danger 
of  losing  the  position  he  had  obtained,  if  not  of 
superiority  over,  yet  of  equality  with,  the  other 
man  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Roman  state, 
and  of  submitting  to  those  who  were  upon  the 


HEGEL. 


453 


point  of  becoming  his  enemies.  These  enemies, 
who  at  the  same  time  had  their  own  personal 
ends  in  view,  had  on  their  side  the  formal  con- 
stitution of  the  State  and  the  power  of  seeming 
legality.     Caesar  fought  to  maintain  his  own 

j  position,  honor,  and  safety,  and  the  victory  over 
his  opponents  was  at  the  same  time  the  con- 
quest of  the  whole  kingdom  :  and  thus  he  be- 
came, leaving  only  the  forms  of  the  constitution 
of  the  State,  the  sole  possessor  of  power.  The 
carrying  out  of  his  own  at  first  negative  purpose 

|  got  for  him  the  supremacy  in  Rome  ;  but  this 
was  also  in  its  true  nature  a  necessary  element 
in  the  history  of  Rome  and  of  the  world,  so  that 
it  was  not  his  own  private  gain  merely,  but  an 
instinct  which  consummated  that  which,  consi- 
dered by  itself,  lay  in  the  times  themselves. 
Such  are  the  great  men  of  history — those  whose 
private  purposes  contain  the  substance  of  that 
which  is  the  will  of  the  spirit  of  the  world. 
This  substance  constitutes  their  real  power  5  it 
is  contained  in  the  general  and  unconscious  in- 
stinct of  men;  they  are  inwardly  impelled 
thereto,  and  have  no  ground  on  which  they  can 
stand  in  opposing  the  man  who  has  undertaken 
the  execution  of  such  a  purpose  in  his  own  in- 
terest. The  people  assemble  around  his  ban- 
ner ;  he  shows  to  them,  and  carries  out,  that 
which  is  their  own  immanent  destiny. 

Should  we,  farther,  cast  a  look  at  the  fate  of 

i  these  world-historical  individuals,  we  see  that 
they  have  bad  the  fortune  to  be  the  leaders  to 
a  consummation  which  marks  a  stage  in  the 
progress  of  the  general  mind.  That  reason 
makes  use  of  these  instruments  we  might  call 
its  craft;  for  it  lets  them  carry  out  their  own 
aims  with  all  the  rage  of  passion,  and  not  only 
keeps  itself  unharmed,  but  makes  itself  domi- 
nant.   The  particular  is  for  the  most  part  too 

■  feeble  against  the  universal;  Ihe  individuals 
are  sacrificed.  Thus  the  world's  history  pre- 
sents itself  as  the  conflict  of  individuals,  and  in 
the  field  of  their  special  interests  all  goes  on 
very  naturally.  In  the  animal  world  the  pre- 
servation of  life  is  the  aim  and  instinct  of  each 

!■  individual,  and  yet  reason  or  general  laws  pre- 
vail, and  the  individuals  fall ;  thus  is  it  also  in 
the  spiritual  world.  Passions  destroy  each 
other;  reason  alone  watches,  pursues  its  end, 
and  makes  itself  authoritative. 

THE  STATE. 

That  which  is  substantial  and  true  in  man's 
will  is  what  we  call  morality  and  law ;  and 
this  is  what  is  divine  in  the  external  objects  of 
history.  Antigone  in  Sophocles  says:  'The  di- 
vine commands  are  not  of  yesterday  or  to-day ; 
no,  they  live  without  end,  and  no  one  knows 
whence  and  when  they  came.'  Moral  laws  are 
not  accidental,  but  are  reason  itself.  When 
these  moral  laws  or  ethical  principles,  which 
compose  the  true  substance  of  humanity,  have 
authority  in  the  actions  and  sentiments  of  men, 
when  they  are  really  carried  out  and  main- 
tained, then  we  have  the  State.  Now-a-days 


there  are  manifold  errors  current  upon  this  mat- 
ter which  pass  for  established  truths,  and  have 
all  prejudices  in  their  favor;  we  will  only  no- 
tice a  few  of  them,  and  such  as  have  a  special 
bearing  upon  the  aim  of  our  history. 

The  State,  we  say,  is  the  realisation  of  free- 
dom in  conformity  with  ethical  laws.  An  opi- 
nion directly  opposed  to  this  view  is  current, 
which  asserts  that  man  is  free  by  nature,  and 
that  the  society,  the  State,  of  which  he  is  natu- 
rally a  member,  must  restrict  this  natural  free- 
dom. That  man  is  free  by  nature  is  wholly 
correct  in  the  sense,  that  this  is  the  true  idea  of 
man,  but  this  idea  is  something  that  is  to  be 
realized  ;  it  expresses  his  destination,  and  not 
what  he  actually  is  at  first;  the  nature  of  any 
object  can  mean  the  same  as  the  true  conception 
of  it.  But  this  is  not  the  whole  meaning  of  the 
phrase;  there  is  also  included  in  it  the  notion 
of  the  mode  in  which  man  existed  in  his  natural 
and  undeveloped  condition.  In  this  sense,  a 
state  of  nature  is  generally  assumed  in  which 
man  is  represented  as  being  in  the  possession 
of  his  natural  rights  in  the  unrestricted  exercise 
and  enjoyment  of  his  freedom.  This  assump- 
tion does  not  pass  for  something  verified  by 
history;  and  if  it  were  earnestly  attempted,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  show  that  such  a  state  of 
nature  either  now  exists,  or  has  in  past  times 
anywhere  existed.  States  of  savageness  can  ; 
indeed  be  pointed  out,  but  these  are  always 
connected  with  rude  passions  and  violence, 
and,  even  when  most  cultivated,  we  find,  among 
such  tribes,  social  regulations  which  restrict 
true  freedom.  This  whole  assumption  is  one 
of  those  misty  figments  which  a  theorising  spirit 
generates ;  a  notion  necessarily  flowing  from 
such  a  spirit,  for  which  it  then  feigns  a  real 
existence,  without  justifying  itself  in  an  historical 
way. 

Such  as  we  find  this  state  of  nature  to  be  in 
fact,  so  is  it  in  the  notion  thereof.  Freedom, 
being  the  ideality  of  what  is  primitive  and  na- 
tural, is  not  found  in  the  primitive  and  natural 
condition  of  man;  it  must  first  be  wrought  out 
and  won,  and  that,  too,  by  an  unending  media- 
tion between  the  impulses  of  knowledge  and 
of  will.  Hence  the  state  of  nature  is  a  state  of 
injustice,  of  force,  of  unrestrained  natural  im- 
pulses to  inhuman  deeds  and  feelings.  Society 
and  the  State  do  indeed  make  restrictions,  but 
the  restrictions  are  put  upon  these  crude  emo- 
tions and  rude  impulses,  upon  fickleness  and 
passion.  These  limitations  are  made  by  that 
constant  process  of  mediation  between  opposing 
principles,  which  is  the  only  way  in  which  such 
freedom  is  produced,  as  is  conformed  to  the 
true  idea  thereof,  and  to  the  laws  of  reason. 
Right  and  ethics  belong  to  the  very  idea  of  free- 
dom;  these  are,  in  their  very  nature,  universal 
essences,  objects,  and  ends  ;  they  are  found 
only  as  we,  by  the  activity  of  thought,  distin- 
guish ourselves  from  whatever  is  sensual,  and 
develope  our  characters  in  contrast  with  what 
is  merely  natural ;  and  they  must,  so  to  speak, 


454 


HEGEL. 


be  moulded  into  and  embodied  in  the  will 
which  is  at  first  only  sensuous,  even  in  opposi- 
tion to  this  will.  This  is  the  everlasting  mis- 
apprehension of  freedom,  to  know  it  only  in  its 
formal  and  subjective  aspects,  abstracted  from 
its  essential  objects  and  aims;  thus  is  it  that 
the  limitation  of  those  impulses,  desires,  and 
passions,  which  belong  only  to  single  indivi- 
duals as  such,  to  the  sphere  of  caprice  and  mere 
liking,  is  taken  to  be  a  restriction  of  freedom. 
Such  limitation  is  rather  absolutely  necessary 
to  the  emancipation  of  the  will ;  and  society 
and  the  State  are  the  conditions  under  which 
freedom  is  realised. 

Another  conception  should  be  mentioned 
which  goes  against  the  development  of  right 
into  its  legal  forms.  The  patriarchal  state, 
taken  as  a  whole,  or  at  least  in  some  of  its 
branches,  is  looked  upon  as  the  condition  in 
which  the  moral  and  social  elements  of  our 
nature  are  best  satisfied,  in  connection  with  the 
demands  of  law,  and  it  is  said  that  justice  itself 
can  be  truly  exercised  only  in  conjunction  with 
these  elements.  The  family  relation  lies  at  the 
basis  of  the  patriarchal  condition  ;  and  here  we 
have  a  development  only  of  the  first  ethical 
elements  ;  the  State  must  also  be  added  in  order 
to  bring  about  a  conscious  development  of  the 
second  or  higher  elements.  The  patriarchal 
relation  is  a  state  of  transition,  in  which  the 
family  has  grown  to  a  tribe  or  people ;  it  has 
already  ceased  to  have  love  and  trust  for  its 
only  bonds;  it  has  come  to  be  a  connection  of 
mutual  service.  The  unity  of  the  mere  family 
is  one  of  natural  sentiment;  the  State  adds 
higher  bonds,  and  brings  the  members  of  the 
family  into  a  higher  moral  condition  and  con- 
nections. 

Finally  it  is  said,  that  right  and  the  true  no- 
tion of  freedom  lie  in  the  general  urill.  When 
we  speak  of  the  will  as  general,  we  mean,  that 
all  individuals  are  to  be  subject  to  it;  and  when 
freedom  is  said  to  consist  in  this,  that  the  indi- 
viduals give  their  assent,  it  is  easily  seen  that 
we  have  here  got  only  the  subjective  elements 
of  the  will.  It  comes  out  at  last  to  a  mere  ma- 
jority and  minority,  and  Rousseau  has  already 
remarked,  that  then  there  is  no  more  freedom, 
for  the  will  of  the  minority  is  no  longer  regarded. 
In  the  Polish  diet  every  individual  must  give 
his  assent  to  a  measure,  or  it  could  not  pass; 
and  for  the  sake  of  such  freedom  the  State  was 
ruined  ;  for  every  faction  of  the  people  can  give 
itself  out  to  be  the  people.  That  which  consti- 
tutes the  State  is  found  rather  in  its  culture  than 
in  the  people  as  a  mass. 

The  State,  as  such,  is  neither  a  natural,  nor,  in 
its  highest  form,  a  patriarchal  condition,  nor  is  it 
the  general  will:  but  it  is  an  ethical  whole;  the 
State,  embodied  in  the  individuals,  is  the  true 
ethics.  The  State,  its  laws,  its  institutions  are  the 
rights  of  the  individuals  belonging  to  it,  are  their 
external  possession  ;  and  its  soil,  its  mountains, 
air,  and  waters,  are  their  land,  their  fatherland; 
their  deeds  make  the  history  of  this  State ;  that 


which  their  forefathers  have  done  belongs  to 
them,  and  lives  in  their  memory.  All  is  their 
possession  —  even  as  the  State  also  possesses 
them  —  for  it  constitutes  their  substance,  their 
being.  Their  conceptions  are  thus  fulfilled  ;  and 
their  will  is  the  willing  of  these  laws  and  of 
this  fatherland.  It  is  this  spiritual  community 
which  makes  one  essence,  which  we  call  the 
spirit  of  a  people.  The  individuals  belong  to 
it;  every  individual  is  the  son  of  his  people, 
and  at  the  same  time,  so  far  as  the  state  is  pro- 
gressing, he  is  the  son  of  his  times;  no  one  re- 
mains behind  them,  nor  can  he  overleap  them; 
this  spiritual  essence  is  his  own,  he  is  its  repre- 
sentative; he  came  forth  from  it.  and  stands  in 
it.  Among  the  Athenians,  Athena  had  a  double 
significancy;  first,  she  designated  their  institu- 
tions as  a  whole  ;  and  she  was  also  the  goddess 
who  represented  the  unity,  the  spirit  of  the 
people. 

This  spirit  of  a  people  is  a  definite  spirit;  its 
character  is  determined  by  the  historical  stage 
of  their  development.  This  spirit  is  the  basis 
out  of  which  proceed  all  the  forms  of  national 
culture.  It  is  an  individuality,  which  in  reli- 
gion is  represented,  reverenced,  and  loved  in 
its  essential  character ;  in  art,  it  is  exhibited  in 
visible  images  and  forms;  in  philosophy,  it  is 
known  and  apprehended  as  thought.  The  forms 
which  these  things  take  are  in  inseparable  union 
with  the  spirit  of  the  people  ;  the  substance  of 
which  they  are  formed  and  their  objects  are  ori- 
ginally the  same  ;  hence,  only  with  such  a  reli- 
gion can  we  have  such  a  state ;  in  such  a  state 
only  such  a  philosophy  and  art.  This  remark 
is  especially  important  in  respect  to  the  folly 
of  our  times,  in  wishing  to  invent  and  carry 
out  state-constitutions  independently  of  religion. 
The  Catholic  confession,  although  standing  in 
common  with  the  Protestant,  within  the  bounds 
of  Christianity,  does  not  allow  that  internal  jus- 
tice and  morality  of  the  state,  which  lies  in  the 
more  spiritual  Protestant  principle,  and  which 
Protestantism  ascribes  to  it.  This  sundering  of 
public  law  and  the  constitution  of  the  state  from 
its  true  basis,  is  the  necessary  result  of  the  pecu- 
liar principle  of  the  Catholic  faith,  which  does 
not  acknowledge  that  law  and  morals  have  a 
real,  substantive  existence  of  their  own ;  but 
when  they  are  thus  torn  loose  from  their  spiritual 
foundation,  from  the  last  sanctuary  of  the  con- 
science, from  the  same  place  where  religion  has 
its  seat,  then  the  principles  and  institutions  of 
public  law  have  no  fixed  centre,  but  remain 
abstract  and  undefined. 

Hence  it  is  to  be  taken  as  a  general  principle, 
that  these  essential  things  belong  and  go  to- 
gether, and  that  what  is  Ibreign  to  their  spirit 
can  have  no  ingress  into  a  world  which  has  its 
own  limits.  Thus  Grecian  art  is  the  product 
of  the  Greek  religion  and  governments,  and  no 
one  can  introduce  it  among  ourselves.  It  is  just 
so  with  the  Greek  philosophy;  though  we  may 
learn  much  from  it,  yet  it  cannot  satisfy  us. 
Spirit  takes  the  form  of  universality;  and  if  a 


HEGEL. 


455 


state  is  to  advance  in  culture,  if  this  is  just  its 
office,  this  culture  must  be  in  conformity  with 
the  laws  of  Spirit.  Law,  considered  as  freedom 
determining  itself,  is  the  objectivity  of  spirit: 
hence  that  alone  is  true  volition,  the  will  in  the 
truth  of  it,  which  obeys  law,  for  it  then  obeys 
only  itself;  it  is  then  with  itself  and  free ;  this 
is  the  freedom  in  the  State  for  which  the  citizen 
is  active,  and  which  fills  his  soul.  In  that  the 
State,  the  fatherland  constitutes  a  community 
of  existence,  in  that  the  subjective  will  of  man 
becomes  subject  to  the  laws,  the  opposition 
between  freedom  and  necessity  vanishes.  The 
rational,  that  which  we  have  recognised  as  law, 
is  necessary;  and  we  are  free  when  we  follow 
what  is  rational ;  the  objective  and  subjective 
will  are  thus  reconciled.  The  ethics  of  the 
State  are  not  to  be  regarded  as  the  same  thing 
with  mere  morality,  are  not  the  mere  result  of 
reflection,  are  not  dependent  upon  private  con- 
victions alone  ;  this  is  the  system  of  morals  fami- 
liar to  the  modern  world,  while  the  true  and 
ancient  system  was  based  in  this,  that  each  man 
stood  to  his  duty.  A  citizen  of  Athens  did  as 
it  were  by  instinct  what  belonged  to  him  to  do ; 
but  if  I  reflect  upon  the  object  of  my  actions,  I 
must  then  have  the  consciousness  that  my  own 
will  is  first  to  come  in  as  an  essential  element. 
But  the  true  ethics  consists  in  duty,  in  conformity 
with  right,  with  law  which  has  a  real,  substantial 
existence;  it  has  been  justly  called  the  second 
nature,  for  the  first  nature  of  man  is  his  primi- 
tive, animal  existence. 

RELIGION",  ART,  PHILOSOPHY. 

All  spiritual  action  has  for  its  aim  and  result 
the  production  of  the  consciousness  of  the  union 
of  the  objective  and  the  subjective ;  in  this  is 
freedom.  This  union  appears  to  be  produced 
by  the  thinking  subject,  and  to  go  out  from  it. 
Religion  stands  at  the  head  of  the  forms  of  this 
union.  Here  the  existing  spirit,  the  spirit  be- 
longing to  this  world,  becomes  conscious  of  the 

I  Absolute  Spirit;  and  in  this  consciousness  of  a 
being  existing  in  and  for  itself,  the  will  of  man 
renounces  its  particular  for  private  interests:  in 
devotion,  he  puts  this  aside,  for  here  he  can  have 
jj  nothing  to  do  with  what  is  merely  personal  to 
himself.  If  he  is  truly  penetrated  with  devo- 
tion, he  knows  that  his  particular  interests  are 
subordinate.  This  concentration  of  soul  shows 
itself  as  feeling,  but  it  also  passes  over  into  re- 
flection ;  the  culttis,  meaning  by  this  all  forms 
of  outward  worship,  is  a  manifestation  of  such 
reflection ;  the  only  destination  and  significancy 

I  of  these  externals  is  to  produce  that  internal 
union, — to  lead  the  spirit  thereto.  By  sacrifices, 
man  expresses  his  willingness  to  give  up  his 

I  own  possessions,  his  own  will,  his  own  particu- 
lar feelings.  Thus  Religion  is  the  first  form  of 
the  union  of  the  objective  and  subjective.  The 
second  shape  it  takes  is  Art:  this  comes  more 
directly  into  the  world  of  sense  than  religion; 

I    in  its  worthiest  bearing  its  object  is  to  exhibit, 

J    not,  indeed,  God  as  spirit,  but  the  different  visi- 


ble representations  which  the  different  religions 
give  of  God;  and,  then,  what  is  divine  and  spi- 
ritual in  general.  Art  is  intended  to  make  what 
is  divine  more  clear ;  it  presents  it  to  the  imagi- 
nation and  contemplation  in  visible  shapes. 
Truth,  finally,  appears  not  only  in  the  form  of 
feeling  and  of  mental  images  of  things,  as  in  re- 
ligion; not  only  in  visible  shapes,  as  in  art;  but 
it  is  also  elaborated  by  the  thinking  spirit. 
Thus  we  attain  the  third  mode  of  the  union  of 
the  objective  and  subjective,  and  that  is  philo- 
sophy. This  is  the  highest,  freest,  and  purest 
shape  which  it  assumes. 

THE   UNINTELLIGIBILITY   OF  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  difficulty  here  lies  partly  in  the  want  of 
ability,  in  itself  only  a  want  of  habit,  to  think 
abstractly,  that  is,  to  hold  unmixed  thoughts 
fast,  and  to  move  freely  in  them.  In  our  ordi- 
nary consciousness,  thoughts  are  overlaid  and 
united  with  current  materials  from  the  world 
of  sense  and  of  spirit ;  and  in  our  after-thoughts, 
reflections  and  reasonings,  we  mix  up  feelings, 
and  mental  images  of  visible  objects,  with  the 
thoughts  themselves :  in  every  sentence  where 
we  speak  only  of  what  belongs  to  the  world  of 
sense,  e.  g.  this  leaf  is  green,  the  categories  of 
being  and  singleness  are  involved.  It  is  another 
thing  to  make  the  unmixed  thoughts  themselves 
the  object  of  speculation.  The  other  part  of  the 
unintelligibility  arises  from  the  impatient  desire 
of  having  what  exists  in  the  consciousness,  as  a 
thought  or  idea,  also  before  the  mind,  in  the 
shape  of  some  distinct  image.  It  is  a  common 
saying,  we  do  not  know  what  we  are  to  think 
about  an  idea  which  has  been  apprehended ; 
with  an  idea  there  is  nothing  to  be  thought  but 
the  idea  itself.  The  sense,  however,  of  that 
expression  is,  that  there  is  a  longing  for  some 
already  known  and  current  notion:  when  these 
notions  are  taken  away,  it  is,  to  the  conscious- 
ness, as  though  the  very  ground  were  removed, 
upon  which  there  was  once  a  firm  and  home- 
like standing-place.  When  one  is  transferred 
into  the  pure  region  of  ideas,  he  knows  not 
where  in  the  world  he  is.  Hence,  those  writers, 
preachers  and  authors  are  found  most  intelli- 
gible, who  tell  their  readers  or  hearers  things 
which  they  already  know  by  heart,  which  are 
current  with  them,  and  understood  of  themselves. 

There  is  a  pretension,  the  opposite  of  this. 
Philosophy  lays  claim  to  thinking,  as  the  pecu- 
liar form  in  which  it  works ;  and  every  man  is 
by  nature  a  thinking  being.  This  science  is, 
now,  often  disdainfully  treated  by  persons  who 
have  never  troubled  themselves  with  studying 
it,  and  who  imagine  that  they  understand,  ab 
ovo,  all  about  philosophy  and  its  conjunctures, 
and  are  able  to  philosophize,  and  judge  about 
philosophy,  just  as  they  walk  and  talk  with 
their  common  education  ;  and  especially  on  the 
ground  of  their  religious  feelings.  It  is  granted 
that  one  must  have  studied  the  other  sciences, 
in  order  to  understand  them ;  and  that  one  is 
justified  in  passing  judgment  upon  them  only 


456 


HEGEL. 


when  they  are  understood.  It  is  granted  that, 
in  order  to  make  a  shoe  perfectly,  one  must 
have  learned  and  practised  the  art ;  although 
every  man  has  the  measure  in  his  own  foot, 
and  has  hands,  and,  with  these,  natural  adapt- 
edness  to  the  whole  business.  Only  in  philoso- 
phizing, such  like  study,  learning  and  pains  are 
not  requisite.  This  convenient  opinion  has  got 
confirmation  in  the  latest  times,  by  means  of  the 
theory  of  immediate  knowledge, — of  knowledge 
by  intuitive  wisdom. 

EMPIRICISM  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  principle  of  Experience  contains  one  infi- 
nitely important  element,  that  in  order  to  receive 
and  hold  anything  to  be  true,  man  must  himself 
be  with  it,  have  a  knowledge  of  it  as  connected 
with  himself;  to  speak  more  definitely,  that  he 
must  find  such  an  external  object  united,  and 
in  unison  with,  the  certainty  of  himself.  He  must 
himself  be  there  with  it,  either  by  means  of  his 
external  senses  or  his  internal  spirit,  his  essen- 
tial self-consciousness.  This  principle  is  the 
same  as  what  now-a-days  is  called  faith,  direct 
knowledge,  the  revelation  in  the  external  world, 
and  especially  in  one's  own  self.  We  call  those 
sciences  which  have  been  named  philosophy, 
empirical  sciences,  on  account  of  the  point  of 
departure  which  they  take.  But  the  essential 
thing  which  they  aim  at  and  produce  is  a  know- 
ledge of  laws,  of  general  principles,  a  theory — the 
thoughts  that  are  contained  in  what  is  present 
around  us.  Thus  the  system  of  Newton  is  called 
Natural  Philosophy ;  while,  again,  Hugo  Gro- 
tius,  combining  together  the  historical  relations 
of  different  nations  to  one  another,  and  reasoning 
after  the  common  fashion  upon  these  data,  ar- 
rived at  some  general  principles,  a  theory  which 
may  be  called  the  Philosophy  of  the  Law  of 
Nations.  The  word  philosophy  still  retains  this 
meaning  universally  in  England.  Newton  has 
the  credit  of  being  the  greatest  of  philosophers  ; 
even  down  in  the  price-currents  of  the  fabrica- 
tors of  instruments  we  find  it ;  those  instruments 
which  are  not  brought  under  some  special  rubric 
(as  magnetic  and  electric  apparatus),  the  ther- 
mometers, barometers,  and  such  like,  are  called 
philosophical  instruments  •  although  one  would 
think  that  Thought  alone,  and  not  a  composition 
of  iron,  wood,  &c,  was  the  instrument  of  phi- 
losophy* So,  too,  the  science  of  Political  Eco- 
nomy, for  which  we  are  indebted  to  these  latest 
times,  is  called  by  them  philosophy;  while  we 
Germans  name  it  rational  Economy  of  the  State. 
In  the  mouths  of  English  statesmen  the  expres- 


*  The  Journal  published  by  Thomson  has  the  title, 
"rfnnals  of  Philosophy,  or  Magazine  for  Chemistry,  Mine- 
ralogy, Mechanics,  Natural  History,  Agriculture,  and  the 
Arts."  One  can  from  this  see  for  himself  what  the  ma- 
terials are  which  are  here  called  philosophical.  Among 
the  advertisements  of  new  books  in  an  English  paper,  I 
lately  found  the  following:  "  The  Art  of  Preserving  the 
Hair,  on  Philosophical  Principles,  neatly  printed  in  post, 
8vo.,  price  7s."  By  philosophical  principles  are  here 
probably  meant  chemical,  physiological,  and  such  like. 


sion,  philosophical  principles,  is  frequently  used 
with  reference  to  the  general  principles  of  State 
policy,  even  in  public  addresses.  In  a  session 
of  Parliament  on  the  2d  of  February,  1825, 
Brougham,  by  occasion  of  an  Address  in  reply 
to  the  Speech  from  the  Throne,  spoke  of  "  those 
philosophical  principles  of  free  trade,  worthy  of 
a  statesman — for  without  doubt  they  are  philo- 
sophical— on  the  adoption  of  which  His  Majesty 
has  this  day  congratulated  Parliament."  And 
not  only  this  member  of  the  opposition,  but  the 
Secretary  of  State,  Canning,  in  reply  to  a  toast 
given  him  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Company 
of  Ship-owners,  where  Lord  Liverpool,  the 
Prime  Minister,  presided,  also  said:  "A  period 
has  lately  begun  in  which  ministers  have  it  in 
their  power  to  apply  the  correct  maxims  of  a 
deep  philosophy  to  our  national  government." 
However  different  the  English  Philosophy  may 
be  from  the  German,  when  the  very  name  is 
elsewhere  a  by-word  and  reproach,  or  used  as 
some  hateful  thing,  it  is  an  occasion  of  rejoicing 
to  see  it  honored  in  the  mouths  of  English 
statesmen. 


It  is  an  old  maxim,  falsely  ascribed  to  Aris- 
totle in  the  sense  that  it  expresses  the  stand- 
point of  his  philosophy:  nihil  est  in  intellectu, 
quod  non  fuerit  in  sensu:  —  there  is  nothing  in 
thought  which  was  not  first  in  sense,  in  expe- 
rience. It  is  only  a  misunderstanding  when  it 
is  said,  that  the  speculative  philosophy  will  not 
grant  this  principle.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  also  maintains :  nihil  est  in  sensu,  quod  non 
fuerit  in  intellectu,  —  first,  in  the  very  general 
sense,  that  the  mind  (yov{)  or,  with  deeper  sig- 
nificance of  definition,  the  spirit,  is  the  cause  of 
the  world  ;  and,  secondly,  in  the  more  special 
sense,  that  our  feelings  in  respect  to  justice, 
morals  and  religion,  are  feelings,  and  so  expe- 
riences, in  respect  to  matters  which  have  their 
root  and  seat  in  thought. 


WHO  THINKS  ABSTRACTLY? 

FROM  HEGEL'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Thinks?  Abstractly?  — "  Sauve  qui  peut!" 
"  Save  himself  who  can !"  I  hear  a  traitor  ex- 
claim, who,  bribed  by  the  enemy,  would  decry 
this  essay,  as  one  that  treats  of  Metaphysics. 
For  '  metaphysics '  and  '  abstract,'  and,  I  had 
almost  said,  '  to  think,'  are  words  from  which— 
as  from  one  infected  with  the  plague  —  every 
man  is  more  or  less  disposed  to  run  away. 

I  do  not  however  intend  here  anything  so 
atrocious  as  an  explanation  of  what  is  meant 
by  'thinking'  and  by  'abstract.'  I  am  frightened 
enough  myself  when  any  one  begins  to  ex- 
plain ;  for,  at  a  pinch,  I  understand  everything 
myself.  Besides,  any  explanation  of  the  words, 
'to  think'  and  'abstract,'  would  be  quite  super- 
fluous.  For  it  is  even  because  the  polite  world 


HEG 


knows  so  well  what  is  meant  by  'abstract,'  that 
it  shuns  the  abstract.  As  no  one  craves  what 
he  does  not  know,  so  no  one  can  hate  what  he 
does  not  know.  Neither  is  it  intended,  by- 
cunning  stratagem,  to  attempt  to  reconcile  the 
polite  world  to  the  abstract,  as  if,  e.  g.  under  the 
cover  of  a  light  conversation,  'thinking'  and 
'the  abstract'  should  be  tricked  out,  until,  at 
last,  without  being  recognised,  and  without 
awakening  any  abhorrence,  they  had  crept  into 
good  company,  and  even  been  imperceptibly 
drawn  in  by  said  company,  or,  as  they  say  in 
Suabia,  " gez'dunselt"  in, — and  then  the  author  of 
the  plot  should  come  forward  and  uncover  this 
otherwise  strange  guest,  'the  abstract,'  whom 
the  whole  company  had  been  acknowledging 
and  treating  as  a  good  friend,  under  a  different 
name.  These  scenes  of  recognition,  by  which 
it  is  designed  to  instruct  the  world  against  its 
will,  have  this  unpardonable  fault — they  mor- 
tify while  they  instruct;  and  they  discover  in 
the  machinist  the  wish  to  acquire  a  little  repu- 
tation by  his  arts.  That  mortification  and  this 
vanity  neutralize  the  intended  effect,  and  dissi- 
pate again  the  instruction  purchased  at  such  a 
price. 

Besides,  the  stratagem,  in  this  instance,  if  any 
such  had  been  designed,  is  already  defeated; 
inasmuch  as  its  successful  execution  requires 
that  the  word  of  the  enigma  should  not  be  pro- 
nounced at  the  outset.  But  that  has  been  done 
in  the  present  case,  in  the  caption.  If  my  essay 
had  contemplated  a  ruse  like  that  which  has 
been  described,  these  words,  'think'  and  'ab- 
stract,' ought  not  to  have  made  their  appear- 
ance in  the  commencement ;  but,  like  the  minis- 
ter of  state  in  the  play,  they  should  wear  an 
over-coat  through  the  whole  piece,  and  then  in 
the  last  scene  unbutton  it,  and  let  the  star*  of 
wisdom  beam  forth.  But  the  unbuttoning  of 
the  metaphysical  over-coat  would  not  have  so 
good  an  effect  as  the  unbuttoning  of  the  minis- 
terial. It  would  only  reveal  a  couple  of  words; 
and  the  best  of  the  joke  was  to  consist  in  show- 
ing that  the  company  had  long  been  in  posses- 
sion of  the  thing.  So  they  would  gain,  in  the 
end,  nothing  but  the  name ;  whereas  the  minis- 
terial star  indicates  something  more  real,  to  wit, 
a  purse  with  money  in  it. 

It  is  presumed  in  good  company — and  that  is 
the  kind  of  company  we  are  now  in — that  every 
one  present  knows  what  'thinking'  is,  what  'ab- 
stract' is.  We  have  only  to  inquire  who  it  is 
that  thinks  abstractly.  The  design  is  not,  as  I 
have  already  remarked,  to  reconcile  the  com- 
pany to  these  things,  to  expect  of  them  that 
they  should  employ  themselves  with  anything 
difficult,  to  speak  to  their  consciences  for  heed- 
lessly neglecting  what  is  so  worthy  and  befitting 
I  a  rational  being.  The  object  is  rather  to  recon- 
cile the  polite  world  with  itself,  in  case  it  should 
feel  —  not  exactly  conscientious  scruples  on  ac- 


*  In  allusion  to  the  star  worn  on  the  breast  by  certain 
dignitaries.— 7Yans. 

3h 


EL.  457 


count  of  said  neglect  —  but  yet  inwardly,  at 
least,  a  certain  respect  for  abstract  thinking,  as 
for  something  exalted,  and  should  turn  from  it 
not  because  it  is  too  mean,  but  because  it  is  too 
hiu;h,  not  because  it  is  too  common,  but  because 
it  is  too  distinguished  ;  or,  contrariwise,  because 
it  seems  to  be  an  espcce,  something  out  of  the 
way,  something  whereby  one  is,  not  distin- 
guished in  general  society  as  by  new  finery, 
but  rather  excluded  from  it,  or  made  ridiculous 
in  it,  as  by  a  poor  dress,  or  by  a  rich  one,  where 
the  setting  of  the  diamonds  is  old-fashioned,  or 
where  the  embroidery,  though  never  so  costly, 
has  long  since  come  to  be  "  Chinese." 

Who  thinks  abstractly?  The  uncultivated 
man,  not  the  cultivated.  People  who  belong 
to  good  society  do  not  think  abstractly,  because 
it  is  too  easy,  because  it  is  too  low  —  low,  not 
according  to  outward  condition;  —  they  abstain 
from  it,  not  out  of  empty  hauteur,  which  affects 
to  look  with  contempt  on  what  is  above  its  capa- 
city, but  on  account  of  the  intrinsic  littleness  of 
the  thing. 

The  prepossession  and  respect  for  abstract 
thinking  is  so  great,  that  refined  noses  will  begin 
to  scent  and  anticipate  Scitire  or  irony  here.  But 
as  my  readers  are  readers  of  the  Morgenblatt, 
they  know  that  a  price  is  paid  for  satire ;  and 
they  must  suppose  that  I  would  rather  earn  that 
price,  and  concur  to  obtain  it,  than  give  forth 
my  matters  in  this  way,  without  remuneration. 

I  need  but  adduce,  in  defence  of  my  proposi- 
tion, certain  examples,  which,  as  every  one  will 
allow,  imply  it.  We  will  suppose,  then,  a  mur- 
derer is  led  to  the  place  of  execution.  To  the 
common  people  he  is  nothing  more  than  a  mur- 
derer. Ladies,  perhaps,  will  remark  that  he  is 
a  powerful,  handsome,  interesting  man.  But 
the  people  before  mentioned,  think  that  remark 
shocking.  "What!  a  murderer  handsome?  How 
can  any  one  be  so  evil-minded  as  to  think  a 
murderer  handsome  1  It  is  to  be  feared  you  are 
not  much  better  than  murderers  yourselves." 
"  This  is  the  corruption  of  morals  which  reigns 
among  the  higher  classes,"  adds,  perhaps,  a 
priest,  who  knows  the  reason  of  things  and  the 
hearts  of  men. 

One  who  understands  human  nature,  investi- 
gates the  course  which  the  education  of  this 
murderer  has  taken ;  he  finds  in  his  history,  in 
his  bringing-up,  bad  domestic  relations  between 
his  father  and  his  mother;  finds  a  monstrous 
severity  exercised  towards  him  on  the  occasion 
of  some  light  offence,  —  a  severity  which  has 
embittered  his  feelings  in  relation  to  the  civil 
order; — finds  a  first  reaction  against  this  order, 
which,  caused  his  expulsion  from  it,  and  made 
it  impossible  for  him,  thenceforward,  to  main- 
tain himself  otherwise  than  by  crime.  There 
may  be  some  who,  when  they  hear  this  account 
of  the  matter,  will  say.  that  man  wishes  to 
apologize  for  this  murderer !  I  remember  to 
have  heard,  in  my  youth,  a  burgomaster  com- 
plain that  writers  of  books  were  going  too  far, 
were  endeavoring  to  extirpate  Christianity  and 
39 


458 


HEGEL. 


justice  altogether;  that  some  one  had  written  a 
defence  of  suicide!  —  dreadful!  too  dreadful! 
On  inquiry,  it  appeared  that  he  had  in  his  mind 
the  "  Sorrows  of  Werter." 

This  is  thinking  abstractly,  —  to  see  in  a 
murderer  nothing  but  the  abstract  fact  that  he 
is  a  murderer;  and  by  means  of  this  single 
quality  to  expunge  all  else,  all  that  is  human  in 
him. 

Quite  otherwise  did  a  refined,  sentimental 
Leipzig  world.  They  bestrewed  and  be  wreathed 
the  wheel,  and  the  criminal  who  was  bound 
upon  it,  with  flower-garlands.  But  this,  again, 
is  an  abstraction  of  an  opposite  kind.  Chris- 
tians may  well  practise  rosicrucianism,  or  rather 
cruciroseism,  and  wreathe  the  cross  with  roses. 
The  cross  is  a  long-since  hallowed  gibbet  and 
wheel.  It  has  lost  its  one-sided  signification  as 
an  instrument  of  degrading  punishment,  and 
gives,  on  the  contrary,  the  idea  of  the  highest 
sorrow  and  the  uttermost  rejection,  combined 
with  extreme  rapture  and  divine  honor.  The 
Leipzig  cross,  on  the  other  hand,  wreathed  with 
violets  and  roses,  represents  an  atonement  in 
the  manner  of  Kotzebue,  a  kind  of  maudlin 
agreement  between  sentiment  and  vice. 

It  was  after  a  very  different  fashion  that  I 
once  heard  a  vulgar  old  crone — a  spital  woman 
— slay  the  abstraction  of  a  murderer,  and  raise 
him  again  to  honor.  The  severed  head  was 
placed  upon  the  scaffold,  and  the  sun  was 
shining.  "  How  beautifully,"  said  she,  "God's 
sun  of  grace  illumines  Binder's  head  !"  People 
say  to  a  wight  against  whom  they  are  incensed, 
"  You  are  not  worthy  that  the  sun  should  shine 
upon  you!"'  That  woman  saw  that  the  mur- 
derers head  was  shone  upon  by  the  sun,  and 
consequently  was  still  worthy  of  the  sun's  light. 
She  raised  him  from  the  punishment  of  the 
scaffold  into  the  sun-grace  of  God.  She  did  not 
bring  about  the  atonement  with  violets  and  sen- 
timental vanity;  but  she  saw  him  received  with 
grace  into  a  higher  sun. 

"Old  woman!  your  eggs  are  rotten!"  says 
the  female  purchaser  to  the  huckster-woman. 
"What!"  replies  the  latter;  "my  eggs  rotten! 
Belike,  you  are  rotten  yourself.  Do  you  say  that 
of  my  eggs?  You?  Didn't  the  lice  eat  up 
your  father  on  the  public  road?  Didn't  your 
mother  run  off  with  the  French  ?  Didn't  your 
grandmother  die  in  the  Spital  ?  Go  !  get  you  a 
whole  smock,  to  go  with  your  gauze  necker- 
chief! Everybody  knows  where  that  necker- 
chief, and  where  all  your  caps  come  from.  If 
there  were  no  officers,  many  a  girl  would  not 


be  so  prinked  up  now-a-days.  And  if  mis- 
tresses would  look  more  to  their  housekeeping, 
there's  many  a  one  would  sit  in  the  stocks.  Go! 
patch  the  holes  in  your  stockings!"  In  short, 
she  does  not  leave  her  a  whole  thread.  She 
thinks  abstractly,  and  concludes  her,  together 
with  neckerchief,  caps,  smock,  &c,  with  fingers 
and  other  parts,  also  with  her  father  and  all  her 
relations,  under  the  single  crime  of  having 
charged  her  (the  huckster)  with  rotten  eggs. 
Everything  about  her  is  colored  through  and 
through  with  these  rotten  eggs;  whereas,  on  the 
contrary,  those  officers,  of  whom  the  huckster- 
woman  spoke, — if  (what  is  very  doubtful)  there 
is  anything  in  the  story, — must  have  seen  some- 
thing very  different. 

To  come  from  the  maid  to  servants:  —  a  ser- 
vant fares  nowhere  so  badly  as  with  men  of  in- 
ferior rank  and  small  income.  The  higher  the 
rank  of  the  master,  the  better  the  condition  of  the 
servant.  Here,  again,  the  common  man  thinks 
more  abstractly.  He  is  haughty  towards  his 
servant,  relates  to  him  as  to  a  servant  only.  To 
this  one  predicate  he  holds  fast.  A  servant 
fares  best  with  Frenchmen.  The  man  of  rank 
is  familiar  with  his  servant.  The  Frenchman 
is  "hail!  fellow,  well  met!"  with  him.  When 
they  are  alone,  the  servant  leads  the  conversa- 
tion. See  Diderot's  Jacques  et  son  maitre.  The 
master  does  nothing  but  take  snuff  and  look  at 
his  watch ;  and,  for  the  rest,  lets  the  servant 
have  his  way.  The  man  of  rank  knows  that 
the  servant  is  not  merely  a  servant,  that  he  is 
acquainted  with  the  news  of  the  city,  knows 
the  girls,  and  has  good  projects  in  his  head. 
He  asks  him  about  these  things,  and  the  servant 
may  say  what  he  knows  on  the  subjects  on 
which  the  master  questions  him.  With  a  French 
master,  the  servant  may  not  only  do  this,  but 
may  also  bring  his  own  matter  on  the  tapis,  and 
have  and  maintain  his  own  opinion.  And  if 
the  master  wants  anything,  he  is  not  to  com- 
mand, but  he  must  first  reason  his  own  opinion 
into  the  servant,  and  then  give  him  a  good  word, 
in  order  that  his  own  opinion  may  retain  the 
ascendancy. 

In  military  life,  the  same  distinction  is  found,  i 
In  Austria,  the  soldier  can  be  flogged ;  conse- 
quently, he  is  a  vile  fellow ;  for  one  who  has  a 
passive  right  to  be  flogged,  is  a  vile  fellow. 
And  so  the  common  soldier  passes  with  the 
officer  for  this  abstraction,  a  floggable  subject, 
one  with  whom  a  gentleman  who  has  a  uniform 
and  Port  d'epee  must  have  intercourse.  And 
that  is  to  give  one's  self  to  the  Devil. 


JOHANN  HEINRICH  DANIEL  ZSCHOKKE. 


Bom  1771. 


Zschokke  has  become  known  to  the  Ameri- 
can Public,  within  a  few  years  past,  by  trans- 
lations of  several  of  his  tales.  But  Zschokke  is 
something  more  than  a  mere  story-teller.  He  is 
known  in  Germany  as  an  historical  writer,  and 
all  his  works  discover  the  moral  philosopher, 
well  versed  in  human  nature  and  human  af- 
fairs, and  one  who  has  pondered  deeply  the 
social  and  individual  destination  of  man. 

He  was  born,  according  to  Wolff's  Encyclo- 
pasdia  of  German  Literature,  at  Magdeburg, 
March  22d,  1771,  received  a  classical  educa- 
tion in  his  native  city,  and  studied  at  Frankfort 
on  the  Oder,  where  he  afterwards  took  up  his 
residence,  and  in  1793  was  made  Professor  of 
Philosophy.  He  soon  resigned  this  office,  and 
moved  to  Graubiindten,  (Grisons,)  where  he 
undertook  the  management  of  a  seminary  of 
education.  At  the  time  of  the  French  inva- 
sion he  acted  as  mediator,  devoting  himself 
exclusively  to  the  good  of  the  country  which 
he  had  adopted  as  a  second  father-land.  He 
was  made  Government's  Commissary  for  seve- 


ral Cantons,  and  officiated  for  some  time  as 
Lieutenant  Governor  at  Basel.  He  then  re- 
tired to  Castle  Biberstein  in  Aargau,  but  was 
soon  summoned  anew  into  public  life,  and  made 
Superintendent  of  the  Mining  and  Forest  de- 
partments. In  1815,  he  was  made  member  of 
the  general  Council  of  the  Cantons.  Tn  1829, 
he  resigned  all  his  public  offices,  and  since  that 
time  has  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  lite- 
rary pursuits,  living  and  laboring,  as  author  by 
profession,  at  Aarau. 

Zschokke  has  tried  his  hand  at  almost  every 
species  of  literary  production,  and  has  been 
successful  in  all.  He  excels  as  narrator,  com- 
bining artistic  judgment  with  exuberant  fancy, 
great  power  of  characterization,  a  lively  man- 
ner, and  a  style  admirably  suited  to  his  mate- 
rial ;  natural,  but  at  the  same  time  dignified 
and  correct.  But  his  influence  has  been  great- 
est as  historian  and  popular  teacher,  skilled  to 
comprehend  and  penetrate  the  spirit  of  the 
time,  and  indefatigable  in  developing  and  dif- 
fusing sound  views  of  men  and  things. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  A 
POOR  VICAR  IN  WILTSHIRE  * 

Bee.  15,  1764.  —  Received  to-day  from  Dr. 
Snarl,  £10  sterling,  being  my  half-year's  salary. 
The  receipt  even  of  this  hardly-earned  sum 
was  attended  with  many  uncomfortable  cir- 
cumstances. 

Not  until  I  had  waited  an  hour  and  a  half  in 
the  cold  ante-room  was  I  admitted  to  the  pre- 
sence of  his  Reverence.  He  was  seated  in  an 
easy-chair  at  his  writing-desk.  My  money  was 
lying  by  him,  ready  counted.  My  low  bow  he 
returned  with  a  lofty  side-nod,  while  he  slightly 
pushed  back  his  beautiful  black  silk  cap,  and 
immediately  drew  it  on  again.  Really  he  is  a 
man  of  much  dignity.    I  can  never  approach 

*  From  "  The  Gift,"  1844,  Philadelphia,  Carey  &.  Hart. 
Translated  by  Rev.  W.  H.  Furness.  The  translator  ven- 
tures the  conjecture  that  the  original  fragment  from 
which  Zschokke  took  the  idea  of  this  journal,  and  which 
appeared  in  the  British  Magazine  (1766),  was  written  by 
Goldsmith.  It  may  be,  as  the  German  writer  suggests, 
the  germ  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  which  appeared 
first  in  1772. 


him  without  awe.  I  do  not  believe  I  should 
enter  the  king's  presence  with  less  composure. 

He  did  not  urge  me  to  be  seated,  although  he 
well  knew  that  I  had  this  very  morning  walked 
eleven  miles  in  the  bad  weather,  and  that  the 
hour  and  a  half's  standing  in  the  ante-room  had 
not  much  helped  to  rest  my  wearied  limbs.  He 
pointed  me  to  the  money. 

My  heart  beat  violently  when  I  attempted  to 
introduce  the  subject  which  I  had  so  long  thought 
over,  of  a  little  increase  of  my  salary.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  conquer  my  timidity,  even  in 
the  most  righteous  cause.  Twice,  with  an  agony 
as  if  I  were  about  to  commit  a  crime,  I  endea- 
vored to  break  ground.  Memory,  words,  and 
voice  failed  me.  The  sweat  started  in  great 
drops  on  my  forehead. 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?"  said  the  Doctor,  very 
politely. 

"I  am — everything  is  so  dear — scarcely  able 
to  get  along  in  these  hard  times,  with  this  small 
salary." 

"  Small  salary,  Mr.  Vicar !  How  can  you 
think  so?  I  can  at  any  time  procure  another 
vicar  for  £15  sterling  a  year." 

(459) 


460 


ZSCHOKKE. 


"For  £15!  Without  a  family,  one  might  in- 
deed get  along  with  that  sum." 

"Your  family,  Mr.  Vicar,"  said  the  doctor,  in- 
quiringly, "  has  not  received  any  addition,  I 
trust.   You  have  only  two  daughters?" 

"  Only  two,  your  Reverence ;  but  they  are 
growing  up.  My  Jenny,  the  eldest,  is  now 
eighteen,  and  Polly,  the  younger,  will  soon  be 
twelve." 

"  So  much  the  better.    Can't  your  girls  work?" 

I  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  cut  me  short 
by  rising  and  observing,  while  he  went  to  the 
window  and  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the 
pane,  that  he  had  no  time  to  talk  with  me  to- 
day. "Think  it  over,"  he  concluded,  "whether 
you  will  retain  your  place  at  £15  a  year,  and 
let  me  know.  If  you  relinquish  it,  I  hope  you 
will  have  a  better  situation  for  a  New  Year's 
present." 

He  bowed  very  politely,  and  again  touched 
his  cap.  I  swept  up  the  money,  and  took  my 
leave.  I  was  thunderstruck.  He  had  never 
received  nor  dismissed  me  so  coldly  before. 
Without  doubt  somebody  has  been  speaking  ill 
of  me.  He  did  not  once  invite  me  to  dinner,  as 
had  always  before  been  his  custom.  I  had  de- 
pended upon  it,  for  I  came  from  home  without 
breaking  my  fast.  I  bought  a  loaf  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  town  at  a  baker's  shop,  which  I  had  ob- 
served in  passing,  and  took  my  way  home. 

How  cast  down  was  I  as  I  trudged  along!  I 
cried  like  a  child.  The  bread  I  was  eating  was 
wet  with  my  tears. 

But  fy,  Thomas  !  Shame  upon  thy  faint  heart ! 
Lives  not  the  gracious  God  still?  What  if  thou 
hadst  lost  the  place  entirely?  And  it  is  only  £5 
less !  It  is  indeed  a  quarter  of  my  whole  little 
yearly  stipend,  and  it  leaves  barely  lOd.  a  day 
to  feed  and  clothe  three  of  us.  What  is  there 
left  for  us?  Who  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field  ! 
Who  feeds  the  young  ravens !  We  must  deny 
ourselves  some  of  our  luxuries. 

Dec.  16. — I  do  believe  Jenny's  an  angel.  Her 
soul  is  even  more  beautiful  than  her  body.  I 
am  almost  ashamed  of  being  her  father.  She  is 
so  much  better  and  more  pious  than  I. 

I  had  not  the  courage  yesterday  to  tell  my 
girls  the  bad  news.  When  I  mentioned  it.  to- 
day, Jenny  at  first  looked  very  serious,  but  sud- 
denly she  brightened  up  and  said,  « Thou  art 
disquieted,  father !" 

"Should  I  not  be  so?" 

"  No,  thou  shouldst  not." 

"  Dear  child,  we  shall  never  be  free  from 
debt  and  trouble.  I  do  not  know  how  we  can 
stand  it.  Our  need  is  sore.  £15  hardly  suffice 
for  the  bare  necessaries  of  life.  Who  will  as- 
sist us?" 

Instead  of  answering,  Jenny  gently  passed 
one  arm  round  my  neck,  and  pointed  upwards 
with  the  other. — "He,  there!"  said  she. 

Polly  seated  herself  on  my  lap,  patted  my 
face,  and  said,  "I  want  to  tell  thee  something. 
I  dreamed  last  night  that  it  was  New  Year's 


day,  and  that  the  king  came  to  C  .  There 

was  a  splendid  show.  The  king  dismounted 
from  his  horse  before  our  front  door,  and  came 
in.  We  had  nothing  to  set  before  him,  and 
he  commanded  some  of  his  own  dainties  to  be 
brought  in  dishes  of  gold  and  silver.  The  kettle- 
drums and  trumpets  sounded  outside;  and  only 
think,  with  the  sound  of  the  music,  in  came 
some  people  with  a  bishop's  mitre  upon  a  satin 
cushion,  a  New  Year's  present  for  thee !  It 
looked  very  funny,  like  the  pointed  caps  of  the 
bishops  in  the  old  picture-book.  But  it  became 
thee  right  grandly.  Yet  I  laughed  myself  almost 
out  of  breath ;  and  then  Jenny  waked  me  up, 
which  made  me  quite  angry.  This  dream  has 
certainly  something  to  do  with  a  New  Year's 
present.  It  is  only  fourteen  days  to  New 
Year's." 

I  said  to  Polly,  "Dreams  are  but  Seems;"  but 
she  said,  "Dreams  come  from  God." 

I  believe  no  such  thing.  Still  I  write  the 
dream  down,  to  see  whether  it  be  not  a  com- 
forting hint  from  Heaven.  A  New  Year's  pre- 
sent would  be  acceptable  to  all  of  us. 

All  day  I  have  been  at  my  accounts.  I  do 
not  like  accounts.  Reckoning  and  money  mat- 
ters distract  my  head,  and  make  my  heart 
empty  and  heavy. 

Dec.  17.  —  My  debts.  God  be  praised,  are  all 
now  paid,  but  one.  At  five  different  places  I 
paid  off  £7  lis.  sterling.  I  have  therefore  left 
in  ready  money,  £2  9s.  This  must  last  a  half- 
year.    God  help  us ! 

The  black  hose  that  I  saw  at  tailor  Cutbay's  I 
must  leave  unpurchased,  although  I  need  them 
sorely.  They  are  indeed  pretty  well  worn,  yet 
still  in  good  condition,  and  the  price  is  reason- 
able. But  Jenny  needs  a  cloak  a  great  deal 
more.  I  pity  the  dear  child  when  I  see  her 
shivering  in  that  thin  camlet.  Polly  must  be 
satisfied  with  the  cloak  which  her  sister  has 
made  for  her  so  nicely  out  of  her  old  one. 

I  must  give  up  my  share  of  the  newspaper  which 
neighbor  Westburn  and  I  took  together.  It  goes 
hard  with  me.  Here  in  C  ,  without  a  news- 
paper one  knows  nothing  of  the  course  of  affairs. 
At  the  horse-races  at  Newmarket,  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland  won  £5000  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton. 
It  is  wonderful  how  literally  the  words  of  Scrip- 
ture are  always  fulfilled,  "To  him  who  hath, 
shall  be  given,"  and  those  other  words,  too, 
"From  him  who  hath  not,  shall  be  taken  away." 
I  must  lose  £5  of  even  my  poor  salary. 

Fy,  Thomas,  already  murmuring  again  !  and 
wherefore  ?  For  a  newspaper,  which  thou  art 
no  longer  able  to  take  ?  Shame  on  thee  !  Thou 
mayst  easily  learn  from  others  whether  General 
Paoli  succeeds  in  maintaining  the  freedom  of 
Corsica.  The  French  have  indeed  promised 
assistance  to  the  Genoese ;  but  Paoli  has  20,000 
veterans. 

Dec.  18. — Ah!  how  happy  are  we  poor  people 
still !    Jenny  has  got  a  grand  cloak  at  the  slop- 

   J 


ZSCHOKKE. 


40 1 


shop  for  a  mere  song,  and  now  she  is  sitting 
there  with  Polly,  ripping  it  to  pieces,  in  order  to 
make  it  up  anew.  Jenny  understands  how  to 
trade  and  bargain  better  than  I.  But  they  let 
her  have  things  at  her  own  price,  her  voice  is 
so  gentle.  We  have  now  joy  upon  joy.  Jenny 
wants  to  appear  in  the  new  cloak  for  the  first 
time  on  New  Year's  Day.  Polly  has  a  hundred 
comments  and  predictions  about  it.  I  wager, 
the  Dey  of  Algiers  had  not  greater  pleasure  in 
the  costly  present  which  the  Venetians  made 
him,  the  two  diamond  rings,  the  two  watches 
set  with  brilliants,  the  pistols  inlaid  with  gold, 
the  costly  carpets,  the  rich  housings,  and  the 
20,000  sequins  in  cash. 

Jenny  says  we  must  save  the  cloak  in  eat- 
ables. Until  New  Year's,  we  must  buy  no 
meat.    This  is  as  it  should  be. 

Neighbor  Westburn  is  a  noble  man.  I  told 
him  yesterday  I  must  discontinue  my  subscrip- 
tion for  the  newspaper,  because  I  am  not  sure 
of  my  present  salary,  nor  even  of  my  place.  He 
shook  my  hand  and  said,  "  Very  well,  then  I 
will  take  the  paper,  and  you  shall  still  read  it 
with  me." 

One  must  never  despair.  There  are  more 
good  men  in  the  world  than  one  thinks,  espe- 
cially among  the  poor. 

The  same  day.  Eve. — The  baker  is  a  crabbed 
man.  Although  I  owe  him  nothing,  yet  when 
Polly  went  to  fetch  a  loaf,  and  found  it  very 
small  and  badly  risen  or  half-burnt,  he  struck 
up  a  quarrel  with  her,  so  that  people  stopped 
in  the  street.  He  declared  that  he  would  not 
sell  upon  trust — that  we  must  go  elsewhere  for 
our  bread.    I  pitied  Polly. 

I  wonder  how  the  people  here  know  every- 
thing. Every  one  in  the  village  is  telling  how 
the  doctor  is  going  to  put  another  curate  in  my 
place.    It  will  be  the  death  of  me. 

The  butcher,  even,  must  have  got  a  hint  of  it. 
It  certainly  was  not  without  design  that  he  sent 
his  wife  to  me  with  complaints  about  the  bad 
times,  and  the  impossibility  of  selling  any  longer 
for  anything  but  cash,  She  was  indeed  very 
polite,  and  could  not  find  words  to  express  her 
love  and  respect  for  us.  She  advised  us  to  go 
to  Colswood,  and  buy  the  little  meat  we  want 
of  him,  as  he  is  a  richer  man,  and  is  able  to  wait 
for  his  money.  I  cared  not  to  tell  the  good  wo- 
man how  that  usurer  treated  us  a  year  ago, 
when  he  charged  us  a  penny  a  pound  more  than 
others  for  his  meat,  and,  when  his  oaths  and 
curses  could  not  help  him  out,  and  he  could  not 
deny  it,  how  he  declared  roundly  that  he  must 
receive  a  little  interest  when  he  was  kept  out 
of  his  money  a  whole  year,  and  then  showed  us 
the  door. 

I  still  have  in  ready  money  £2  Is.  3d.  What 
shall  I  do,  if  no  one  will  trust  me,  so  that  I  may 
pay  my  bills  quarterly?  And  if  Dr.  Snarl  ap- 
points another  curate,  then  must  I  and  my  poor 
children  be  turned  upon  the  street! 

Be  it  so  ;  God  is  in  the  street  also ! 


Dec.  19,  early.  A.  M. — I  awoke  very  early  to- 
day, and  pondered  what  I  shall  do  in  my  diffi- 
cult situation.  I  thought  of  Master  Sitting,  my 
rich  cousin  at  Cambridge ;  only  poor  people 
have  no  cousins,  only  the  rich.  Were  New 
Year's  day  to  bring  me  a  bishop's  mitre,  accord- 
ing to  Polly's  dream,  then  I  should  have  half 
England  for  my  relations. 

I  have  written,  and  sent  by  the  post,  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Snarl  : 

"  I  write  with  an  anxious  heart.  It  is  said 
that  your  reverence  intends  to  appoint  another 
curate  in  my  stead.  I  know  not  whether  the 
report  has  any  foundation,  or  whether  it  has 
arisen  merely  from  my  having  mentioned  to 
some  persons  the  interview  I  had  with  you. 

"  The  office  with  which  you  entrusted  me  I 
have  discharged  with  zeal  and  fidelity  ;  I  have 
preached  the  word  of  God  in  all  purity ;  I  have 
heard  no  complaints.  Even  my  inward  monitor 
condemns  me  not.  I  humbly  requested  for  a 
little  increase  of  my  small  salary.  Your  reve- 
rence spoke  of  reducing  the  small  stipend, 
which  scarcely  suffices  to  procure  me  and  my 
family  the  bare  necessaries  of  life.  Let  your 
humane  heart  decide. 

"  I  have  laboured  sixteen  years  under  your 
reverence's  pious  predecessors,  and  a  year  and 
a  half  under  yourself.  I  am  now  fifty  years 
old.  My  hair  begins  to  grow  gray.  Without  ac- 
quaintances, without  patrons,  without  the  pros- 
pect of  another  living,  without  the  means  of 
earning  my  bread  in  any  other  way,  mine  and 
my  children's  fate  depends  upon  your  compas- 
sion. If  you  fail  us,  there  remains  no  support 
for  us  but  the  beggar's  staff. 

"My  daughters,  gradually  grown  up,  occasion, 
with  the  closest  economy,  increased  expense. 
My  eldest  daughter,  Jenny,  supplies  the  place 
of  a  mother  to  her  sister,  and  conducts  our  do- 
mestic concerns.  We  keep  no  maid;  my  daugh- 
ter is  maid,  cook,  washerwoman,  tailoress,  and 
even  shoemaker,  while  I  am  the  carpenter, 
mason,  chimney-sweeper,  woodcutter,  gardener, 
farmer,  and  wood-carrier  of  the  household. 

"  God's  mercy  has  attended  us  hitherto.  We 
have  had  no  sickness.  We  could  not  have  paid 
for  medicines.    C         is  a  little  place. 

"  My  daughters  have  in  vain  offered  to  do 
other  work,  such  as  washing,  mending,  and 
sewing.  They  very  rarely  get  any.  Here  in 
the  country  every  one  does  her  own  housework ; 
none  are  rich. 

"It  will  be  a  hard  task  to  carry  me  and  mine 
through  the  year  upon  £20;  but  it  will  be  harder 
still  if  I  am  to  attempt  it  upon  £15.  But  I  throw 
myself  on  your  compassion  and  on  God,  and 
pray  your  reverence  at  least  to  relieve  me  of 
this  anxiety." 

After  I  had  finished  this  letter,  I  threw  my- 
self upon  my  knees,  (while  Polly  carried  it  to 
the  post-office,)  and  prayed  for  a  happy  issue. 
I  then  became  wonderfully  clear  and  calm  in 
my  mind.  Ah  !  a  word  to  God  is  always  a 
word  from  God — so  cheerfully  came  I  from  my 
39* 


462 


ZSCHOKKE. 


little  chamber,  which  I  had  entered  with  a 
heavy  heart. 

Jenny  sate  at  work  at  the  window.  She  sate 
there  with  the  repose  and  grace  of  an  angel. 
Light  seemed  to  stream  from  her  looks.  A  slen- 
der sunheam  came  through  the  window,  and 
transfigured  the  whole  place.  I  was  in  a  hea- 
venly state.  I  seated  myself  at  the  desk,  and 
wrote  my  sermon,  "On  the  joys  of  poverty.1' 

I  preach  in  the  pulpit  as  much  to  myself  as 
to  my  hearers  ;  and  I  come  from  church  edified, 
if  no  one  else  does.  If  others  do  not  receive 
consolation  from  my  words,  I  find  it  myself.  It 
is  with  the  clergyman  as  with  the  physician. 
He  knows  the  power  of  his  medicines,  but  not 
always  their  effect  upon  the  constitution  of 
every  patient. 

The  same  day.  A.  M. — This  morning  I  received 
a  note  from  a  stranger  who  had  tarried  over 
night  at  the  inn.  He  begs  me,  on  account  of 
urgent  affairs,  to  come  to  him. 

I  have  been  to  him.  I  found  him  a  handsome 
young  man  of  about  six-and-twenty,  with  noble 
features  and  a  graceful  carriage.  He  had  on  an 
old  well-worn  surtout  and  boots,  which  still  bore 
the  marks  of  yesterday's  travel.  His  round  hat, 
although  originally  of  a  finer  material  than 
mine,  was  still  far  more  defaced  and  shabby. 
The  young  man  appeared,  notwithstanding  the 
derangement  of  his  dress,  to  be  of  good  family. 
He  had  on  at  least  a  clean  shirt  of  the  finest 
linen,  which  perhaps  had  just  been  given  him 
by  some  charitable  hand. 

He  led  me  into  a  private  room,  begged  par- 
don a  thousand  times  for  having  troubled  me, 
and  proceeded  to  inform  me  in  a  very  humble 
manner,  that  he  found  himself  in  most  painful 
circumstances,  that  he  knew  nobody  in  this 
place,  where  he  had  arrived  last  evening,  and 
had  therefore  had  recourse  to  me  as  a  clergy- 
man. He  was,  he  added,  by  profession,  an 
actor,  but  without  employment,  and  intending 
to  proceed  to  Manchester.  He  had  expended 
nearly  all  his  money,  and  had  not  enough  to 
pay  his  fare  at  the  inn  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
expense  of  proceeding  on  his  journey.  Accord- 
ingly he  turned  in  his  despair  to  me.  Twelve 
shillings  would  be  a  great  assistance  to  him. 
He  promised,  if  I  would  favor  him  with  that 
advance,  that  he  would  honorably  and  thank- 
fully repay  it,  so  soon  as  he  was  again  con- 
nected with  any  theatre.  His  name  is  John 
Fleetman. 

There  was  no  necessity  of  his  painting  his 
distress  to  me  so  at  large.  His  features  ex- 
pressed more  trouble  than  his  words.  He  pro- 
bably read  something  of  the  same  kind  in  my 
face;  for  as  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  me,  he 
seemed  struck  with  alarm,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Will  you  leave  me  then  without  help  ?" 

I  stated  to  him  that  my  own  situation  was 
full  of  embarrassment,  that  he  had  asked  of  me 
nothing  less  than  the  fourth  part  of  all  the 
money  I  had  in  the  world,  and  that  I  was  in 


great  uncertainty  as  to  the  further  continuance 
of  my  office. 

He  immediately  became  cold  in  his  manner, 
and,  as  it  were,  drew  back  into  himself,  while 
he  remarked,  "  You  comfort  the  unfortunate 
with  the  story  of  your  own  misfortunes.  I  ask 
nothing  of  you.  Is  there  no  one  in  C  who 
has  pity,  if  he  has  no  wealth  V 

I  cast  an  embarrassed  look  at  Mr.  Fleetman, 
and  was  ashamed  to  have  represented  my  dis- 
tressed situation  to  him  as  a  reason  for  my  re- 
fusal to  assist  him.  I  instantly  thought  over  all 
my  townsmen,  and  could  not  trust  myself  to 
name  one.  I  did  not  perhaps  know  their  hearts 
well  enough. 

I  approached  him,  and  laid  my  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  said,  "Mr.  Fleetman,  you 
grieve  me.  Have  a  little  patience.  You  see  I 
am  poor.  I  will  help  you  if  I  can.  I  will  give 
you  an  answer  in  an  hour." 

I  went  home.  On  the  way  I  thought  to  my- 
self, "How  odd!  the  stranger  always  comes 
first  to  me,  and  an  actor  to  a  clergyman  !  There 
must  be  something  in  my  nature  that  attracts 
the  wretched  and  the  needy,  like  a  magnet. 
Whoever  is  in  need  comes  to  me,  who  have  the 
least  to  give.  When  I  sit  at  table  with  stran- 
gers, one  of  the  company  is  sure  to  have  a  dog 
who  looks  steadily  at  what  I  am  eating,  and 
comes  and  lays  his  cold  nose  directly  on  my 
knee." 

When  at  home,  I  told  the  children  who  the 
stranger  was,  and  what  he  wanted.  I  wished 
for  Jenny's  advice.  She  said  tenderly,  "  I  know, 
father,  what  thou  thinkest,  and  therefore  I  have 
nothing  to  advise." 

"And  what  do  I  think  ?" 

"  Why,  that  thou  wilt  do  unto  this  poor  actor 
as  thou  hopest  God  and  Dr.  Snarl  will  do  unto 

thee." 

I  had  thought  no  such  thing,  but  I  wished  I 
had.  I  got  the  twelve  shillings,  and  gave  them 
to  Jenny  to  carry  to  the  traveller.  I  did  not  care 
to  listen  to  his  thanks.  It  humbles  me.  Ingra- 
titude stirs  my  spirit  up.  And,  besides,  I  had 
my  sermon  to  prepare. 

The  same  day.  Eve. — The  actor  is  certainly  a 
worthy  man.  When  Jenny  returned  from  the 
inn,  she  had  much  to  tell  about  him,  and  also 
about  the  landlady.  This  woman  had  found 
out  that  her  guest  had  an  empty  pocket,  and 
Jenny  could  not  deny  that  she  had  brought  him 
some  money.  So  Jenny  had  to  listen  to  a  long 
sermon  upon  the  folly  of  giving,  when  one  has 
nothing  himself,  and  the  danger  of  helping  va- 
grants, when  one  has  not  the  wherewithal  to 
clothe  his  own  children.  "The  shirt  is  nearer 
than  the  coat."  "To  feed  one's  own  maketh 
fat,"  &c.  &c. 

I  had  just  turned  to  my  sermon  again,  when 
Mr.  Fleetman  entered.    He  could  not,  he  said, 

leave  C          without  thanking  his  benefactor, 

by  whose  means  he  had  been  delivered  from 
the  greatest  embarrassment.    Jenny  was  just 


ZSCHOKKE. 


463 


setting  the  table.  We  had  an  omelet  and  some 
turnips.  1  invited  the  traveller  to  dine  with  us. 
He  accepted  the  invitation.  It  was  very  timely, 
he  intimated,  for  he  had  eaten  a  very  scanty 
breakfast.  Polly  brought  some  beer.  We  had 
not  for  a  long  while  fared  so  well. 

Mr.  Fleetman  seemed  to  enjoy  himself  with 
us.  He  had  quite  lost  that  anxious  look  he  had, 
yet  there  was  the  shy,  reserved  manner  about 
him,  which  is  peculiar  to  the  unfortunate.  He 
inferred  that  we  were  very  happy,  and  of  that 
we  assured  him.  He  supposed  also  that  I  was 
richer  and  better  to  do  in  the  world  than  I  de- 
sired to  appear.  There  he  was  mistaken.  With- 
out doubt  the  order  and  cleanliness  of  our  par- 
lor dazzled  the  good  man,  the  clearness  of  the 
windows,  the  neatness  of  the  curtains,  of  the 
dinner-table,  the  floor,  and  the  brightness  of  our 
tables  and  chairs.  One  usually  finds  a  great 
lack  of  cleanliness  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
because  they  do  not  know  how  to  save.  But 
order  and  neatness,  as  I  always  preached  to  my 
sainted  wife  and  to  my  daughters,  are  great 
save-alls.  Jenny  is  a  perfect  mistress  therein. 
She  almost  surpasses  her  mother,  and  she  is 
bringing  up  her  sister  Polly  in  the  same  way. 
Her  sharp  eyes  not  a  fly-mark  can  escape. 

Our  guest  soon  became  quite  familiar  and  in- 
timate with  us.  He  spoke  more,  however,  of 
our  situation  than  of  his  own.  The  poor  man 
must  have  some  trouble  on  his  heart,  I  hope  not 
upon  his  conscience.  I  remarked  that  he  often 
broke  off  suddenly  in  conversation,  and  became 
depressed,  then  again  he  would  exert  himself 
to  be  cheerful.    God  comfort  him  ! 

As  he  was  quitting  us  after  dinner,  I  gave 
hiin  much  friendly  counsel.  Actors,  I  know,  are 
rather  a  light-minded  folk.  He  promised  me 
sacredly,  as  soon  as  he  should  have  money,  to 
send  back  my  loan.  He  must  be  sincere  in  that, 
for  he  looked  very  honest,  and  several  times 
asked,  how  long  I  thought  I  should  be  able  with 
the  remainder  of  my  ready  money  to  meet  the 
necessities  of  my  household. 

His  last  words  were,  "  It  is  impossible  it 
should  go  ill  with  you  in  the  world.  You  have 
heaven  in  your  breast,  and  two  angels  of  God 
at  your  side."  With  these  words,  he  pointed  to 
Jenny  and  Polly. 

Dec.  20. —  The  day  has  passed  very  quietly, 
but  I  cannot  say  very  agreeably,  for  the  grocer, 
Jones,  sent  me  his  bill  for  the  year.  Consider- 
ing what  we  had  had  of  him,  it  was  larger  than 
we  had  expected,  although  we  had  had  nothing 
of  which  we  did  not  ourselves  keep  an  account. 
Only  he  had  raised  the  price  of  all  his  arti- 
cles. Otherwise,  his  account  agreed  honestly 
with  ours. 

The  worst  is  the  arrears  of  my  last  year's  bill. 
He  begged  for  the  payment  of  the  same,  as  he 
is  in  great  need  of  money.  The  whole  of  what 
I  owe  him  amounts  to  eighteen  shillings. 

I  went  to  see  Mr.  Jones.  He  is  a  very  polite 
and  reasonable  man.   I  hoped  to  satisfy  him  by 


paying  him  in  part,  and  promising  to  pay  the 
remainder  by  Easter.  But  he  was  not  to  be 
moved,  and  he  regretted  that  he  should  be 
forced  to  proceed  to  extremities.  If  he  could, 
he  would  gladly  wait;  but  only  within  three 
days  he  would  have  to  pay  a  note  which  had 
just  been  presented  to  him.  With  a  merchant, 
credit  is  everything. 

To  all  this  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  in 
reply,  after  my  repeated  requests  for  delay  had 
proved  vain.  Should  I  have  let  him  go  to  law 
against  me,  as  he  threatened"?  I  sent  him  the 
money,  and  paid  off  the  whole  debt.  But  now 
my  whole  property  has  melted  down  to  eleven 
shillings.  Heaven  grant  that  the  actor  may 
soon  return  what  1  loaned  him.  Otherwise  I 
know  not  what  help  there  is  for  us. 

Now  go  to,  thou  man  of  little  faith,  if  thou 
knowest  not,  God  knoweth.  Why  is  thy  heart 
cast  down  ?  What  evil  hast  thou  done?  Poverty 
is  no  crime. 

Dec.  24. —  One  may  be  right  happy  after  all, 
even  at  the  poorest.  We  have  a  thousand  plea- 
sures in  Jenny's  new  cloak.  She  looks  as  beauti- 
ful in  it  as  a  bride.  But  she  wishes  to  wear  it  the 
first  time  abroad  at  church  on  New  Year's  day. 

Every  evening  she  reckons  up,  and  shows 
me  with  how  little  expense  she  has  got  through 
the  day.  We  are  all  in  bed  by  seven  o'clock,  to 
save  oil  and  coals.  That  is  no  great  hardship. 
The  girls  are  so  much  the  more  industrious  in 
the  day,  and  they  chat  together  in  bed  until  mid- 
night. We  have  a  beautiful  supply  of  turnips  and 
vegetables.  Jenny  thinks  we  can  get  through 
six  or  eight  weeks,  without  running  in  debt.  That 
were  a  stroke  of  management  without  parallel. 
And  until  then,  we  all  hope  that  Mr.  Fleetman 
will  keep  his  word  like  an  honest  man,  and  pay 
us  back  the  loan.  If  I  appear  to  distrust  him,  it 
awakens  all  Jenny's  zeal.  She  will  allow  no 
evil  of  the  comedian. 

He  is  our  constant  topic.  The  girls  especially 
make  a  great  deal  out  of  him.  His  appearance 
interrupted  the  uniformity  of  our  life.  He  will 
supply  us  with  conversation  for  a  full  half  year. 
Pleasant  is  Jenny's  anger,  when  the  mischievous 
Polly  exclaims,  "But  he  is  an  acior!-'  Then 
Jenny  tells  of  the  celebrated  actors  in  London 
who  are  invited  to  dine  with  the  princes  of  the 
royal  family;  and  she  is  ready  to  prove  that 
Fleetman  will  become  one  of  the  first  actors  in 
the  world,  for  he  has  fine  talents,  and  a  grace- 
ful address  and  well-chosen  phrases.  "Yes,  in- 
deed !"  said  the  sly  Polly  to-day,  very  wittily, 
"beautiful  phrases!  he  called  thee  an  angel." 
"And  thee  too,"  cried  Jenny,  somewhat  vexed. 
"But  I  was  only  thrown  into  the  bargain,"  re- 
joined Polly,  "he  looked  only  at  thee." 

This  chat  and  childish  raillery  of  my  children, 
awakened  my  anxiety.  Polly  is  growing  up  ; 
Jenny  is  eighteen.  What  prospect  have  I  of 
seeing  these  poor  children  provided  for"?  Jenny 
is  a  well-bred,  modest,  handsome  maiden;  but 
all  C  knows  our  poverty.  We  are  therefore 


464 


ZSCHOKKE. 


little  regarded,  and  it  will  be  difficult  to  find  a 
husband  for  Jenny.  An  angel  without  money 
is  not  thought  half  so  much  of  now-a-days,  as 
a  devil  with  a  bag  full  of  guineas.  Jenny's 
only  wealth  is  her  gentle  face.  That  every- 
body looks  kindly  on.  Even  the  grocer,  Jones, 
when  she  carried  him  his  money,  gave  her  a 
pound  of  almonds  and  raisins  for  a  present,  and 
told  her  how  he  was  grieved  to  take  my  money, 
and  that,  if  I  bought  of  him,  he  would  give  me 
credit  till  Easter.  He  has  never  once  said  so 
much  to  me. 

When  1  die,  who  will  take  care  of  my  deso- 
late children?  Who !  the  God  of  Heaven.  They 
are  at  least  qualified  to  go  to  service  anywhere. 
I  will  not  distress  myself  about  the  future. 

Dec.  26. —  Two  hard  days  these  have  been. 
I  have  never  had  so  laborious  a  Christmas.  I 
preached  my  two  sermons  in  two  days  five 
times  in  four  different  churches.  The  road  was 
very  bad,  and  the  wind  and  weather  fearful. 
Age  is  beginning  to  make  itself  felt.  I  have  not 
the  freshness  and  activity  I  once  had.  Indeed, 
cabbage  and  turnips,  scantily  buttered,  with 
only  a  glass  of  fresh  water,  do  not  afford  much 
nourishment. 

I  have  dined  both  days  with  Farmer  Hurst. 
The  people  in  the  country  are  more  hospitable 
by  far  than  here  in  the  town,  where  nobody  has 
thought  of  inviting  me  to  dinner  these  six 
months.  Ah!  could  I  have  only  had  my  daugh- 
ters with  me  at  table !  What  profusion  was 
there !  Could  they  have  only  had  for  a  Christ- 
mas feast  what  the  farmer's  dogs  received  of 
the  fragments  of  our  meal !  They  did  have 
some  cake,  and  they  are  feasting  on  it  now 
while  I  write.  It  was  lucky  that  I  had  courage, 
when  the  farmer  and  his  wife  pressed  me  to 
eat  more,  to  say  that,  with  their  leave,  I  would 
carry  a  little  slice  of  the  cake  home  to  my 
daughters.  The  good-hearted  people  packed  me 
a  little  bag  full,  and,  besides,  as  it  rained  piti- 
fully, sent  me  home  in  their  wagon. 

Eating  and  drinking  are  indeed  of  little  im- 
portance, if  one  has  enough  to  satisfy  his  hun- 
ger and  thirst.  Yet  it  may  not  be  denied  that  a 
comfortable  provision  for  the  body  is  an  agree- 
able thing.  One's  thoughts  are  clearer.  One 
feels  with  more  vivacity. 

I  am  very  tired.  My  conversation  with 
Farmer  Hurst  was  noteworthy.  I  will  write  it 
off  to-morrow. 

Dec.  27. — We  have  lived  to  know  what  per- 
fect joy  is.  But  one  must  be  moderate  in  his  joys. 
The  girls  must  learn  self-restraint,  and  practise 
themselves  therein.  Therefore  I  lay  aside  the 
packet  of  money  which  Mr.  Fleetman  has- sent. 
I  will  not  break  the  seal  until  after  dinner.  My 
daughters  afe  Eve's  daughters.  They  are  dying 
of  curiosity  to  know  what  Mr.  Fleetman  writes. 
They  are  examining  the  address,  and  the  packet 
is  passing  from  one  to  the  other  three  times  in 
a  minute. 


Indeed,  I  am  more  disturbed  than  rejoiced. 
I  lent  Mr.  Fleetman  only  twelve  shillings,  and 
he  sends  me  back  £5.  God  be  praised !  He 
must  have  been  very  successful. 

How  joy  and  sorrow  interchange!  I  went 
early  this  morning  to  the  alderman,  Mr.  Field- 
son,  for  I  was  told  yesterday  that  the  wagoner 
Brook  at  Watton  Basset  had,  on  account  of  his  em- 
barrassments, destroyed  himself.  Some  eleven 
or  twelve  years  ago  I  went  security  for  him  to 
the  amount  of  £100.  He  was  distantly  related 
to  my  sainted  wife.  The  bond  has  never  been 
cancelled.  The  man  has  latterly  had  much 
trouble,  and  given  himself  up  to  drinking. 

The  alderman  comforted  me  not  a  little.  He 
said  he  had  heard  the  report,  but  that  it  was 
very  doubtful  whether  Brook  had  destroyed 
himself.  There  had  been  no  authentic  intelli- 
gence. So  I  returned  home  comforted,  and 
prayed  by  the  way  that  God  would  be  gracious 
to  me. 

I  had  hardly  reached  the  house,  when  Polly 
ran  to  meet  me,  exclaiming,  almost  breathless, 
"A  letter!  a  letter  from  Mr.  Fleetman,  father, 
with  £5 !  But  the  packet  has  cost  seven  pence." 
Jenny,  with  blushing  looks,  handed  it  to  me  be- 
fore I  laid  down  my  hat  and  staff.  The  chil- 
dren were  half  out  of  their  wits  with  joy.  So 
I  pushed  aside  their  scissors,  and  said,  "Do  you 
not  see,  children,  that  it  is  harder  to  bear  a  great 
joy  with  composure  than  a  great  evil  ?  I  have 
often  admired  your  cheerfulness  when  we  were 
in  the  greatest  want,  and  knew  not  where  we 
were  to  find  food  for  the  next  day.  But  now 
the  first  smile  of  fortune  puts  you  beside  your- 
selves. To  punish  you,  I  shall  not  open  the  let- 
ter nor  the  packet  of  money  until  after  dinner." 

Jenny  would  have  it  that  it  was  not  the 
money,  but  Mr.  Fleetman's  honesty  and  grati- 
tude that  delighted  her,  and  that  she  only  wanted 
to  know  what  he  wrote  and  how  he  was ;  but  I 
adhered  to  my  determination.  This  little  curi- 
osity must  learn  to  practise  patience. 

The  same  day.  Eve.  —  Our  joy  is  turned  into 
sorrow.  The  letter  with  the  money  came  not 
from  Mr.  Fleetman,  but  from  the  Rev.  Dr.  Snarl. 
He  gives  me  notice  that  our  engagement  will 
terminate  at  Easter,  and  he  informs  me  that 
until  that  time  I  may  look  about  for  another 
situation,  and  that  he  has  accordingly  not  only 
paid  me  up  my  salary  in  advance,  that  I  may 
bear  any  travelling  expenses  I  may  be  at,  but 
also  directed  the  new  vicar,  my  successor,  to 
attend  to  the  care  of  the  parish. 

Thus  the  talk  of  the  people  here  in  town  was 
not  wholly  without  foundation,  and  it  may  also 
be  true,  what  is  said,  that  the  new  vicar  had 
received  his  appointment  thus  readily,  because 
he  has  married  a  near  relative  of  his  Reverence, 
a  lady  of  doubtful  reputation.  So  I  must  lose 
my  office  and  my  bread  for  the  sake  of  such  a 
person,  and  be  turned  into  the  street  with  my 
poor  children,  because  a  man  can  be  found  to 
buy  my  place  at  the  price  of  his  own  honor. 


ZSCHOKKE. 


465 


Jenny  and  Polly  turned  deadly  pale,  when  they 
found  that  the  letter  came  not  from  Mr.  Fleet- 
man,  but  from  the  Doctor,  and  that  the  money, 
instead  of  being  the  generous  return  of  a  grate- 
ful heart,  was  the  last  wretched  payment  for  my 
long  and  laborious  services.  Polly  threw  her- 
self sobbing  into  a  chair,  and  Jenny  left  the 
room.  My  hand  trembled  as  I  held  the  letter 
containing  my  formal  dismissal.  But  I  went 
into  my  little  chamber,  locked  myself  in,  and 
fell  upon  my  knees  and  prayed,  while  Polly 
wept  aloud. 

I  rose  from  my  knees  refreshed  and  com- 
forted, and  took  my  Bible ;  and  the  first  words 
upon  which  my  eyes  fell  were,  "  Fear  not,  for  I 
have  redeemed  thee,  I  have  called  thee  by  thy 
name  ;  thou  art  mine." 

Then  all  fear  vanished  out  of  my  heart.  I 
looked  up,  and  said,  "  Yea,  Lord,  I  am  thine." 

As  Polly  appeared  to  have  ceased  weeping, 
I  went  back  into  the  parlor  ;  but  when  I  saw 
her  upon  her  knees  praying,  with  her  clasped 
hands  resting  on  a  chair,  I  drew  back  and  shut 
the  door  very  softly,  that  the  dear  soul  might 
not  be  disturbed. 

After  some  time  I  heard  Jenny  come  in.  I 
then  returned  to  my  daughters.  They  were  sit- 
ting at  the  window.  I  saw  by  Jenny's  eyes 
that  she  had  been  giving  relief  to  her  anguish 
in  solitude.  They  both  looked  timidly  at  me. 
I  believe  they  feared  lest  they  should  see  des- 
pair depicted  on  my  countenance.  But  when 
they  saw  that  I  was  quite  composed,  and  that  I 
addressed  them  with  cheerfulness,  they  were 
evidently  relieved.  I  took  the  letter  and  the 
money,  and  humming  a  tune,  threw  them  into 
my  desk.  They  did  not  allude  to  what  had 
happened  the  whole  day.  This  silence  in  them 
was  owing  to  a  tender  consideration  for  me; 
with  me  it  was  fear  lest  I  should  expose  my 
weakness  before  my  children. 

Dec.  28. — It  is  good  to  let  the  first  storm  go 
by,  without  looking  one's  troubles  too  closely  in 
the  face.  We  have  all  had  a  good  night's  sleep. 
We  talk  freely  now  of  Dr.  Snarl's  letter,  and  of 
my  loss  of  office,  as  of  old  affairs.  We  propose 
all  kinds  of  plans  for  the  future.  The  bitterest 
thing  is  that  we  must  be  separated.  We  can 
think  of  nothing  better  than  that  Jenny  and 
Polly  should  go  to  service  in  respectable  families, 
while  I  betake  myself  to  my  travels  to  seek 
somewhere  a  place  and  bread  for  myself  and 
children. 

Polly  has  again  jecovered  her  usual  cheerful- 
ness. She  brings  out  again  her  dream  about 
the  bishop's  mitre,  and  gives  us  much  amuse- 
ment. She  counts  almost  too  superstitiously 
upon  a  New  Year's  present.  I  have  some- 
times thought  much  of  dreams,  but  I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  them. 

As  soon  as  the  new  vicar,  my  successor,  shall 
have  arrived,  and  is  able  to  assume  the  office,  I 
shall  hand  over  to  him  the  parish-books,  and 
take  my  way  in  search  of  bread  elsewhere. 
3i 


In  the  meantime  I  will  write  to  a  couple  of  old 
friends  at  Salisbury  and  Warminster,  to  request 
them  to  find  good  places  for  my  daughters,  as 
cooks,  seamstresses,  or  chambermaids.  Jenny 
would  be  an  excellent  governess  for  little  chil- 
dren. 

I  will  not  leave  my  daughters  here.  The 
place  is  poor,  the  people  are  unsocial,  proud, 
and  have  the  narrow  ways  of  a  small  town. 
They  talk  now  of  nothing  but  the  new  vicar. 
Some  are  sorry  that  I  must  leave,  but  I  know 
not  who  takes  it  to  heart. 

Dec.  29. —  I  have  written  to-day  to  my  Lord 
Bishop  of  Salisbury,  and  laid  before  him  in 
lively  terms  the  sad,  helpless  situation  of  my 
children,  and  my  long  and  faithful  services  in 
the  vineyard  of  the  Lord.  He  must  be  a  hu- 
mane pious  man.  May  God  touch  his  heart! 
Among  the  three  hundred  and  four  parishes  of 
the  county  of  Wiltshire,  there  must  certainly  be 
found  for  me  at  least  some  little  corner  !  I  do 
not  ask  much. 

Dec.  30.  —  The  bishop's  mitre  that  Polly 
dreamt  of  must  soon  make  its  appearance, 
otherwise  I  shall  have  to  go  to  jail.  I  see  now 
very  plainly  that  the  jail  is  inevitable. 

I  am  very  weak,  and  in  vain  do  I  exert  my- 
self to  practise  my  old  heroism.  Even  strength 
fails  me  for  fervent  prayer.  My  distress  is  too 
much  for  me. 

Yes,  the  jail  is  unavoidable.  I  will  say  it  to 
myself  plainly,  that  I  may  become  accustomed 
to  the  prospect. 

The  All-merciful  have  mercy  on  my  dear 
children !    I  may  not — I  cannot  tell  them. 

Perhaps  a  speedy  death  will  save  me  from 
the  disgrace.  I  feel  as  if  my  very  bones  would 
crumble  away ;  fever-shivering  in  every  limb, 
I  cannot  write  for  trembling. 

Some  hours  after.  —  Already  I  feel  more  com- 
posed. I  would  have  thrown  myself  into  the 
arms  of  God  and  prayed.  But  I  was  not  well. 
I  lay  down  on  my  bed.  I  believe  I  have  slept, 
perhaps  also  I  fainted.  Some  three  hours  have 
passed.  My  daughters  have  covered  my  feet 
with  pillows.  I  am  weak  in  body,  but  my 
heart  is  again  fresh.  Everything  which  has 
happened,  which  I  have  heard,  flits  before  me 
like  a  dream. 

So  the  wagoner  Brook  has  indeed  made  way 
with  himself.  Alderman  Fieldson  has  called 
and  given  me  the  intelligence.  He  had  the 
coroner's  account,  together  with  the  notice  of 
my  bond.  Brook's  debts  are  very  heavy.  I 
must  account  to  Withell,  a  woollen-draper  of 
Trowbridge,  for  the  hundred  pounds  sterling. 

Mr.  Fieldson  had  good  cause  to  commiserate 
me  heartily.  Good  God!  a  hundred  pounds 
sterling!  How  shall  I  ever  obtain  it?  All  that 
I  and  my  children  have  in  the  world  would  not 
bring  a  hundred  shillings.  Brook  used  to  be 
esteemed  an  upright  and  wealthy  man.   I  never 


466 


ZSCHOKKE. 


thought  that  he  would  come  to  such  an  end. 
The  property  of  my  wife  was  consumed  in  her 
long  sickness,  and  I  had  to  sacrifice  the  few 
acres  at  Bradford  which  she  inherited.  Now  I 
am  a  beggar.  Ah  !  if  I  were  only  a  free  beggar ! 
I  must  go  to  prison,  if  Mr.  Withell  is  not  mer- 
ciful. It  is  impossible  for  me  even  to  think  of 
paying  him. 

Same  day.  Eve. — I  am  ashamed  of  my  weak- 
ness. What!  to  faint!  to  despair !  Fy!  And 
yet  believe  in  a  Providence!  And  a  priest  of 
the  Lord  !    Fy,  Thomas ! 

I  have  recovered  my  composure,  and  done 
what  I  should.  I  have  just  carried  to  the  post- 
office  a  letter  to  Mr.  Withell,  at  Trowbridge,  in 
which  I  have  stated  my  utter  inability  to  pay 
the  bond,  and  confessed  myself  ready  to  go  to 
jail.  If  he  has  any  human  feeling,  he  will  have 
pity  on  me ;  if  not,  he  may  drag  me  away, 
whithersoever  he  will. 

When  I  came  from  the  office,  I  put  the  cou- 
rage of  my  children  to  the  proof.  I  wished  to 
prepare  them  for  the  worst.  Ah!  the  maidens 
were  more  of  men  than  the  man,  more  of  Chris- 
tians than  the  priest. 

I  told  them  of  Brook's  death,  of  my  debt,  and 
of  the  possible  consequences.  They  listened 
earnestly  and  in  great  sorrow. 

"To  prison!"  said  Jenny,  silently  weeping, 
while  she  threw  her  arms  around  me.  "Ah, 
thou  good,  poor  father,  thou  hast  done  no  wrong, 
and  yet  hast  to  bear  so  much !  I  will  go  to 
Trowbridge  ;  I  will  throw  myself  at  Withell's 
feet ;  I  will  not  rise  until  he  releases  thee !" 

"  No,"  cried  Polly,  sobbing,  "  do  not  think  of 
such  a  thing.  Tradesmen  are  tradesmen.  They 
will  not  for  all  thy  tears  give  up  a  farthing  of 
father's  debt.  I  will  go  the  woollen-draper, 
and  bind  myself  to  live  upon  bread  and  water, 
and  be  his  slave,  until  I  have  paid  him  with 
my  labor  what  father  owes." 

In  forming  such  plans,  they  gradually  grew 
more  composed.  But  they  saw  also  the  vanity 
of  their  hopes.  At  last  said  Jenny,  "  Why  all 
these  useless  plans  ?  Let  us  wait  for  Mr. 
Withell's  answer.  If  he  will  be  cruel,  let  him 
be  so.  God  is  also  in  the  jail.  Father,  go  to 
jail.  Perhaps  thou  wilt  be  better  there  than 
with  us  in  our  poverty.  Go,  for  thou  goest 
without  guilt.  There  is  no  disgrace  in  it  for 
thee.  We  will  both  go  to  service,  and  our 
wages  will  procure  thee  everything  needful.  I 
will  not  be  ashamed  eyen  to  beg.  To  go  a-beg- 
ging for  a  father  has  something  honorable  and 
holy  in  it.  We  will  come  and  visit  thee  from 
time  to  time.  Thou  shalt  be  well  taken  care 
of.    We  will  fear  no  more." 

"Jenny,  thou  art  right,"  said  Polly;  "who- 
ever fears,  does  not  believe  in  God.  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  will  be  cheerful — as  cheerful  as  I  can 
be,  separated  from  father  and  thee." 

Such  conversations  cheered  my  heart.  Fleet- 
man  was  right  when  he  said  that  I  had  two 
angels  of  the  Lord  at  my  side. 


Dec.  31  The  year  is  ended.    Thanks  be  to 

Heaven,  it  has  been,  with  the  exception  of  some 
storms,  a  right  beautiful  and  happy  year !  It 
is  true,  we  often  had  scarcely  enough  to  eat- 
still  we  have  had  enough.  My  poor  salary  has 
often  occasioned  me  bitter  cares,  still  our  cares 
have  had  their  pleasures.  And  now  I  scarcely 
possess  the  means  of  supporting  myself  and  my 
children  half  a-year  longer.  But  how  many 
have  not  even  as  much,  and  know  not  where 
to  get  another  day's  subsistence !  My  place 
have  I  lost.  In  my  old  age  I  am  without  office 
or  bread.  It  is  possible  that  I  shall  spend  the 
next  year  in  a  jail,  separated  from  my  good  ! 
daughters.  Still  Jenny  is  right ;  God  is  there 
also  in  the  jail ! 

To  a  pure  conscience  there  is  no  hell  even 
in  hell,  and  to  a  bad  heart  no  heaven  in  heaven. 
I  am  very  happy. 

Whoever  knows  how  to  endure  privation  is 
rich.  A  good  conscience  is  better  than  that 
which  the  world  names  honor.  As  soon  as  we 
are  able  to  look  with  indifference  upon  what 
people  call  honor  and  shame,  then  do  we  be- 
come truly  worthy  of  honor.  He  who  can  des- 
pise the  world  enjoys  heaven.  I  understand 
the  gospel  better  every  day,  since  I  have  learned 
to  read  it  by  the  light  of  experience.  The  scho- 
lars at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  study  the  letter, 
not  the  spirit.  Nature  is  the  best  interpreter 
of  the  Scriptures. 

With  these  reflections  I  conclude  the  year. 

I  am  very  glad  that  I  have  now  for  some 
time  persevered  in  keeping  this  journal.  Every- 
body should  keep  one.  One  may  learn  more 
from  himself  than  from  the  wisest  books.  When, 
by  daily  setting  down  our  thoughts  and  feelings, 
we  in  a  manner  portray  ourselves,  we  can  see 
at  the  end  of  the  year  how  many  different  faces 
we  have.  Man  is  not  always  like  himself. 
He  who  says  he  knows  himself,  can  answer 
for  the  truth  of  what  he  says  only  at  the  mo- 
ment. Few  know  what  they  were  yesterday ; 
still  fewer  what  they  will  be  to-morrow. 

A  day-book  is  useful  also,  because  it  helps  us 
to  grow  in  faith  in  God  and  Providence.  The 
whole  history  of  the  world  does  not  teach  us 
so  much  about  these  things  as  the  thoughts, 
judgments,  and  feelings  of  a  single  individual 
for  a  twelvemonth. 

I  have  also  had  this  year  new  confirmation 
of  the  truth  of  the  old  saying,  "  Misfortunes  sel- 
dom come  singly,  but  the  darkest  hour  is  just 
before  morning."  When  things  go  hard  with 
me,  then  am  I  most  at  my  ease,  always  except- 
ing the  first  shock,  for  then  I  please  myself  with 
the  prospect  of  the  relief  which  is  sure  to  suc- 
ceed, and  I  smile  because  nothing  can  disturb 
me.  On  the  other  hand,  when  everything  goes 
according  to  my  wishes,  I  am  timid  and  anxious, 
and  cannot  give  myself  up  freely  to  joy.  I  dis- 
trust the  continuance  of  my  peace.  Those  are 
the  hardest  misfortunes  which  we  allow  to  take 
us  by  surprise.  It  is  likewise  true  that  trouble 
looks  more  terrible  in  the  distance  than  when 


ZSCHOKKE. 


467 


it  is  upon  us.  Clouds  are  never  so  black  when 
near  as  they  seem  in  the  distance. 

1  have  learnt  from  all  my  calamities  to  con- 
sider, with  the  quickness  of  lightning,  what 
will  be  their  worst  effect  upon  me.  So  I  pre- 
pare myself  for  the  worst,  and  it  seldom  comes. 

This  also  I  find  good — I  sometimes  play  with 
my  hopes,  but  I  never  let  my  hopes  play  with 
me.  So  I  keep  them  in  check.  I  have  only  to 
remember  how  rarely  fortune  has  been  favor- 
able to  me ;  then  all  air  castles  vanish  as  if 
they  were  ashamed  to  appear  before  me.  Alas 
for  him  who  is  the  sport  of  his  hopes  !  He 
pursues  will-o'-the-wisps  into  bogs  and  mire. 

New  Year's  Day,  1765.  A.  M. — A  wonderful 
and  sad  affair  opens  the  year.  Here  follows 
its  history. 

Early,  about  six  o'clock,  as  I  lay  in  bed  think- 
ing over  my  sermon,  I  heard  a  knocking  at  the 
front  door.  Polly  was  up  and  in  the  kitchen. 
She  ran  to  open  the  door  and  see  who  was 
there.  Such  early  visits  are  not  usual  with  us. 
A  stranger  presented  himself  with  a  large  box, 
which  he  handed  to  Polly  with  these  words : 

"Mr.  "  (Polly  lost  the  name)  "sends  this 

box  to  the  Rev.  Vicar,  and  requests  him  to  be 
very  careful  of  the  contents." 

Polly  took  the  box  with  joyful  surprise.  The 
man  disappeared.  Polly  tapped  lightly  at  my 
chamber  door  to  see  whether  I  was  awake.  I 
answered,  and  she  came  in,  and  wishing  me 
"  a  happy  new  year,"  as  well  as  "  good  morn- 
ing," added  laughing,  "you  will  see  now,  dear 
father,  whether  Polly's  dreams  are  not  pro- 
phetic. The  promised  bishop's  mitre  is  come  !" 
And  then  she  told  me  how  a  New  Year's  pre- 
sent had  been  given  her  for  me.  It  vexed  me, 
that  she  had  not  asked  more  particularly  for  the 
name  of  my  unknown  patron  or  benefactor. 

While  she  went  out  to  light  a  lamp  and  call 
Jenny,  I  dressed  myself.  I  cannot  deny  that  I 
was  burning  with  curiosity.    For  hitherto  the 

New  Year's  presents  for  the  Vicar  of  C  e 

had  been  as  insignificant  as  they  were  rare.  I 
suspected  that  my  patron,  the  farmer,  whose 
good-will  I  appeared  to  have  won,  had  meant 
to  surprise  me  with  a  box  of  cake,  and  I  ad- 
mired his  modesty  in  sending  me  the  present 
before  it  was  light. 

When  I  entered  the  parlour,  Polly  and  Jenny 
were  standing  at  the  table  on  which  lay  the 
box  directed  to  me,  carefully  sealed,  and  of  an 
unusual  size.  I  had  never  seen  exactly  such  a 
box  before.  I  lifted  it,  and  found  it  pretty 
heavy.  In  the  top  were  two  smoothly  cut  round 
holes. 

With  Jenny's  help,  I  opened  the  box  very 
cautiously,  as  I  had  been  directed  to  handle  the 
contents  carefully.    A  fine  white  cloth  was 

removed,  and  lo  !  but  no,  our  astonishment 

is  indescribable.  We  all  exclaimed  with  one 
voice,  "  Good  God  !" 

There  lay  a  little  child  asleep,  some  six  or 
eight  weeks  old,  dressed  in  the  finest  linen, 


with  rose-colored  ribands.  Its  little  head  rested 
upon  a  soft  blue  silk  cushion,  and  it  was  well 
wrapt  up  in  a  blanket.  The  covering  as  well 
as  the  little  cap,  was  trimmed  with  the  costliest 
Brabant  lace. 

We  stood  some  moments  gazing  at  it  with 
silent  wonder.  At  last  Polly  broke  out  into  a 
comical  laugh,  and  cried,  "  What  shall  we  do 
with  it?  This  is  no  bishop's  mitre!"  Jenny 
timidly  touched  the  cheek  of  the  sleeping  babe 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger,  and  in  a  tone  full 
of  pity,  said,  "  Poor,  dear  little  creature !  thou 
hast  no  mother,  or  might  as  well  have  no  mo- 
ther !  Great  God !  to  cast  off  such  a  lovely, 
helpless  being!  Only  see,  father,  only  see, 
Polly,  how  peacefully  and  trustfully  it  sleeps, 
unconscious  of  its  fate,  as  if  it  knew  that  it  is 
lying  in  God's  hand.  Sleep  on,  thou  poor,  for- 
saken one !  Thy  parents  are  perhaps  too  high 
in  rank  to  care  for  thee,  and  too  happy  to  permit 
thee  to  disturb  their  happiness.  Sleep  on,  we 
will  not  cast  thee  out.  They  have  brought  thee 
to  the  right  place.    I  will  be  thy  mother." 

As  Jenny  was  speaking,  two  large  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  I  caught  the  pious,  gentle- 
hearted  creature  to  my  breast  and  said,  "  Be  a 
mother  to  this  little  one!  The  stepchildren  of 
fortune  come  to  her  stepchildren.  God  tries 
our  faith — no,  he  does  not  try  it,  He  knows  it. 
Therefore  is  this  forsaken  little  creature  brought 
to  us.  We  do  not  indeed  know  how  we  shall 
subsist  from  one  day  to  another,  but  He  knows, 
who  has  appointed  us  to  be  parents  to  this  or- 
phan." 

Thus  the  matter  was  soon  settled.  The  child 
continued  to  sleep  sweetly  on.  In  the  mean- 
while, we  exhausted  ourselves  in  conjectures 
about  its  parents,  who  were  undoubtedly  known 
to  us,  as  the  box  was  directed  to  me.  Polly, 
alas !  could  tell  us  nothing  more  of  the  person 
who  brought  it  than  she  had  already  told.  Now, 
while  the  little  thing  sleeps,  and  I  run  over  my 
New  Year's  sermon  upon  "  the  Power  of  the 
Eternal  Providence,"  my  daughters  are  holding 
a  council  about  the  nursing  of  the  poor  stranger. 
Polly  exhibits  all  the  delight  of  a  child.  Jenny 
appears  to  be  much  moved.  With  me,  it  is  as 
if  I  entered  upon  the  New  Year  in  the  midst 
of  miracles,  and — it  may  be  superstition,  or  it 
may  be  not — as  if  this  little  child  were  sent  to 
be  our  guardian  angel  in  our  need.  I  cannot 
express  the  feelings  of  peace,  the  still  happiness 
which  I  have. 

Same  day.  Eve. — I  came  home  greatly  ex- 
hausted and  weary  with  the  sacred  labors  of 
the  day.  I  had  a  long  and  rugged  walk.  But 
I  was  inspirited  by  a  happy  return  home,  by 
the  cheerfulness  of  my  daughters,  by  our  plea- 
sant little  parlor.  The  table  was  ready  laid 
for  me,  and  on  it  stood  a  flask  of  wine,  a  New 
Year's  present  from  an  unknown  benevolent 
hand. 

The  looks  of  the  lovely  little  child  in  Jenny's 
arms  refreshed  me  above  all  things.  Polly 


468 


ZSCHOKKE. 


showed  me  the  heautiful  little  bed  of  our  nurs- 
ling, the  dozen  fine  napkins,  the  dear  little  caps 
and  night-clothes,  which  were  in  the  box,  and 
then  a  sealed  packet  of  money  directed  to  me, 
which  they  had  found  at  the  feet  of  the  child 
when  it  awoke,  and  they  took  it  out. 

Anxious  to  learn  something  of  the  parentage 
of  our  little  unknown  inmate,  I  opened  the 
packet.  It  contained  a  roll  of  twenty  guineas 
and  a  letter,  as  follows  : 

"Relying  with  entire  confidence  upon  the 
piety  and  humanity  of  your  Reverence,  the  un- 
happy parents  of  this  dear  child  commend  it  to 
your  care.  Do  not  forsake  it.  We  will  testify 
our  gratitude  when  we  are  at  liberty  to  make 
ourselves  known  to  you.  Although  at  a  dis- 
tance, we  shall  keep  a  careful  watch,  and  know 
everything  that  you  do.  The  dear  boy  is  named 
Alfred.  He  has  been  baptized.  His  board  for 
the  first  quarter  accompanies  this.  The  same 
sum  will  be  punctually  remitted  to  you  every 
three  months.  Take  the  child.  We  commend 
him  to  the  tenderness  of  your  daughter  Jenny." 

When  I  had  read  the  letter,  Polly  leaped 
with  joy,  and  cried,  "  There 's  the  bishop's  mi- 
tre !"  Bountiful  Heaven!  how  rich  had  we 
suddenly  become !  We  read  the  letter  a  dozen 
times.  We  did  not  trust  our  eyes  to  look  at  the 
gold  upon  the  table.  What  a  New  Year's  pre- 
sent !  From  my  heaviest  cares  for  the  future 
was  I  thus  suddenly  relieved.  But  in  what  a 
strange  and  mysterious  way!  In  vain  did  I 
think  over  all  the  people  I  knew,  in  order  to 
discover  who  it  might  be  who  had  been  forced 
by  birth  or  rank  to  conceal  the  existence  of  their 
child,  or  who  were  able  to  make  such  a  liberal 
compensation  for  a  simple  service  of  Christian 
charity.  I  tasked  my  recollection,  but  I  could 
think  of  no  one.  And  yet  it  was  evident  that 
these  parents  were  well  acquainted  with  me 
and  mine. 

Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Providence ! 

Jan.  2. — Fortune  is  heaping  her  favors  upon 
me.  This  morning  I  again  received  a  packet 
of  money,  £12,  by  the  post,  with  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Fleetman.  It  is  too  much.  For  a  shilling 
he  returns  me  a  pound.  Things  must  have 
gone  well  with  him.  He  says  as  much.  I 
cannot,  alas,  thank  him,  for  he  has  forgotten  to 
mention  his  address.  God  forbid  I  should  be 
puffed  up  with  my  present  riches.  I  hope  now 
in  time  to  pay  off  honestly  my  bond  to  Mr. 
Withell. 

When  I  told  my  daughters  that  I  had  received 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Fleetman,  there  was  a  new 
occasion  for  joy.  I  do  not  exactly  understand 
what  the  girls  have  to  do  with  Mr.  Fleetman. 
Jenny  grew  very  red,  and  Polly  jumped  up 
laughingly,  and  held  up  both  her  hands  before 
Jenny's  face,  and  Jenny  behaved  as  if  she  was 
right  vexed  with  the  playful  girl. 

I  read  out  Fleetman's  letter.  But  I  could 
scarcely  do  it,  for  the  young  man  is  an  enthu- 
siast.   He  writes  many  flattering  things  which 


I  do  not  deserve.  He  exaggerates  everything, 
even  indeed  when  he  speaks  of  the  good  Jenny. 
I  pitied  the  poor  girl  while  I  read.  I  did  not 
dare  to  look  at  her.  The  passage,  however, 
which  relates  to  her,  is  worthy  of  note.  It  runs 
thus : 

"When,  excellent  sir,  I  went  from  your  door, 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  quitting  a  father's  roof  for  the 
bleak  world.  I  shall  never  forget  you,  never 
forget  how  happy  I  was  with  you.  I  see  you 
now  before  me,  in  your  rich  poverty,  in  your 
Christian  humility,  in  your  patriarchal  simpli- 
city. And  the  lovely,  fascinating  Polly ;  and 
the — ah!  for  your  Jenny  I  have  no  words!  In 
what  words  shall  one  describe  the  heavenly 
loveliness  by  which  everything  earthly  is  trans- 
figured? For  ever  shall  I  remember  the  mo- 
ment when  she  gave  me  the  twelve  shillings, 
and  the  gentle  tone  of  consolation  with  which 
she  spoke  to  me.  Wonder  not  that  I  have  the 
twelve  shillings  still.  I  would  not  part  with 
them  for  a  thousand  guineas.  I  shall  soon  per- 
haps explain  everything  to  you  personally. 
Never  in  my  life  have  I  been  so  happy  or  so 
miserable  as  I  am  now.  Commend  me  to  your 
sweet  daughters,  if  they  still  bear  me  in  re- 
membrance." 

I  conclude  from  these  lines  that  he  intends 
to  come  this  way  again.  The  prospect  gives 
me  pleasure.  In  his  unbounded  gratitude,  the 
young  man  has  perhaps  sent  me  his  all,- because 
I  once  lent  him  half  of  my  ready  money.  That 
grieves  me.  He  seems  to  be  a  thoughtless  youth, 
and  yet  he  has  an  honest  heart. 

We  have  great  delight  in  the  little  Alfred. 
The  little  thing  laughed  to-day  upon  Polly,  as 
Jenny  was  holding  him,  like  a  young  mother,  in 
her  arms.  The  girls  are  more  handy  with  the 
little  citizen  of  the  world  than  I  had  anticipated. 
But  it  is  a  beautiful  child.  We  have  bought  him 
a  handsome  cradle,  and  provided  abundantly 
for  all  his  little  wants.  The  cradle  stands  at 
Jenny's  bedside.  She  watches  day  and  night, 
like  a  guardian  spirit,  over  her  tender  charge. 

Jan.  3. — To-day,  Mr.  Curate  Thomson  arrived 
with  his  young  wife  and  sent  for  me.  I  went 
to  him  immediately  at  the  inn.  He  is  an  agree- 
able man,  and  very  polite.  He  informed  me 
that  he  was  appointed  my  successor  in  office, 
that  he  wished,  if  I  had  no  objections,  to  enter 
immediately  upon  his  duties,  and  that  I  might 
occupy  the  parsonage  until  Easter:  he  would  in 
the  meanwhile  take  up  his  abode  in  lodgings 
prepared  for  him  at  Alderman  Fieldson's. 

I  replied  that,  if  he  pleased,  I  would  resign 
my  office  to  him  immediately,  as  I  should  thus 
be  more  at  liberty  to  look  out  for  another  situa- 
tion. I  desired  only  permission  to  preach  a 
farewell  sermon  in  the  churches  in  which  I 
had  for  so  many  years  declared  the  word  of  the 
Lord. 

He  then  said  that  he  would  come  in  the  after- 
noon to  examine  the  state  of  the  parsonage. 
— He  has  been  here  with  his  wife  and  Alderman 


ZSCHOKKE. 


469 


Fieldson.  His  lady  was  somewhat  haughty,  and 
appears  to  be  of  high  birth,  for  there  was  no- 
thing in  the  house  that  pleased  her,  and  she 
hardly  deigned  to  look  at  my  daughters.  When 
she  saw  the  little  Alfred  in  the  cradle,  she 
turned  to  Jenny,  and  asked  whether  she  were 
already  married.  The  good  Jenny  blushed  up 
to  her  hair,  and  shook  her  little  head  by  way 
of  negative,  and  stammered  out  something.  I 
had  to  come  to  the  poor  girl's  assistance.  My 
lady  listened  to  my  story  with  great  curiosity, 
and  drew  up  her  mouth,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  It  was  very  disagreeable,  but  I  said 
nothing.  I  invited  them  to  take  a  cup  of  tea. 
But  they  declined.  Mr.  Curate  appeared  to  be 
very  obedient  to  the  slightest  hint  of  the  lady. 
We  were  very  glad  when  the  visit  was  over. 

Jan.  6.  —  Mr.  Withell  is  an  excellent  man,  to 
judge  from  his  letter.  He  sympathizes  with 
me  in  regard  to  my  unfortunate  bond,  and  com- 
forts me  with  the  assurance  that  I  must  not  dis- 
quiet myself  if  I  am  not  able  to  pay  it  for  ten 
years  or  ever.  He  appears  to  be  well  ac- 
quainted with  my  circumstances,  for  he  alludes 
to  them  very  cautiously.  He  considers  me  an 
honest  man.  That  gratifies  me  most.  He  shall 
not  find  his  confidence  misplaced.  I  will  go  to 
Trowbridge  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  pay  Mr. 
Withell  Fleetman's  £12  sterling,  as  an  instal- 
ment of  my  monstrous  debt. 

Although  Jenny  insists  that  she  sleeps  soundly, 
that  little  Alfred  is  very  quiet  o'  nights,  and  only 
wakes  once,  when  she  gives  him  a  drink  out  of 
his  little  bottle,  yet  I  feel  anxious  about  the 
maiden.  She  is  not  so  lively  by  far,  as  for- 
merly, although  she  seems  to  be  much  happier 
than  when  we  were  every  day  troubled  about 
our  daily  bread.  Sometimes  she  sits  with  her 
needle,  lost  in  a  reverie,  dreaming  with  open 
eyes  ;  or  her  hands,  once  so  active,  lie  sunk 
upon  her  lap.  When  she  is  spoken  to,  she 
starts,  and  has  to  bethink  herself  what  was 
said.  All  this  evidently  comes  from  the  inter- 
ruption of  her  proper  rest.  But  she  will  not 
hear  a  word  of  it.  We  cannot  even  persuade 
her  to  take  a  little  nap  in  the  daytime.  She 
declares  that  she  feels  perfectly  well. 

I  had  no  idea  that  she  had  so  much  vanity. 
Fleetman's  praises  have  not  displeased  her. 
She  has  asked  me  for  his  letter,  to  read  once 
more.  And  she  has  not  yet  returned  it  to  me, 
but  keeps  it  in  her  work-basket! 

I  don't  care,  for  my  part!  the  vain  thing! 

Jan.  8.  —  My  farewell  sermon  was  accom- 
panied with  the  tears  of  most  of  my  hearers. 
I  see  now  at  last  that  my  parishioners  love  me. 
They  have  expressed  their  obligations  on  all 
hands  and  loaded  me  with  gifts.  I  never  be- 
fore had  such  an  abundance  of  provisions  in 
the  house,  so  many  dainties  of  all  kinds,  and  so 
much  wine.  A  hundredth  part  of  my  present 
plenty  would  have  made  me  account  myself 
over-fortunate  in  past  days.    We  are  really 


swimming  in  plenty.  But  a  goodly  portion  has 
already  been  disposed  of.    I  know  some  poor 

families  in  C  e,  and  Jenny  knows  even 

more  than  I.  The  dear  people  share  in  our 
pleasures. 

I  was  moved  to  the  inmost  by  my  sermon. 
With  tears  had  I  written  it.  It  was  a  sketch  of 
my  whole  past  course  from  my  call  and  settle- 
ment. I  am  driven  from  the  vineyard  as  an 
unprofitable  servant,  and  yet  I  have  not  labored 
as  a  hireling.  Many  noble  vines  have  I  planted, 
many  deadly  weeds  cut  away.  I  am  driven 
from  the  vineyard  where  I  have  watched,  and 
taught,  and  warned,  and  comforted,  and  prayed. 
I  have  shrunk  from  no  sick  bed.  I  have 
strengthened  the  dying  for  the  last  conflict  with 
holy  hope.  I  have  gone  after  sinners.  I  have 
not  left  the  poor,  desolate.  I  have  called  back 
the  lost  to  the  way  of  life.  Ah  !  all  these  souls 
that  were  knit  to  my  soul,  are  torn  from  me — 
why  should  not  my  heart  bleed  ?  But  God's 
will  be  done ! 

Gladly  would  I  now  offer  to  take  charge  of 
the  parish  without  salary,  but  my  successor  has 
the  office.  I  have  been  used  to  poverty  from 
my  birth,  and  care  has  never  forsaken  me  since 
I  stepped  out  of  my  boy's-shoes.  I  have  enough 
for  myself  and  my  daughters  in  little  Alfred's 
board.  We  shall  be  able  indeed  to  lay  up 
something.  I  would  never  again  complain  of 
wind  and  weather  beating  against  my  grey 
hairs,  could  I  only  continue  to  break  the  bread 
of  life  to  my  flock. 

Be  it  so!  I  will  not  murmur.  The  tear  which 
drops  upon  this  page,  is  no  tear  of  discontent. 
I  ask  not  for  riches  and  good  days,  nor  have  I 
ever  asked.  But,  Lord !  Lord !  drive  not  thy 
servant  for  ever  from  thy  service,  although  his 
powers  are  small.  Let  me  again  enter  thy 
vineyard,  and  with  thy  blessing  win  souls. 

Jan.  13.  —  My  journey  to  Trowbridge  has 
turned  out  beyond  all  expectation.  I  arrived 
late  with  weary  feet  at  the  pleasant  little  old 
city,  and  could  not  rouse  myself  from  sleep  until 
late  the  next  morning.  After  I  had  put  on  my 
clean  clothes  (I  had  not  been  so  finely  dressed 
since  my  wedding-day — the  good  Jenny  shows 
a  daughter's  care  for  her  father,)  I  left  the  inn 
and  went  to  Mr.  Withell's.  He  lives  in  a  splendid, 
great  house. 

He  received  me  somewhat  coldly  at  first;  but 
when  I  mentioned  my  name,  he  led  me  into  his 
little  office.  Here  I  thanked  him  for  his  great 
goodness  and  consideration,  told  him  how  I  had 
happened  to  give  the  bond,  and  what  hard  for- 
tunes had  hitherto  been  mine.  I  then  laid  my 
£12  upon  the  table. 

Mr.  Withell  looked  at  me  for  a  while  in 
silence,  with  a  smile,  and  with  some  emotion. 
He  then  extended  his  hand,  and  shook  mine, 
and  said,  "I  know  all  about  you.  I  have  in- 
formed myself  particularly  about  your  circum- 
stances. You  are  an  honest  man.  Take  your 
£12  back.  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  rob 
40 


470 


ZSCHOKKE. 


you  of  your  New  Year's  present.  Rather  let 
me  add  a  pound  to  it,  to  remember  me  by." 

He  arose,  brought  a  paper  from  another  room, 
opened  it  and  said,  "You  know  this  bond  and 
your  signature  ?  I  give  it  to  you  and  your  chil- 
dren." He  tore  the  paper  in  two,  and  placed 
it  in  my  hand. 

I  could  find  no  words,  I  was  so  deeply 
moved.  My  eyes  filled.  He  saw  that  I  would 
thank  him,  but  could  not,  and  he  said,  "Hush! 
hush !  not  a  syllable,  I  pray  you.  This  is  the 
only  thanks  I  desire  of  you.  I  would  gladly 
have  forgiven  poor  Brook  the  debt,  had  he  only 
dealt  frankly  with  me." 

I  don't  know  a  more  noble-hearted  man  than 
Mr.  Withell.  He  was  too  kind.  He  would  have 
me  relate  to  him  much  of  my  past  history.  He 
introduced  me  to  his  wife,  and  to  the  young 
gentleman  his  son.  He  had  my  little  bundle, 
containing  my  old  clothes,  brought  from  the  inn, 
and  kept  me  at  his  house.  The  entertainment 
was  princely.  The  chamber  in  which  I  slept, 
the  carpet,  the  bed,  were  so  splendid  and  costly 
that  I  hardly  dared  to  make  use  of  them. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Withell  sent  me  home  in 
his  own  elegant  carriage.  I  parted  with  my 
benefactor  with  a  heart  deeply  moved.  My 
children  wept  with  me  for  joy,  when  I  showed 
them  the  bond.  "See,"  said  I,  "this  light  piece 
of  paper  was  the  heaviest  burthen  of  my  life, 
and  now  it  is  generously  cancelled.  Pray  for 
the  life  and  prosperity  of  our  deliverer !" 

Jan.  16. — Yesterday  was  the  most  remarkable 
day  of  my  life.  We  were  sitting  together  in  the 
forenoon ;  I  was  rocking  the  cradle,  Polly  was 
reading  aloud,  and  Jenny  was  seated  at  the 
-window  with  her  needle,  when  she  suddenly 
jumped  up,  and  then  fell  back  again  deadly 
pale  into  her  chair.  We  were  all  alarmed,  and 
cried,  "What  is  the  matter?"  She  forced  a 
smile,  and  said,  "  He  is  coming !" 

The  door  opened,  and  in  came  Mr.  Fleetman 
in  a  beautiful  travelling  cloak.  We  greeted  him 
right  heartily,  and  were  truly  glad  to  see  him  so 
unexpectedly,  and,  as  it  appeared,  in  so  much 
better  circumstances  than  before.  He  embraced 
me,  kissed  Polly,  and  bowed  to  Jenny,  who  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  her  agitation.  Her  pale 
looks  did  not  escape  him.  He  inquired  anxiously 
about  her  health.  Polly  replied  to  his  questions, 
and  he  then  kissed  Jenny's  hand,  as  though  he 
would  beg  her  pardon  for  having  occasioned 
her  such  an  alarm.  But  there  was  nothing  to 
be  said  about  it,  for  the  poor  girl  grew  red  again 
like  a  newly-blown  rose. 

I  called  for  cake  and  wine,  to  treat  my  guest 
and  benefactor  better  than  on  a  former  occa- 
sion; but  he  declined,  as  he  could  not  tarry 
long,  and  he  had  company  at  the  inn.  Yet  at 
Jenny's  request,  he  sate  down  and  took  some 
wine  with  us. 

As  he  had  spoken  of  the  company  which  had 
come  with  him,  I  supposed  that  it  must  be  a 
company  of  comedians,  and  inquired  whether 


they  intended  to  stop  and  play  in  C  ,  observ- 
ing that  the  place  was  too  poor.  He  laughed 
out,  and  replied,  "  Yes,  we  shall  play  a  comedy, 
but  altogether  gratis."  Polly  was  beside  her- 
self with  joy,  for  she  had  long  wanted  to  see  a 
play.  She  told  Jenny,  who  had  gone  for  the 
cake  and  wine.  Polly  inquired  whether  many 
actors  had  come  with  him.  "  A  gentleman  and 
lady,"  said  he,  "but  excellent  players." 

Jenny  appeared  unusually  serious.  She  cast 
a  sad  look  at  Fleetman,  and  asked,  "And  you— 
will  you  also  appear?"  This  was  said  in  that 
tone  peculiarly  soft,  yet  very  penetrating,  which 
I  have  seldom  observed  in  her,  and  only  upon 
rare  occasions,  and  at  the  most  serious  moments. 

Poor  Fleetman  himself  trembled  at  her  tone, 
so  like  the  voice  of  the  angel  of  doom.  He 
looked  up  to  her  with  an  earnest  gaze,  and  ap- 
peared to  struggle  with  himself  for  an  answer, 
and  then  advancing  towards  her  a  step,  he  said, 
"  Miss,  by  my  God  and  yours,  you  alone  can 
decide  that!" 

Jenny  dropped  her  eyes.  He  continued  to 
speak.  She  answered.  I  could  not  compre- 
hend what  they  were  about.  They  spoke  — 
Polly  and  I  listened  with  the  greatest  attention, 
but  we  neither  of  us  understood  a  word,  or 
rather  we  heard  words  without  any  sense.  And 
yet  Fleetman  and  Jenny  appeared  not  only  to 
understand  one  another  perfectly,  but,  what 
struck  me  as  very  strange,  Fleetman  was  deeply 
moved  by  Jenny's  answers,  although  they  ex- 
pressed the  veriest  trifles.  At  last  Fleetman 
clasped  his  hands  passionately  to  his  breast, 
raised  his  eyes,  streaming  with  tears,  to  heaven, 
and  with  an  impressive  appearance  of  emotion, 
exclaimed,  "  Then  am  I  indeed  unhappy !" 

Polly  could  hold  out  no  longer.  With  a  comi- 
cal vivacity,  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  at  last  cried  out,  "  I  do  believe  that  you 
two  are  beginning  to  play  already!" 

He  pressed  Polly's  hand  warmly,  and  said, 
"  Ah  !  that  it  were  so !" 

I  put  an  end  to  the  confusion  by  pouring  out 
the  wine.  We  drank  to  the  welfare  of  our  friend. 
Fleetman  turned  to  Jenny,  and  stammered  out, 
"Miss,  in  earnest,  my  welfare?"  She  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  heart,  cast  down  her  eyes,  and 
drank. 

Fleetman  immediately  became  more  com- 
posed. He  went  to  the  cradle,  looked  at  the 
child,  and  when  Polly  and  I  had  told  him  its 
history,  he  said  to  Polly,  with  a  smile,  "  Then 
you  have  not  discovered  that  I  sent  you  this 
New  Year's  present?" 

We  all  exclaimed  in  utter  amazement,  "Who! 
you?"  He  then  proceeded  to  relate  what  fol- 
lows: "My  name,"  said  he,  "is  not  Fleetman. 
I  am  Sir  Cecil  Fairford.  My  sister  and  myself 
have  been  kept  out  of  our  rightful  property  by 
my  father's  brother,  who  took  advantage  of  cer- 
tain ambiguous  conditions  in  my  father's  will, 
and  involved  us  in  a  long  and  embarrassing 
lawsuit.  We  have  hitherto  lived  with  difficulty 
upon  the  little  property  left  us  by  our  mother, 


ZSCHOKKE. 


471 


who  died  early.  My  sister  has  suffered  most 
from  the  tyranny  of  her  uncle,  who  was  her 
guardian,  and  who  had  destined  her  for  the 
son  of  an  intimate  and  powerful  friend  of  his. 
But  my  sister,  on  the  other  hand,  was  secretly 
contracted  to  the  young  Lord  Sandom,  whose 
father,  then  living,  was  opposed  to  their  mar- 
riage. Without  the  knowledge  either  of  my 
uncle  or  the  old  lord,  they  were  secretly  mar- 
ried. The  little  Alfred  is  their  son.  My  sister, 
under  the  pretence  of  benefiting  her  health  and 
availing  herself  of  sea-bathing,  left  the  house 
of  her  guardian,  and  put  herself  under  my  pro- 
tection. When  the  child  was  born,  our  great 
concern  was  to  find  a  place  for  it  where  it  would 
have  the  tenderest  care.  1  accidentally  heard 
a  touching  account  of  the  poverty  and  humanity 

of  the  parish  minister  of  C  ,  and  I  came 

hither  to  satisfy  myself.  The  manner  in  which 
I  was  treated  by  you  decided  me. 

"  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  that  my  sister 
never  returned  to  her  guardian.  For  about  six 
months  ago  I  won  the  suit  against  him,  and 
entered  into  possession  of  my  patrimony.  My 
uncle  instituted  a  new  suit  against  me  for  with- 
drawing my  sister  from  his  charge ;  but  the  old 
Lord  Sandom  died  suddenly  a  few  days  ago  of 
apoplexy,  and  my  brother-in-law  has  made  his 
marriage  public.  So  that  the  suit  falls  to  the 
ground,  and  all  cause  for  keeping  the  child's 
birth  secret  is  removed.  Its  parents  have  now 
come  with  me  to  take  the  child  away,  and  I 
have  come  to  take  away  you  and  your  family, 
if  the  proposal  I  make  you  shall  be  accepted. 

"During  the  lawsuit  in  which  I  have  been 
engaged,  the  living,  which  is  in  the  gift  of  my 
family,  has  remained  unoccupied.  I  have  at  my 
disposal  this  situation,  which  yields  over  £200 
per  annum.  You,  sir,  have  lost  your  place.  1 
shall  not  be  happy  unless  you  come  and  reside 
near  me,  and  accept  this  living." 

God  only  knows  how  I  was  affected  at  these 
words.  My  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears  of 
joy.  I  stretched  out  my  hands  to  the  man  who 
came  a  messenger  from  heaven.  I  fell  upon 
his  breast.  Polly  threw  her  arms  around  him 
with  a  cry  of  delight.  Jenny  thankfully  kissed 
the  baronet's  hand.  But  he  snatched  it  from 
her  with  visible  agitation,  and  left  us. 

My  happy  children  were  still  holding  me  in 
their  embraces,  and  we  were  still  mingling  our 
tears  and  congratulations,  when  the  baronet  re- 
turned, bringing  his  brother-in-law,  Lord  San- 
dom, with  his  wife.  The  latter  was  an  uncom- 
monly beautiful  young  lady.  Without  saluting 
us,  she  ran  to  the  cradle  of  her  child.  She 
knelt  down  over  the  little  Alfred,  kissed  his 


cheeks,  and  wept  freely  with  mingled  pain  and 
delight.  Her  lord  raised  her  up,  and  had  much 
trouble  in  composing  her. 

When  she  had  recovered  her  composure, 
and  apologized  to  us  all  for  her  behaviour,  she 
thanked  first  me  and  then  Polly,  in  the  most 
touching  terms.  Polly  disowned  all  obligation, 
and  pointed  to  Jenny,  who  had  withdrawn  to 
the  window,  and  said,  "  My  sister  there  has 
been  its  mother !" 

Lady  Sandom  approached  Jenny,  gazed  at  her 
long  in  silence,  and  with  evidently  delighted  sur- 
prise, and  then  glanced  at  her  brother  with  a 
smile,  and  folded  Jenny  in  her  arms.  The  dear 
Jenny,  in  her  modesty,  scarcely  dared  to  look 
up.  "  I  am  your  debtor,"  said  my  lady,  "  but 
the  service  you  have  rendered  to  a  mother's 
heart  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  repay.  Become 
a  sister  to  me,  lovely  Jenny;  sisters  can  have 
no  obligations  between  them."  As  they  em- 
braced each  other,  the  baronet  approached. 
"There  stands  my  poor  brother,"  said  my  lady; 
"  as  you  are  now  my  sister,  he  may  stand  nearer 
to  your  heart,  dear  Jenny,  may  he  not?" 

Jenny  blushed  and  said,  "  He  is  my  father's 
benefactor." 

"Will  you  not  be,"  replied  the  lady,  "the 
benefactress  of  my  poor  brother  ?  Look  kindly 
on  him.    If  you  only  knew  how  he  loves  you!" 

The  baronet  took  Jenny's  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  said,  as  Jenny  struggled  to  withdraw  it, 
"Miss,  will  you  be  unkind  tome?  I  am  unhappy 
without  this  hand."  Jenny,  much  disturbed,  let 
her  hand  remain  in  his.  The  baronet  then  led 
my  daughter  to  me,  and  begged  me  for  my 
blessing. 

"Jenny,"  said  I,  "it  depends  upon  thee.  Do 
we  dream?  Canst  thou  love  him?  Do  thou 
decide." 

She  then  turned  to  the  baronet,  who  stood 
before  her,  deeply  agitated,  and  cast  upon  him 
a  full,  penetrating  look,  and  then  took  his  hand 
in  both  hers,  pressed  it  to  her  breast,  looked 
up  to  heaven,  and  softly  whispered,  "  God  has 
decided." 

I  blessed  my  son  and  my  daughter.  They 
embraced.  There  was  a  solemn  silence.  All 
eyes  were  wet. 

Suddenly  Polly  sprang  up,  laughing  through 
her  tears,  and  flung  herself  upon  my  neck, 
while  she  cried,  "There!  we  have  it!  The 
New  Year's  present!  Bishop's  mitres  upon 
bishop's  mitres !" 

Little  Alfred  awoke. 

It  is  in  vain  —  I  cannot  describe  this  day. 
My  happy  heart  is  full,  and  I  am  continually 
interrupted. 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHLEGEL. 


Born  1772,   Died  1829. 


Friedrich,  a  younger  brother  of  A.  W.  von 
Schlegel,  was  born  at  Hanover,  five  years 
later.  Destined  by  his  father  to  mercantile 
pursuits,  he  was  placed  for  that  purpose  in  a 
counting-room  at  Leipzig ;  but  feeling  a  strong 
predilection  for  Letters,  and  discovering  more 
than  ordinary  capacity,  he  was  recalled  and 
suffered  to  take  his  own  course.  He  studied 
Philology  in  Gottingen  and  in  Leipzig,  during 
which  time  he  read  every  author  of  note  in  the 
Latin  and  Greek  languages.  He  then  resided 
for  awhile  in  Berlin  and  in  Dresden,  published 
his  "Greeks  and  Romans,"  1797,  and  the  fol- 
lowing year,  his  "Poetry  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,"  a  continuation  of  the  former.  In 
1800,  he  went  as  Privatdocent  (private  teacher) 
to  Jena,  where  he  labored  in  conjunction  with 
his  brother  and  others,  of  like  views,  and  pub- 
lished several  poems.  In  1803,  at  Cologne,  he 
went  over  to  the  Roman  Catholic  church*  to- 
gether with  his  wife,  a  daughter  of  Mendels- 
sohn. He  next  resided  for  several  years  in 
Paris,  where  he  lectured  on  Philosophy,  and 
where  he  published  his  "Europa."  While 
here  lie  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
southern  languages,  and  particularly  to  that  of 
India.  He  also  published,  1804,  a  collection 
of  romantic  poems  of  the  middle  ages,  from 
printed  sources  and  manuscripts ;  and  illustra- 
tions of  the  history  of  Joan  of  Arc,  drawn  from 
the  Notices  et  Extraits.  His  Sprache  und 
Weisheit  der  lndier  belongs  to  this  period. 

In  1808  he  returned  to  Germany,  and  was 
made  secretary  of  the  Austrian  Government  at 
Vienna,  where  he  exerted  a  powerful  influence 
by  his  proclamations  against  Napoleon.  After 
the  conclusion  of  the  peace,  he  gave  lectures 
in  Vienna,  on  modern  history  and  on  the  lite- 
rature of  all  nations.  In  1815,  he  was  ap- 
pointed by  Prince  Metternich,  Austrian  Coun- 
sellor of  Legation  at  the  Diet  in  Frankfort.  In 
1818  he  returned  to  Vienna,  where  he  lived 
as  Secretary  of  the  Court,  and  devoted  himself 

*  According  to  Wolff  in  the  Encyclopadie  der  Deutschen 
Nationallitteratur.  The  Conversationslezicon  refers  this 
apostasy  to  a  later  date,— 1808. 


to  literary  pursuits.  During  this  period  he 
published  his  "View  of  the  present  Political 
Relations."  In  1820  he  undertook  a  periodical 
called  Concordia,  the  object  of  which  was  to 
reconcile  the  different  opinions  on  Church  and 
State.  In  1827  he  gave  a  course  of  lectures 
in  Vienna,  on  the  Philosophy  of  Life,  which 
was  published  the  following  year.  In  Decem- 
ber 1828,  he  began  another  course  in  Dresden, 
on  the  Philosophy  of  Language  and  of  the 
Word.  These  lectures  he  did  not  live  to  com- 
plete, but  died  in  the  midst  of  the  course,  Ja- 
nuary 11th,  1829.  It  has  been  noted  as  em- 
blematic of  the  man,  that  the  last  word  which 
came  from  his  pen  was  aber  (but).  This  was 
written  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  At  one, 
he  breathed  his  last. 

Friedrich  von  Schlegel  is  thought  to  have 
surpassed  his  brother  in  originality,  to  have 
equalled  him  in  depth  and  extent  of  learning, 
but  to  fall  far  behind  him  in  point  of  taste  and 
clearness.  "  Like  his  brother  he  opened  to 
Poetry  and  to  Science  in  Germany,  new  and 
hitherto  unknown  regions.  He  was  the  first 
who  specially  directed  attention  to  the  great 
intellectual  treasures  of  the  Indians,  and  intro- 
duced among  us  the  studies  relating  to  these. 
Later,  after  his  change  of  faith,  he  assailed,  in 
the  most  decided  manner,  French  democracy 
and  frivolity ;  but  then,  in  his  capacity  of  phi- 
losophical historian,  he  became  an  opponent  of 
religious  and  political  liberty  and  enlighten- 
ment, and  completely  lost  himself  at  last  in 
misty  speculations  and  politico-religious  vaga- 
ries."* With  regard  to  this  "  change  of  faith," 
and  the  criticisms  and  imputations  to  which  it 
gave  rise,  Mr.  Carlyle  judges  thus:  "  Of  Schle- 
gel himself  and  his  character  and  spiritual  his- 
tory we  can  profess  no  thorough  or  final  under- 
standing; yet  enough  to  make  us  view  him 
with  admiration  and  pity,  nowise  with  harsh, 
contemptuous  censure;  and  must  say,  with 
clearest  persuasion,  that  the  outcry  of  his  being 
'  a  renegade,'  &c.,  is  but  like  other  such  out- 


*  Wolff's  Encyclopadie. 

(472) 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


473 


cries,  a  judgment  where  there  was  neither  jury, 
nor  evidence,  nor  judge.  The  candid  reader 
in  this  book  itself,*  to  say  nothing  of  all  the 
rest,  will  find  traces  of  a  high,  far-seeing,  ear- 

*  Schlegel's  last  work  ;  Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of 
Language,  &c. 


nest  spirit,  to  whom  'Austrian  Pensions'  and 
the  Kaiser's  crown  and  Austria  altogether, 
were  but  a  light  matter  to  the  finding  and  vi- 
tally appropriating  of  truth.  Let  us  respect 
the  sacred  mystery  of  a  Person ;  rush  not  irre- 
verently into  man's  Holy  of  Holies !" 


LECTURES  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF 
HISTORY. 

From  the  Translation  of  Robinson. 
THE  CHINESE  EMPIRE. 

The  Chinese  empire  is  the  largest  of  all  the 
monarchies  now  existing  on  the  earth,  and  on 
this  account  alone  may  well  challenge  the  at- 
tention of  the  historical  inquirer.  It  is  not  ab- 
solutely the  greatest  in  territorial  extent,  though 
even  in  this  respect  it  is  scarcely  inferior  to  the 
greatest;  but  in  point  of  population  it  is,  in  all 
probability,  the  first.  Spain,  could  we  now 
include  in  the  number  of  her  possessions  her 
American  colonies,  would  exceed  all  other  em- 
pires in  extent.  The  same  may  be  said  of 
Russia,  with  her  colonies  and  boundless  pro- 
vinces in  the  north  of  Asia.  But,  great  as  the 
population  of  Russia  may  be,  considered  in  it- 
self and  relatively  to  the  other  European  states, 
it  can  sustain  no  comparison  with  that  of  China. 
England,  with  the  East  Indies  and  her  colonial 
possessions  in  the  three  divisions  of  the  globe, 
Polynesia,  Africa,  and  America,  has  indeed  a 
very  wide  extent,  and  perhaps,  including  the 
hundred  and  ten  millions  that  own  her  sway  in 
India,  comes  the  nearest,  in  point  of  population, 
to  China.  Of  the  amount  of  the  Chinese  popu- 
lation, which  is  not  certainly  known,  that  of  In- 
dia may  furnish  a  criterion  for  a  conjectural  and 
probable  estimate.  However,  as  this  vast  region 
is  everywhere  intersected  by  navigable  rivers 
and  canals,  everywhere  studded  with  large  and 
populous  cities,  and  enjoys  a  climate  as  genial, 
or  even  still  more  genial,  and  certainly  far  more 
salubrious,  than  that  of  India  ;  as,  like  the  latter 
country,  it  everywhere  presents  to  the  eye  the 
richest  culture,  and  is  in  all  appearance  as 
much  peopled,  or  over-peopled,  we  may  take 
India,  whose  total  population  is  by  no  means 
included  in  the  hundred  and  ten  millions  under 
British  rule,  as  furnishing  a  pretty  accurate 
standard  for  the  computation  of  the  Chinese 
population.  Now,  when  we  consider  that  even 
China  proper  is  larger  than  the  whole  western 
peninsula  of  India,  and  that  the  vast  coun- 
tries dependent  on  China,  such  as  Thibet  and 
Southern  Tartary,  are  very  populous,  the  con- 
jectural calculation  of  the  English  writer  whom 
I  follow  in  these  remarks  on  the  Chinese  popu- 
lation, and  who  reckons  it  at  one  hundred  and 
fifty  millions,  may  be  regarded  as  very  mode- 
rate, and  might,  with  perfect  safety,  be  consi- 
derably raised.  Thus  then  the  Chinese  popu- 
lation is  nearly  as  large  as  the  whole  population 
3  k   


of  Europe,  and  constitutes,  if  not  a  fourth,  at 
least  a  fifth,  of  the  total  population  of  the  globe. 

Cursory  comparisons  of  this  kind  are  not 
without  value.  The  history  of  civilization,  form- 
ing the  basis,  and  as  it  were  the  outward  body, 
of  the  philosophy  of  history,  which  should  be 
the  inner  and  highest  sense  of  the  whole,  is 
deeply  interesting  in  all  that  refers  to  the  general 
condition  of  humanity.  And  such  an  interest, 
which  does  not  of  itself  lie  in  mere  statistical 
calculations,  but  in  the  outward  condition  of 
mankind,  as  the  symbol  of  its  inward  state, 
may  very  well  belong  to  comparisons  of  this 
nature. 

The  interest,  however,  which  the  philosophic 
historian  should  take  in  all  that  relates  to  hu- 
manity in  general,  and  to  the  various  nations 
of  the  earth,  ought  not  to  be  regulated  by  the 
false  standard  of  an  indiscriminate  equality, 
considering  all  nations  of  equal  importance,  and 
paying  equal  attention  to  all,  without  distinction. 
This  would  imply  insensibility  to  man's  higher 
nature,  or  ignorance  of  it.  But  this  interest 
should  be  measured  not  merely  by  the  popula- 
tion of  a  state,  or  by  geographical  extent  of  ter- 
ritory, or  by  external  power,  but  by  population, 
territory  and  power  combined — by  moral  worth 
and  intellectual  pre-eminence,  by  the  scale  of 
civilization  to  which  the  nation  has  attained. 
The  Tongoosses,  though  a  very  widely-diffused 
race — the  Calmucks,  though  they  have  much  to 
claim  our  attention,  compared  with  the  other 
nations  of  central  Asia,  cannot  certainly  excite 
equal  interest,  or  hold  a  place  in  the  history 
of  human  civilization  with  the  Greeks  or  the 
Egyptians ;  though  the  territory  of  Egypt  itself 
is  certainly  not  particularly  large,  nor,  according 
to  our  customary  standard  of  population,  were 
its  inhabitants,  in  all  probability,  ever  very 
numerous.  In  the  same  way,  the  Empire  of 
the  Moguls,  which  embraced  China  itself,  has 
not  the  same  importance  in  our  eyes  as  the 
Roman  Empire,  either  in  its  rise  or  in  its  fall. 
Writers  of  universal  history  have  not  however 
always  avoided  this  fault,  and  have  been  too 
much  disposed  to  place  all  nations  on  the  same 
historical  footing, — on  the  false  level  of  an  in- 
discriminate equality ;  and  to  regard  humanity 
in  a  mere  physical  point  of  view,  and  according 
to  the  natural  classification  of  tribes  and  races. 
In  these  sketches  of  history,  the  high  and  the 
noble  is  often  ranked  with  the  low  and  the 
vulgar;  and  neither  what  is  truly  great,  nor 
what  is  of  lesser  importance  (for  this,  too,  should 
 40^  


474  F.  SCHLEGEL. 


not  be  overlooked),  has  its  due  place  in  these 
portraits  of  mankind. 

A  numerous,  or  even  excessive  population,  is 
undoubtedly  an  essential  element  of  political 
power  in  a  state  ;  but  it  is  not  the  only,  nor  in 
any  respect  the  principal  indication  of  the  civi- 
lization of  a  country.  It  is  only  in  regard  to 
civilization  that  the  population  of  China  de- 
serves our  consideration.  Although  in  these 
latter  times,  when  Europe,  by  her  political  as- 
cendancy over  the  other  parts  of  the  world, 
has  proved  the  pre-eminence  of  her  arts  and 
civilization,  England  and  Russia  have  become 
the  immediate  neighbors  of  China  towards  the 
north  and  west,  yet  these  territorial  relations 
affect  not  the  rest  of  Europe;  and  China,  when 
we  leave  out  of  consideration  its  very  import- 
ant commerce,  cannot  certainly  be  accounted  a 
political  power  in  the  general  system.  Even 
in  ancient,  as  well  as  in  modern  times,  China 
never  figured  in  the  history  of  Western  Asia  or 
Europe,  and  had  no  connection  whatever  with 
their  inhabitants;  but  this  great  country  has 
ever  stood  apart,  like  a  world  within  itself,  in 
the  remote,  unknown  Eastern  Asia.  Hence, 
the  earlier  writers  of  universal  history  have 
taken  little  or  no  notice  of  this  great  empire, 
shut  out  as  it  was  from  the  confined  horizon  of 
their  views.  And  this  was  natural,  when  we 
consider  that  the  conquests  and  expeditions  of 
the  Asiatic  nations  were  considered  by  these 
writers  as  subjects  of  the  first  importance. 
No  conquerors  have  ever  marched  from  China 
into  Western  Asia,  like  Xerxes,  for  instance, 
who  passed  from  the  interior  of  Persia  to 
Athens ;  or  Alexander  the  Great,  who  extended 
his  victorious  march  from  his  small  paternal 
province  of  Macedon  to  beyond  the  Indus,  and 
almost  to  the  borders  of  the  Ganges,  though 
the  latter  river,  in  despite  of  all  his  efforts,  he 
was  unable  to  reach.  But  great  victorious  ex- 
peditions have  proceeded  not  from  China,  but 
from  Central  Asia,  and  the  nations  of  Tartary, 
who  have  invaded  China  itself ;  though  in 
those  invasions  the  manners,  mind,  and  civili- 
zation of  the  Chinese  have  evinced  their  power, 
since  their  Tartar  conquerors,  in  the  earliest 
as  in  the  latest  times,  have,  after  a  few  gene- 
rations, invariably  conformed  to  the  manners 
and  civilization  of  the  conquered  nation,  and 
become  more  or  less  Chinese.  Not  only  the 
great  population  and  flourishing  agriculture 
of  this  fruitful  country,  but  the  cultivation  of 
silk,  for  which  it  has  been  celebrated  from  all 
antiquity,  the  culture  of  the  tea -plant,  which 
forms  such  an  important  article  of  European 
trade,  as  well  as  the  knowledge  of  several 
most  useful  medicinal  productions  of  nature, 
and  unique,  and,  in  their  way,  excellent  pro- 
ducts of  industry  and  manufacture,  prove  the 
very  high  degree  of  civilization  to  which  this 
people  have  attained.  And  why  should  not 
that  people  be  entitled  to  a  high  place,  or  one 
of  the  highest  among  civilized  nations,  which 
had  known,  many  centuries  before  Europe,  the 


art  of  printing,  gunpowder,  and  the  magnet— 
those  three  so  highly  celebrated  and  valuable 
discoveries  of  European  skill  ?  Instead  of  the 
regular  art  of  printing  with  transposable  letters, 
which  would  not  suit  the  Chinese  system  of 
writing,  this  people  make  use  of  a  species  of 
lithography,  which,  to  all  essential  purposes,  is 
the  same,  and  attended  with  the  same  effects. 
Gunpowder  serves  in  China,  as  it  did  in  Europe 
in  the  infancy  of  the  discovery,  rather  for  amuse- 
ment and  fireworks,  than  for  the  more  serious 
purposes  of  war  and  conquest ;  and  though  this 
people  are  acquainted  with  the  magnetic  needle, 
they  have  never  made  a  like  extended  applica- 
ation  of  its  powers,  and  never  employ  it,  either 
in  a  confined  river  and  coasting  navigation,  or 
on  the  wide  ocean,  on  which  they  never  venture. 

The  Chinese  are  remarkable,  too,  for  the  ut- 
most polish  and  refinement  of  manners,  and 
even  for  a  precise  civility  and  love  of  stately 
ceremonial.  In  many  respects,  indeed,  their 
politeness  and  refinement  almost  equal  those 
of  European  nations,  or  at  least  are  far  supe- 
rior to  what  we  usually  designate  by  the  term 
of  oriental  manners  —  a  term  which,  in  our 
sense,  can  apply  only  to  the  nearer  Mahometan 
countries  of  the  Levant.  Of  this  assertion,  we 
may  find  a  sufficient  proof  in  any  single  tale 
that  portrays  the  present  Chinese  life  and  man- 
ners ;  in  the  novel,  for  instance,  translated  by 
M.  Remusat.  In  their  present  manners  and 
fashions,  however,  there  are  many  things  utterly 
at  variance  with  European  taste  and  feelings; 
I  need  only  mention  the  custom  of  the  digni- 
taries, functionaries,  and  literary  men  letting 
their  nails  grow  to  the  length  of  birds'  claws, 
and  that  other  custom  in  women  of  rank,  of 
compressing  their  feet  to  an  extreme  diminu- 
tiveness.  Both  customs,  according  to  the  re- 
cent account  of  a  very  intelligent  Englishman, 
serve  to  mark  and  distinguish  the  upper  class ; 
for  the  former  renders  the  men  totally  incapa- 
ble of  hard  or  manual  labor,  and  the  latter  im- 
pedes the  woman  of  rank  in  walking,  or  at 
least  gives  her  a  mincing  gait,  and  a  languid, 
delicate  and  interesting  air.  These  minute 
traits  of  manners  should  not  be  overlooked  in 
the  general  sketch  of  the  nation,  for  they  per- 
fectly correspond  to  many  other  characteristic 
marks  and  indications  of  the  unnatural  stiff- 
ness, childish  vanity,  and  exaggerated  refine- 
ment, which  we  meet  with  in  the  more  im- 
portant province  of  its  intellectual  character. 
Even  in  the  basis  of  all  intellectual  culture,  the 
language,  or  rather  the  writing  of  the  Chinese, 
this  character  of  refinement,  pushed  beyond  all 
bounds  and  all  conception,  is  visible,  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  coupled  with  great  intel- 
lectual poverty  and  jejuneness.  A  language 
where  there  are  not  many  more  than  three  hun- 
dred, not  near  four  hundred,  and  (according  to 
the  most  recent  critical  investigation)  only  272 
monosyllabic  primitive  roots  without  any  kind 
of  grammar;  where  the  not  merely  various,  but 
utterly  unconnected  significations  of  one  and  the 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


475 


same  word  are  marked,  in  the  first  place,  by  a 
varying  modulation  of  the  voice,  according  to  a 
fourfold  method  of  accentuation ;  in  the  next 
place  and  chiefly,  by  the  written  characters, 
which  amount  to  the  prodigious  number  of 
eighty  thousand,  while  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphs 
do  not  exceed  the  number  of  eight  hundred — 
such  a  language  must  needs  be  the  most  arti- 
ficial in  the  whole  world  ; — an  inference,  not 
invalidated  by  the  fact  that,  out  of  that  great 
number  of  all  actual  or  possible  written  charac- 
ters, but  a  fourth  part  perhaps  is  really  in  use, 
and  a  still  less  portion  is  necessary  to  be  learned. 
As  the  meaning,  especially  of  more  complex 
notions  and  abstract  ideas,  can  be  fully  fixed 
and  accurately  determined  only  by  such  artifi- 
cial ciphers,  the  language  is  far  more  dependent 
on  these  written  characters  than  on  living 
sound ;  for  one  and  the  same  sound  may  often 
be  designated  by  160  different  characters,  and 
have  as  many  significations.  It  not  rarely  occurs 
that  the  Chinese,  when  they  do  not  very  well 
understand  each  other  in  conversation,  have  re- 
course to  writing,  and  by  copying  down  these 
ciphers  are  enabled  to  divine  each  other's  mean- 
ing, and  become  mutually  intelligible.  Indeed, 
it  furnishes  labor  sufficient  to  fill  up  the  life  of 
man,  for  even  the  European  scholars  who  have 
engaged  in  this  study  find  it  a  matter  of  no 
small  difficulty,  to  devise  a  system  whereby  a 
dictionary,  or  rather  a  systematic  catalogue  of 
all  these  written  characters  may  be  composed, 
to  serve  as  a  fit  guide  on  this  ocean  of  Chinese 
signs.  But  we  shall  again  have  occasion  to 
recur  to  this  subject ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  only  in 
connection  with  the  peculiarities  of  the  Chinese 
mind  that  this  writing  system  can  be  properly 
explained  and  understood  in  its  true  meaning, 
or  rather  its  meaningless  construction  and  ela- 
borateness. 

Although  the  construction  of  canals,  and  all 
the  regulations  of  water-carriage,  could  have 
attained  only  by  degrees  to  their  present  state 
of  perfection,  still  this  alone  would  prove  the 
very  early  attention  which  this  people  had 
given  to  the  arts  of  civilized  life.  Mention  is 
often  made  of  them  in  the  old  Chinese  histories 
and  imperial  annals  ;  and  the  canals  of  China, 
like  the  Nile  in  Egypt,  were  ever  the  objects  of 
most  anxious  solicitude  to  the  government. 
These  annals,  whenever  they  have  occasion  to 
speak  of  those  great  inundations  and  destructive 
floods  which  are  of  such  frequent  occurrence  in 
Chinese  history,  invariably  represent  the  atten- 
tion bestowed  on  water-courses  and  water-regu- 
lations as  the  most  certain  mark  of  a  wise, 
benevolent  and  provident  administration.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  neglect  of  this  most  import- 
ant of  administrative  concerns  is  ever  regarded 
as  the  proof  of  a  wicked,  reckless  and  unfortu- 
nate reign  ;  and  in  these  histories  some  great 
calamity,  ox  even  violent  catastrophe,  is  sure  to 
follow,  like  a  stroke  of  divine  vengeance,  on 
this  unpardonable  neglect  of  duty. 

The  long  succession  of  the  different  native 


dynasties  of  China,  Tchin,  Han,  Tung,  and 
Sung,  down  to  the  Moguls,  which  fills  the  dif- 
fuse annals  of  the  empire,  furnishes  few  im- 
portant data  on  the  intellectual  progress  of  the 
Chinese  ;  and  everything  of  importance  to  the 
object  of  our  present  inquiries,  that  can  be  ga- 
thered out  of  the  mass  of  political  history,  may 
be  reduced  to  a  very  few  plain  facts.  The  Eng- 
lish writer,  whom  we  have  already  cited,  though 
otherwise  inclined  to  a  certain  degree  of  scep- 
ticism in  his  views,  fixes  the  commencement 
of  the  historical  ages  of  authentic  history  in  the 
ancient  dynasty  of  Chow,  eleven  hundred  years 
before  the  Christian  era.  The  first  fact  of  im- 
portance, as  regards  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual civilization  of  China,  is,  that  this  country, 
originally  divided  into  many  small  principali- 
ties and  under  petty  sovereigns,  whose  power 
was  more  limited,  enjoyed  a  greater  share  of 
liberty.  The  great  burning  of  the  books,  of 
which  more  particular  mention  will  be  pre- 
sently made,  as  well  as  the  erection  of  the 
great  wall,  are  attributed  to  the  first  general 
emperor  of  all  China,  Chihoangti ;  in  whose 
reign,  too,  Japan  became  a  Chinese  colony,  or 
received  from  China  a  political  establishment. 
At  a  still  later  period,  as  in  the  fifth  century  of 
our  era,  and  again  at  the  time  of  the  Mogul  con- 
quest under  Zingis  Khan,  China  was  divided 
into  two  kingdoms,  a  northern  and  a  southern. 
But  there  is  another  fact  already  mentioned, 
that  throws  still  stronger  light  on  the  high  civili- 
zation of  China — it  is,  that  at  every  period 
when  this  empire  has  been  conquered  by  the 
Moguls  and  Tartars,  the  conquerors,  overcome 
in  their  turn  by  the  ascendancy  of  Chinese  civili- 
zation, have,  within  a  short  time,  invariably 
adopted  the  manners,  laws,  and  even  the  lan- 
guage of  China,  and  thus  its  institutions  have 
remained,  on  the  whole,  unaltered.  But  here 
is  a  circumstance  in  Chinese  history  particularly 
worthy  of  our  attention.  In  no  state  in  the 
world  do  we  see  such  an  entire,  absolute,  and 
rigid  monarchical  unity  as  in  that  of  China, 
especially  under  its  ancient  form ;  although  this 
government  is  more  limited  by  laws  and  man- 
ners, and  is  by  no  means  of  that  arbitrary  and 
despotic  character  which  we  are  wont  to  attri- 
bute to  the  more  modern  oriental  states.  In 
China,  before  the  introduction  of  the  Indian  re- 
ligion of  Buddhu,  there  was  not  even  a  distinct 
sacerdotal  class — there  is  no  nobility,  no  heredi- 
tary class  with  hereditary  rights — education,  and 
employment  in  the  service  of  the  state,  form  the 
only  marks  of  distinction  ;  and  the  men  of  let- 
ters and  government  functionaries  are  blended 
together  in  the  single  class  of  Mandarins ;  but 
the  state  is  all  in  all.  However,  this  absolute 
monarchical  system  has  not  conduced  to  the 
peace,  stability,  and  permanent  prosperity  of 
the  state,  for  the  whole  history  of  China,  from 
beginning  to  end,  displays  one  continued  series 
of  seditions,  usurpations,  anarchy,  changes  of 
dynasty,  and  other  violent  revolutions  and  catas- 
trophes.   This  is  proved  by  the  bare  statement 


476 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


of  facts,  though  the  official  language  of  the  im- 
perial annals  ever  concedes  the  final  triumph 
to  the  monarchical  principle. 

The  same  violent  revolutions  occurred  in  the 
department  of  science  and  of  public  doctrines, 
as  in  the  instance  already  cited  of  the  general 
burning  of  the  books  by  order  of  the  first  gene- 
ral emperor,  when  the  men  of  letters,  or  at  least 
a  party  of  them,  were  persecuted,  and  four 
hundred  and  sixty  followers  of  Confucius  burnt. 
This  act  of  tyranny  undoubtedly  supposes  a 
very  violent  contest  between  factions  —  an  im- 
portant political  struggle  between  hostile  sects, 
and  a  mighty  revolution  in  the  intellectual 
world.  At  the  same  time  too,  a  favorite  of 
this  tyrannical  prince  introduced  a  new  system 
of  writing,  which  has  led  to  the  greatest  confu- 
sion, even  in  subsequent  ages.  Such  an  intellec- 
tual revolution  is  doubtless  evident  on  the  intro- 
duction of  the  Indian  religion  of  Buddhu,  or  Fo, 
(according  to  the  Chinese  appellation,)  which 
took  place  precisely  three-and-thirty  years  after 
the  foundation  of  Christianity.  The  conquest  of 
China  by  the  Moguls,  under  Zingis  Khan,  oc- 
curred at  the  same  time  that  their  expeditions 
towards  the  opposite  quarter  of  Europe  spread 
terror  and  desolation  over  Russia  and  Poland, 
as  far  as  the  confines  of  Silesia.  This  conquest 
produced  a  reaction,  and  a  popular  revolution, 
conducted  by  a  common  citizen  of  China,  by 
name  Chow,  restored  the  empire ;  this  citizen 
afterwards  ascended  the  throne,  and  became 
the  founder  of  a  new  Chinese  dynasty.  The 
emperors  of  the  present  dynasty  of  Mantchou 
Tartars,  that  has  now  governed  China  since  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  are  distin- 
guished for  their  attachment  to  the  old  customs 
and  institutions  of  China,  and  even  to  its  lan- 
guage and  science ;  and  their  elevation  to  the 
throne  has  given  rise  to  many  great  scientific 
enterprises,  and  has  been  singularly  favorable 
to  the  investigations  of  those  European  scholars, 
whose  object  it  is  to  make  us  better  acquainted 
with  China.  But  at  the  moment  I  am  speaking, 
a  great  rebellion  has  broken  out  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  kingdom,  and  in  the  opposite  extre- 
mity the  Christians  are  exposed  to  a  more  than 
ordinary  persecution. 

These  few  leading  incidents  in  Chinese  his- 
tory may  suffice  to  make  known  the  principal 
epochs  in  the  intellectual  progress  and  civiliza- 
tion of  this  people.  As  the  constitution  and 
development  of  the  human  mind  are  in  each 
of  those  ancient  nations  closely  connected  with 
the  nature  of  their  language,  and  even  some- 
times (as  in  the  case  of  the  Chinese)  with  their 
system  of  writing,  the  language  of  the  latter 
people  being,  on  account  of  its  amazing  copious- 
ness, less  fit  for  conversation  than  for  writing,  I 
shall  now  make  a  few  remarks  on  the  very 
artificial  mode  of  Chinese  writing,  which  is 
perfectly  unique  in  its  kind  :  but  I  shall  confine 
my  observation  to  its  general  character,  and 
shall  forbear  entering  into  the  vast  labyrinth  of 
the  eighty  thousand  cipher-signs  of  speech,  and 


all  the  problems  and  difficulties  which  they  in- 
volve. The  Chinese  writing  was  undoubtedly 
in  its  origin  symbolical,  though  the  rude  marks 
of  those  primitive  symbols  can  now  scarcely 
be  discerned  in  the  enigmatical  abbreviations, 
and  in  the  complex  combinations  of  the  charac- 
ters at  present  in  use.  It  is  no  slight  problem 
even  for  the  learned  of  China  to  reduce,  with 
any  degree  of  certainty,  the  boundless  quantity 
of  their  written  characters  to  their  simple  ele- 
ments and  primitive  roots:  in  this,  however, 
they  have  succeeded,  and  have  shown  that  all 
these  elements  are  to  be  found  in  the  two  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  symbols,  or  keys  of  writing, 
as  they  call  them.  The  Chinese  characters  of 
the  primitive  ages  comprise  only  representa- 
tions, indicated  by  a  few  rude  strokes,  of  those 
first  simple  objects  which  surround  man  while 
living  in  the  most  simple  state  of  society  — 
such  as  the  sun  and  moon,  the  most  familiar 
animals,  the  common  plants,  the  implements 
of  human  labor,  weapons,  and  the  different 
parts  of  human  dwellings.  This  is  the  same 
rude  symbolical  writing  which  we  find  among 
other  civilized/ nations,  the  Americans,  for  ex- 
ample, and  among  them,  the  Mexicans  in  par- 
ticular. 

The  celebrated  French  orientalist,  Abel  Re- 
musat,  who  in  our  times  has  infused  a  new 
life  into  the  study  of  Chinese  literature,  and 
especially  thrown  on  the  whole  subject  a  much 
greater  degree  of  clearness  than  originally  be- 
longed to  it,  has,  in  his  examination  of  this  first 
very  meagre  outline  of  the  infant  civilization 
of  China,  wherein  he  discovers  the  then  very 
contracted  circle  of  Chinese  ideas,  made  many 
intelligent  observations,  and  many  historical 
deductions.  And  if,  as  he  conjectures,  the  dis- 
covery of  Chinese  writing  must  date  its  origin 
four  thousand  years  back,  this  would  bring  it 
within  three  or  four  generations  from  the  de- 
luge, according  to  the  vulgar  era — an  estimate 
which  certainly  is  not  exaggerated.  If  this 
European  scholar,  intimately  conversant  as 
he  is  with  Chinese  antiquities  and  science,  is 
at  a  loss  adequately  to  describe  his  astonish- 
ment at  the  extreme  poverty  of  these  first  sym- 
bols of  Chinese  writing,  so  no  one,  doubtless, 
possesses  in  a  higher  degree  than  himself  all 
the  necessary  attainments  to  enable  him  to  ap- 
preciate the  immeasurable  distance  between 
this  first  extreme  jejuneness  of  ideas,  and  the 
boundless  wealth  displayed  in  the  latter  artifi- 
cial and  complex  writing  of  the  Chihese. 

But  when,  among  other  things,  he  calls  our 
attention  to  the  fact  that,  in  this  primitive  writ- 
ing, even  the  sign  or  symbol  of  a  priest  is  want- 
ing—a symbol  which  together  with  the  class 
itself  must  exist  among  the  very  rudest  nations 
— I  must  concur  in  the  truth  of  the  remark :  for 
he  himself  adduces,  among  other  characters, 
one  which  must  represent  a  magician.  Now 
among  the  heathen  nations  of  the  primitive  age, 
the  one  personage  was  certainly  identical  with 
the  other,  as  even  among  the  Cainites  was  very 


F.  SCHLEGEL.  477 


probably  the  case.  Even  the  combination  of 
several  of  those  simple  characters,  which  gene- 
rally serve  to  denote  the  more  abstract  ideas, 
seem  often,  or  at  least  originally,  not  to  have 
been  regulated  by  any  profound  principle  of 
symbolism,  but  to  have  arisen  merely  out  of  the 
vulgar  perceptions  or  impressions  of  every-day 
life.  For  instance,  the  character  denoting  hap- 
piness is  composed  of  two  signs,  of  which  one 
represents  an  open  mouth,  and  the  other  a 
handful  of  rice,  or  rice  by  itself.  Here  we  see 
no  allusion  is  made  to  any  very  lofty  or  chime- 
rical idea  of  happiness,  or  to  any  mystic  or  spi- 
ritual conception  of  it ;  but,  as  this  written  cha- 
racter well  evinces,  the  Chinese  notion  of  hap- 
piness is  simply  represented  by  a  mouth  filled 
and  saturated  with  good  wine.  Another  ex- 
ample of  nearly  the  same  kind,  given  by  Re- 
musat  with  a  sort  of  polite  reluctance,  is  the 
character  designating  woman,  which,  when 
doubled,  signifies  strife  and  contention,  and 
when  tripled,  immoral  and  disorderly  conduct. 
How  widely  removed  are  all  those  coarse 
and  trivial  combinations  of  ideas  from  an  ex- 
quisite sense — a  deep  symbolism  of  Nature — 
from  those  spiritual  emblems  in  the  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics,  so  far  as  they  have  been  deci- 
phered; although  these  emblems  may  have 
been,  and  were  in  fact,  applied  to  the  purpose 
of  alphabetic  usage.  In  the  hieroglyphics  there 
is,  besides  the  bare  literal  meaning,  a  high  sym- 
bolic inspiration,  like  a  soul  of  life,  the  breathing 
of  a  high,  indwelling  spirit,  a  deeply  felt  signi- 
ficancy,  a  lofty  and  beautiful  design  apparent 
through  the  dead  characters  denoting  any  par- 
ticular name  or  fact. 

But  independently  of  this  boundless  chaos  of 
written  characters,  the  Chinese  undoubtedly 
possess  a  system  of  scientific  symbols  and  sym- 
bolical signs,  which  constitute  the  substance 
of  their  most  sacred  book,  the  I-King,  which 
signifies  the  book  of  unity,  or,  as  others  explain 
it,  the  book  of  changes ;  and  either  name  will 
agree  with  the  meaning  of  those  symbols  which, 
when  rightly  understood,  and  conceived  in  the 
spirit  of  early  antiquity,  will  appear  to  be  of  a 
very  remarkable  and  scientific  nature.  There 
are  only  two  primary  figures  or  lines,  from 
which  proceed  originally  the  four  symbols  and 
the  eight  kona  or  combinations  representing 
Nature,  which  form  the  basis  of  the  high  Chi- 
nese philosophy.  These  first  two  primary  prin- 
ciples are  a  straight,  unbroken  line,  and  a  line 
broken  or  divided  into  two.  If  these  first  sim- 
ple elements  are  doubled,  namely,  two  straight 
lines  put  under  each  other  like  our  arithmetical 
sign  of  equation,  and  two  broken  or  divided 
lines  also  put  together,  the  different  lines  are 
formed.  According  as  one  broken  line  occu- 
pies the  upper  or  the  lower  place,  there  are 
two  possible  variations  —  when  put  together, 
there  are  four  possible  variations  ;  and  these 
constitute  the  four  symbols.  But  if  three  lines 
of  these  two  kinds,  the  straight  and  the  broken, 
are  united  or  placed  under  each  other,  so,  ac-  | 


cording  to  the  number  or  the  upper,  middle  or 
lower  place  of  either  species  of  line,  there  are 
eight  possible  combinations,  and  these  are  the 
eight  kona,  which,  together  with  the  four  sym- 
bols, refer  to  the  natural  elements,  and  to  the 
primary  principles  of  all  things,  and  serve  as 
the  symbolical  expression,  or  scientific  designa- 
tion of  these. 

What  is  now  the  real  sense  and  proper  sig- 
nification of  those  scientific  primary  lines  among 
the  Chinese,  which  exert  an  influence  over  the 
whole  of  their  ancient  literature,  and  upon 
which  they  themselves  have  written  an  incre- 
dible number  of  learned  commentaries?  Leib- 
nitz supposed  them  to  contain  a  reference  to  the 
modern  algebraical  discoveries,  and  especially 
to  the  binary  calculation.  Other  writers,  espe- 
cially among  the  English,  drawing  their  obser- 
vations more  from  real  life,  remark  on  the  other 
hand,  that  this  ancient  system  of  mystical  lines 
serves  at  present  the  purpose  of  a  sort  of  ora- 
cular play  of  questions,  like  the  turning  up  of 
cards  among  Europeans,  and  is  converted  to 
many  superstitious  uses,  especially  for  making 
pretended  discoveries  in  alchemy,  to  which  the 
Chinese  are  very  much  addicted.  But  this  is 
only  an  abuse  of  modern  times,  which  no  longer 
understand  this  primitive  system  of  symbolical 
signs  and  lines.  The  high  antiquity  of  these 
lines  and  of  the  eight  kona  can  be  the  less  a 
matter  of  doubt,  as  even  mythology  has  ascribed 
them  to  the  primitive  patriarch  of  the  Chinese, 
Fohi,  who  is  represented  as  having  espied  these 
lines  on  the  back  of  a  tortoise,  and  having  thence 
deduced  the  written  characters ;  which  many 
of  the  learned  Chinese  wish  to  derive  from 
these  eight  kona  or  combinations  of  the  first 
symbolical  lines.  But  the  French  scholar,  whom 
I  have  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  name, 
and  who  is  well  able  to  form  a  competent  opi- 
nion on  the  subject,  is  most  decidedly  opposed 
to  this  Chinese  derivation  of  all  the  written 
characters  from  the  eight  kona;  and  it  would 
appear,  indeed,  that  the  latter  differ  totally  from 
the  common  system  of  Chinese  writing,  and 
must  be  looked  upon  as  of  a  distinct  scientific 
nature. 

Perhaps  we  may  find  a  natural  explanation 
of  the  true,  and  not  very  hidden  sense  of  these 
signs,  by  comparing  the  fundamental  doctrines 
of  the  elder  Greek  philosophy  and  science  of 
Nature.  Thus,  in  the  writings  of  Plato,  mention 
is  often  made  of  the  one  and  of  the  other,  or  of 
unity  and  duality,  as  the  original  elements  of 
Nature  and  first  principles  of  all  existence.  By 
this  is  meant  the  doctrine  of  the  first  opposition 
and  of  the  many  oppositions  derived  from  the 
first;  and  also  of  the  possible,  and  conceivable, 
or  required  adjustment  and  compromise  be- 
tween the  two,  and  of  the  restoration  of  the 
first  unity  and  eternal  equality  anterior  to  all 
opposition,  and  which  terminates  and  absorbs 
in  itself  all  discord.  Thus  these  eight  kona, 
and  mathematical  signs  or  symbolical  lines  of 
ancient  China,  would  comprise  nothing  more 


478 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


than  a  dry  outline  of  all  dynamical  speculation 
and  science.  And  it  is  therefore  quite  consistent 
that  the  old  sacred  hook  which  contains  these 
principles  of  Chinese  science  should  he  termed 
either  the  book  of  unity  or  the  book  of  changes ; 
for  doubtless  this  title  refers  to  the  doctrine  of 
an  absolute  unity,  as  the  fundamental  principle 
of  all  things,  and  to  the  doctrine  of  differences, 
or  oppositions  or  changes  springing  out  of  that 
first  unity. 

This  doctrine  of  an  opposition  in  all  things — 
in  thought  as  in  nature— will  become  more  ap- 
parent if  we  reflect  on  the  new  and  brilliant 
discoveries  in  natural  philosophy.  For  as  in 
this  science,  the  oxygen  and  hydrogen  parts  in 
the  chemistry  of  metals,  or  the  positive  or  nega- 
tive end  of  electrical  phenomena,  in  the  attract- 
ing and  repelling  pole  of  magnetism,  reveal 
such  an  opposition  and  dynamic  play  of  living 
powers  in  nature ;  so  in  this  philosophy  of 
China,  the  abstract  doctrine  of  this  opposition 
and  dynamical  change  of  existence  seems  to  be 
laid  down  with  a  sort  of  mathematical  gene- 
rality, as  the  basis  of  all  future  science.  In  our 
higher  natural  philosophy,  indeed,  all  this  has 
been  proved  from  facts  and  experience ;  and, 
besides,  this  dynamic  life  forms  but  one  element, 
and  the  one  branch  of  the  science  to  be  ac- 
quired ;  and  a  philosophy  founded  entirely  on 
this  dynamical  law  of  existence,  without  any 
regard  to  the  other  and  higher  principle  of  in- 
ternal experience  and  moral  life,  intellectual 
intuition  and  divine  revelation,  would  be  at 
best  a  very  partial  system,  and  by  no  means  of 
general  application ;  or  if  a  general  application 
of  such  a  system  were  made,  it  must  lead  to 
endless  mistakes,  errors  and  contradictions. 
That  such  a  system  of  dynamical  speculation 
and  science,  if  extended  to  objects  where  it 
cannot  be  corroborated  by  facts,  to  all  things 
divine  and  human,  real,  possible,  or  impossible, 
will  undoubtedly  lead  to  such  a  chaotic  con- 
fusion of  ideas,  we  have  had  a  memorable  ex- 
perience in  the  German  "Philosophy  of  Nature" 
of  the  last  generation  ;  a  philosophy  which  con- 
sisted in  a  fanciful  play  of  thought  with  Polari- 
ties, and  oppositions,  and  points  of  indifference  be- 
tween them,  but  which  has  been  long  appreciated 
in  its  true  worth  and  real  nature,  and  consigned 
to  its  proper  limits. 

Thus  this  outline  of  the  old  Chinese  symbols 
of  thought,  which  have  a  purely  metaphysical 
import,  would  lay  before  its  the  most  recent 
error  clothed  in  the  most  antique  form — but  the 
Chinese  system  is  in  itself  very  remarkable  and 
important.  The  fundamental  text  of  the  old 
sacred  book  on  this  doctrine  of  unity  and  oppo- 
sitions, and  which  may  now  be  easily  compre- 
hended, runs  thus,  according  to  Remusat's  lite- 
ral translation :  "The  great  first  principle  has 
engendered  or  produced  two  equations  and  dif- 
ferences, or  primary  rules  of  existence:  but  the 
two  primary  rules  or  two  oppositions,  namely, 
Yn  and  Yang,  or  repose  and  motion  (the  affirm- 
ative and  negative  as  we  might  otherwise  call 


them),  have  produced  four  signs  or  symbols; 
and  the  four  symbols  have  produced  the  eight 
kona,  or  further  combinations."  These  eight 
kona  are  kien,  or  ether,  kui,  or  pure  water,  li, 
or  pure  fire,  tchin,  or  thunder,  siun,  the  wind, 
kan,  common  water,  ken,  a  mountain,  and  kuen, 
the  earth. 

On  this  ancient  basis  of  Chinese  philosophy, 
proceeding  from  indifference  to  differences,  was 
afterwards  founded  the  rationalist  system  of 
Lao-tseu,  whose  name  occurs  somewhat  earlier 
than  that  of  Confucius.  The  Taosse,  or  disci- 
ples of  Reason,  as  the  followers  of  this  philoso- 
pher entitle  themselves,  have  very  much  de- 
generated, and  have  become  a  complete  athe- 
istical sect;  though  the  blame  of  this  must  be 
attributed,  not  to  the  founder,  but  to  his  disciples 
only.  It  is  however  acknowledged  that  the 
atheistical  principles  of  this  dead  science  of 
reason,  have  been  very  widely  diffused  through- 
out the  Chinese  empire,  and  for  a  certain  period 
were  almost  generally  prevalent. 

As  it  is  necessary  to  keep  in  view  a  certain 
chronological  order,  in  our  investigations  of  the 
progressive  development  of  Chinese  intellect,  I 
may  here  observe  that,  as  far  as  European  re- 
search has  been  able  to  ascertain,  we  may  dis- 
tinguish three  principal  and  successive  epochs 
in  the  history  both  of  the  religion  and  science 
of  China.  The  first  epoch  is  that  of  sacred  tra- 
dition, and  of  the  old  constitution  of  the  Chinese 
empire,  and  discloses  those  primitive  views, 
and  that  primitive  system  of  ethics,  on  which 
the  empire  was  founded.  The  second,  which 
we  may  fix  about  six  centuries  before  our  era, 
is  the  period  of  scientific  philosophy,  pursu- 
ing two  opposite  paths  of  inquiry.  Confucius 
applied  his  attention  entirely  to  the  more  prac- 
tical study  of  ethics,  with  which,  indeed,  the 
old  constitution,  history,  and  sacred  traditions 
of  the  Chinese  were  very  intimately  connected  ; 
and  the  pure  morality  of  Confucius,  which  was 
the  first  branch  of  Chinese  philosophy  known 
in  Europe,  excited  to  a  high  degree  the  enthu- 
siasm of  many  European  scholars,  who,  by  their 
too  exclusive  admiration,  were  prevented  from 
forming  a  right  estimate  of  the  general  character 
of  Chinese  philosophy. 

Another  system  of  philosophy,  purely  specu- 
lative and  widely  different  from  the  practical 
and  ethical  doctrine  of  Confucius,  was  the  sys- 
tem of  Lao-tseu  and  his  school,  whence  issued 
the  above-mentioned  rationalist  sect  of  Taosse, 
that  has  at  last  fallen  into  atheism.  As  to  the 
question  whether  Lao-tseu  travelled  into  the 
remote  West,  or  in  case  he  came  only  as  far  as 
Western  Asia,  whether  he  derived  his  system 
from  the  Persian  or  Egyptian  doctrines,  or  me- 
diately from  the  Greek  philosophy — this  ques- 
tion I  shall  not  here  stop  to  discuss,  for  the 
matter  is  very  doubtful  in  itself,  and,  were  it 
even  proved,  still  all  the  doctrines  borrowed 
from  the  West  were  invested  in  a  form  purely 
Chinese,  and  clothed  in  quite  a  native  garb. 
Those  signs  in  the  I-King,  we  have  already 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


479 


spoken  of,  evidently  comprise  the  germ  of  such 
an  absolute,  negative,  and  consequently  athe- 
istic rationalism — a  mechanical  play  of  idle  ab- 
stractions. The  third  epoch  in  the  progress  of 
Chinese  opinions  is  formed  by  the  introduction 
of  the  Indian  religion  of  Buddha  or  of  Fo.  The 
great  revolution  which  had  previously  occurred 
in  the  old  doctrines  and  manners  of  China;  and 
the  ruling  spirit  of  that  false  and  absolute  ra- 
tionalism, had  already  paved  the  way  for  the 
foreign  religion  of  Buddha,  which,  of  all  the 
Pagan  imitations  of  truth,  occupies  the  lowest 
grade. 

The  old  sacred  traditions  of  the  Chinese  are 
not  so  overlaid,  nor  disfigured  with  fictions,  as 
those  of  most  other  Asiatic  nations  ;  those  of  the 
Indians,  for  example,  and  of  the  early  nations 
of  Pagan  Europe ;  but  their  traditions  breathe 
the  purer  spirit  of  genuine  history.  Hence,  the 
poetry  of  the  Chinese  is  not  mythological,  like 
that  of  other  nations,  but  is  either  lyrical,  (as  in 
the  Shi-King,  a  book  of  sacred  songs,  composed 
or  compiled  by  Confucius,)  or  is  entirely  con- 
fined to  the  representation  of  real  life,  and  of 
the  social  relations — as  in  the  modern  tales  and 
novels,  several  of  which  have  been  translated 
into  the  European  languages. 

The  old  traditions  of  the  Chinese  have  many 
traits  of  a  kindred  character  with,  or  at  least  of 
a  strong  resemblance  to,  the  Mosaic  revelation, 
and  even  to  the  sacred  traditions  of  the  nations 
of  Western  Asia,  particularly  the  Persians  ;  and 
in  these  traditions  we  find  much  that  either 
corroborates  the  testimony  of  Holy  Writ,  or  at 
least  affords  matter  for  further  comparison.  We 
have  before  mentioned  the  very  peculiar  man- 
ner in  which  the  Chinese  speak  of  the  great 
Flood,  and  how  their  first  progenitors  struggled 
against  the  savage  waters,  and  how  this  task 
was  afterwards  neglected  by  bad  or  improvi- 
dent rulers,  who,  in  consequence  of  this  neglect, 
were  brought  to  ruin. 

I  will  cite  but  one  instance,  where  the  pa- 
rallel is  indeed  remarkable.  In  the  I-King, 
mention  is  made  of  the  fallen  dragon,  or  of  the 
spirit  of  the  dragon,  that,  for  his  presumption  in 
wishing  to  ascend  to  heaven,  was  precipitated 
into  the  abyss;  and  the  words  in  which  this 
event  is  described  are  precisely  the  same,  or  at 
least  very  similar  to  those  which  our  Scriptures 
apply  to  the  rebel  angel,  and  the  Persian  books 
to  Ahriman.  However,  this  dragon  is  whimsi- 
cally, we  might  almost  say,  artlessly,  made  the 
sacred  symbol  of  the  Chinese  Empire  and  the 
Emperor.  The  paternal  power  of  the  latter  is 
understood  in  a  much  too  absolute  sense  ;  not 
only  is  the  Emperor  styled  the  lord  of  heaven 
and  earth,  and  even  the  sun  of  God,  but  his  will 
is  revered  as  the  will  of  God,  or  rather  com- 
pletely identified  with  it ;  and  even  the  most 
determined  eulogists  of  the  Chinese  constitution 
and  manners,  cannot  deny  that  the  monarch  is 
almost  the  object  of  a  real  worship.  Chris- 
tianity teaches  that  all  power  is  from  God;  but 
it  does  not  thereby  declare  that  all  power  is  one 


and  the  same  with  God.  Even  a  dominion 
over  nature  and  her  powers  is  ascribed  to  the 
Emperor  of  China,  as  the  illustrious  lord  of 
heaven  and  earth. 

Moreover,  no  hereditary  nobility,  no  classes 
separated  by  distinctions  of  birth,  exist  in  this 
country,  as  in  India.  The  Emperor,  half  iden- 
tified with  the  Deity,  had  alone  the  privilege  in 
ancient  times  of  offering  on  the  sacred  heights 
of  the  great  sacrifice  to  God.  Some  European 
writers  have,  from  this  circumstance,  conceived 
the  Chinese  constitution  to  be  theocratic ;  but  if 
it  be  so,  it  is  only  in  its  outward  form  or  original 
mould  ;  for  it  would  be  difficult  to  show  in  it 
any  trace  of  a  true,  vital  theocracy.  All  that 
pomp  of  sacred  ceremony  and  religious  titles, 
so  strangely  absurd,  forms  a  striking  contrast 
with  real  history,  and  with  that  long  succession 
of  profligate  and  unfortunate  reigns,  and  per- 
petual revolutions,  which  fill  most  of  the"  pages 
of  the  Chinese  annals.  We  should  err  greatly, 
were  we  to  regard  all  these  high  imperial  titles 
as  the  mere  swell  and  exaggeration  of  Eastern 
phraseology.  The  Chinese  speak  of  their  celes- 
tial Empire  of  the  Medium,  as  they  call  their 
country,  in  terms  which  no  European  writer 
would  apply  to  a  Christian  state ;  and  such,  in- 
deed, as  the  Scriptures  and  religious  authors  use 
in  reference  only  to  the  kingdom  of  God.  They 
cannot  conceive  it  possible  for  the  earth  to  con- 
tain two  emperors  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
and  own  the  sway  of  more  than  one  such  abso- 
lute lord  and  master.  Hence,  they  look  on 
every  solemn  foreign  embassy  as  a  debt  of 
homage;  nor  is  this  sentiment  the  idle  effect  of 
vanity  or  fancy  —  it  is  a  firm  and  settled  belief, 
perfectly  coinciding  with  the  whole  system  of 
their  religious  and  political  doctrines.  

THE  HINDOOS. 

When  Alexander  the  Great  had  attained  the 
object  of  his  most  ardent  desires,  and,  realizing 
the  fabulous  expedition  of  Bacchus  and  his  train 
of  followers,  had  at  last  reached  India,  the 
Greeks  found  this  vast  region,  even  on  this  side 
of  the  Ganges — (for  that  river,  the  peculiar  ob- 
ject of  Alexander's  ambition,  the  conqueror,  in 
despite  of  all  his  efforts,  was  unable  to  reach)-— 
the  Greeks  found  this  country  extensive,  fertile, 
highly  cultivated,  populous,  and  filled  with 
flourishing  cities,  as  it  was  divided  into  a  num- 
ber of  great  and  petty  kingdoms.  They  found 
there  an  hereditary  division  of  castes,  such  as 
still  subsists  ;  although  they  reckoned  not  four, 
but  seven,  a  circumstance,  however,  which,  as 
we  shall  see  later,  argues  no  essential  differ- 
ence in  the  division  of  Indian  classes  at  that 
period.  They  remarked,  also,  that  the  country 
was  divided  into  two  religious  parties  or  sects, 
the  Brachmans  and  the  Samaneans.  By  the  first, 
the  Greeks  designated  the  followers  of  the  reli- 
gion of  Brahma,  as  well  as  of  Vishnoo  and  Siva, 
a  religion  which  still  subsists,  and  is  more 
deeply  rooted  and  more  widely  diffused  and 
prevalent  in  India  than  any  other  religious 


480  F.  SCHLEGEL. 


system  ;  distinguished  as  it  is  by  its  leading 
dogma  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  which  has 
exerted  the  mightiest  influence  on  every  depart- 
ment of  thought,  on  the  whole  bearing  of  Indian 
philosophy,  and  on  the  whole  arrangement  of 
Indian  life.  But  by  the  Greek  denomination  of 
Samaneans  we  must  certainly  understand  the 
Buddhists,  as,  among  the  rude  nations  of  cen- 
tral Asia,  and  in  other  countries,  the  priests  of 
the  religion  of  Fo  bear  at  this  day  the  name  of 
Schamans.  These  priests  indeed  appear  to  be 
little  better  than  mere  sorcerers  and  jugglers,  as 
are  the  priests  of  all  idolatrous  nations  that  are 
sunk  to  the  lowest  degree  of  barbarism  and 
superstition.  The  word  itself  is  pure  Indian, 
and  occurs  frequently  in  the  religious  and  meta- 
physical treatises  of  that  people  ;  for  originally, 
and  before  it  had  received  such  a  mean  accep- 
tation among  those  Buddhist  nations,  it  had 
quite  a  philosophical  sense,  as  it  still  has  in  the 
Sanscrit.  This  word  denotes  that  equality  of 
mind,  or  that  deep  internal  equanimity,  which, 
according  to  the  Indian  philosophy,  must  pre- 
cede, and  is  indispensably  requisite  to  the  per- 
fect union  with  the  Godhead.  In  general,  all 
the  names  by  which  Buddha,  the  priests  of  his 
religion,  and  its  important  and  fundamental 
doctrines  are  known,  whether  in  Thibet,  or 
among  the  Mongul  nations,  in  Siam,  in  Pegu,  or 
in  Japan  —  in  general,  we  say,  all  those  names 
are  pure  Indian  words ;  for  the  tradition  of  all 
those  nations,  with  unanimous  accord,  deduces 
the  origin  of  this  sect  from  India. 

The  name  of  Buddha,  which  the  Chinese  have 
changed  or  shortened  into  that  of  Fo,  is  rather 
an  honorary  appellation,  and  is  expressive  of 
the  divine  wisdom  with  which,  in  the  opinion 
of  his  followers,  he  was  endowed ;  or  which 
rather,  according  to  their  belief,  became  visible 
in  his  person.  The  period  of  his  existence  is 
fixed  by  many  at  six  hundred  years,  by  others 
again  at  a  thousand  years,  before  the  Christian 
era.  His  real  and  historical  name  was  Gau- 
tama; and  it  is  remarkable  that  the  same  name 
was  borne  by  the  author  of  one  of  the  principal 
philosophical  systems  of  the  Hindoos,  the  Nyaya 
philosophy,  the  leading  principles  of  which  will 
be  the  subject  of  future  consideration,  when  we 
come  to  speak  of  the  Indian  philosophy.  Indeed, 
the  dialectic  spirit,  which  pervades  the  Nyaya 
philosophy,  would  seem  to  be  of  a  kindred  na- 
ture and  like  origin  with  the  confused  meta- 
physics of  the  Buddhists.  But  the  names,  not- 
withstanding their  identity,  denote  two  different 
persons ;  although  even  the  founder  of  the  dia- 
lectic system,  like  almost  all  other  celebrated 
names  in  the  ancient  history,  traditions  and 
sciences  of  the  Indians,  figures  in  the  character 
of  a  mythological  personage.  But  we  must  first 
take  a  view  of  the  state  of  manners,  and  the 
state  of  political  civilization,  in  India,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  form  a  right  judgment  and  estimate 
of  the  intellectual  and  scientific  exertions  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  of  the  peculiar  nature  and  ten- 
dency of  the  Indian  opinions. 


By  the  manner  in  which  the  Greek  writers 
speak  of  the  two  religious  parties  into  which 
Alexander  found  the  country  divided,  it  can 
scarcely  be  doubted  that  the  Buddhists  at  that 
period  were  far  more  numerous,  and  more  ex- 
tensively diffused  throughout  India,  than  they 
are  at  the  present  day,  and  this  inference  is 
even  corroborated  by  many  historical  vouchers 
of  the  Indians  themselves.  Although  the  Budd- 
hists are  now  but  an  obscure  sect  of  dissenters 
in  the  western  peninsula,  they  are  still  tolera- 
bly numerous  in  several  of  its  provinces;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  have  complete  posses- 
sion of  the  whole  eastern  and  Indo-Chinese 
peninsula.  Besides  this  sect,  there  are  many 
other  religious  dissenters  even  in  Hindostan ; 
such,  for  instance,  as  the  sect  of  Jains,  who 
steer  a  middle  course  between  the  followers  of 
the  old  and  established  religion  of  Brahma  and 
the  Buddhists;  for,  like  the  latter,  they  reject  the 
Indian  division  and  system  of  castes.  *  *  * 
This  singular  phenomenon  of  Indian  life  has 
even  some  points  of  connection  with  a  capital 
article  of  their  creed,  the  doctrine  of  the  trans- 
migration of  souls  —  a  doctrine  which  will  be 
later  the  subject  of  our  inquiries,  and  which 
we  shall  endeavor  to  place  in  a  nearer  and 
clearer  light.  In  showing  the  influence  of  the 
institution  of  castes  on  the  state  of  manners  in 
India,  I  may  observe,  in  the  first  place,  that  in 
this  division  of  the  social  ranks  there  is  no  dis- 
tinct class  of  slaves,  (as  was  indeed  long  ago 
remarked  by  the  Greeks,)  that  is  to  say,  no  such 
class  of  bought  slaves  —  no  men,  the  property 
and  merchandise  of  their  fellow-men  —  as  ex- 
isted in  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  as  exist  even 
at  this  day  among  Mahometan  nations ;  and,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  Negroes,  are  still  to  be  found 
in  the  colonial  possessions  of  the  Christian  and 
European  states.  The  laboring  class  of  the 
Sudras  is  undoubtedly  not  admitted  to  the  high 
privileges  of  the  first  classes,  and  is  in  a  state 
of  great  dependence  upon  these ;  but  this  very 
caste  of  Sudras  has  its  hereditary  and  clearly 
defined  rights.  It  is  only  by  a  crime,  that  a 
man  in  India  can  lose  his  caste,  and  the  rights 
annexed  to  it.  These  rights  are  acquired  by 
birth,  except  in  the  instance  of  the  offspring  of 
unlawful  marriages  between  persons  of  differ- 
ent castes.  The  fate  of  these  hapless  wretches 
is  indeed  hard — harder,  almost,  than  that  of 
real  slaves  among  other  nations.  Ejected,  ex- 
communicated as  it  were,  loaded  with  maledic- 
tion, they  are  regarded  as  the  outcasts  of  society, 
yea,  almost  of  humanity  itself.  This  terrible 
exclusion,  however,  from  the  rights  of  citizen- 
ship, occurs  only  in  certain  clearly  specified 
cases.  There  are  even  some  cases  of  exception 
explicitly  laid  down,  where  a  marriage  with  a 
person  of  different  caste  is  permitted,  or  where 
at  least  the  only  consequence  to  the  children  of 
such  marriage  is  a  degradation  to  an  inferior 
class  of  society.  But  the  general  rule  is,  that  a 
lawful  marriage  can  be  contracted  only  with  a 
woman  of  the  same  caste.   Women  participate 


F.  S  CHLEGEL. 


481 


in  all  the  rights  of  their  caste ;  in  the  high  pre- 
rogatives of  Brahmins,  if  they  are  of  the  sacer- 
dotal race,  although  there  are  not  and  never 
were  priestesses  among  the  Indians,  as  among 
the  other  heathen  nations  of  antiquity;  or  in 
the  privileges  of  nobility,  if  they  belong  to  the 
caste  of  the  Cshatriyas.  These  privileges  which 
belong  and  are  secured  to  women,  and  this  par- 
ticipation in  the  rights  and  advantages  of  their 
respective  classes,  must  tend  much,  undoubt- 
edly, to  mitigate  the  injurious  effects  of  poly- 
gamy. The  latter  custom  has  ever  prevailed, 
and  still  prevails  in  India,  though  not  to  the 
same  degree  of  licentiousness,  nor  with  the 
same  unlimited  and  despotic  control  as  in  Ma- 
hometan countries  ;  but  a  plurality  of  wives  is 
there  permitted  only  under  certain  conditions, 
and  with  certain  legal  restrictions,  consequently 
in  that  milder  form  under  which  it  existed  of 
old  in  the  warm  climes  of  Asia,  and  according 
to  the  patriarchal  simplicity  of  the  yet  thinly 
peopled  world.  The  much  higher  social  rank, 
and  better  moral  condition  of  the  female  sex  in 
India,  are  apparent  from  those  portraits  of  In- 
dian life,  which  are  drawn  in  their  beautiful 
works  of  poetry,  whether  of  a  primitive  or  a 
later  date,  and  from  that  deep  feeling  of  ten- 
derness, that  affectionate  regard  and  reverence, 
with  which  the  character  of  woman  and  her 
domestic  relations  are  invariably  represented. 
These  few  examples  suffice  to  show  the  moral 
effects  of  the  Indian  division  of  castes ;  and 
while  they  serve  to  defend  this  institution 
against  a  sweeping  sentence  of  condemnation, 
or  the  indiscriminate  censure  of  too  partial  pre- 
judice, they  place  the  subject  in  its  true  and 
proper  light,  and  present  alike  the  advantages 
and  defects  of  the  system. 

******* 

When  the  Greeks,  who  accompanied  or  fol- 
lowed Alexander  into  India,  numbered  seven 
instead  of  four  castes  in  that  country,  they  did 
not  judge  inaccurately  the  outward  condition 
of  things,  but  they  paid  not  sufficient  attention 
to  the  Indian  notion  of  castes  ;  and  their  very 
enumeration  of  those  castes  proves  they  had 
some  points  of  detail.  In  this  enumeration, 
they  assign  the  first  rank  to  the  Brach?nans,  or 
wise  men ;  and  by  the  artisans,  they  no  doubt 
understood  the  trading  and  manufacturing  class 
of  the  Vaisyas.  The  counsellors  and  intendants 
of  kings  and  princes  do  not  constitute  a  distinct 
caste,  but  are  mere  officers  and  functionaries, 
who,  if  they  be  lawyers,  belong  to,  and  must  be 
taken  from,  the  caste  of  Brahmins;  though  the 
other  two  upper  castes  are  not  always  rigidly  ex- 
cluded from  these  functions.  The  class,  again, 
that  tends  the  breeding  of  cattle,  and  lives  by 
the  chase,  forms  not  a  distinct  caste,  but  merely 
follows  a  peculiar  kind  of  employment.  And 
when  the  Greeks  make  two  castes  of  the  agri- 
culturists and  the  warriors,  they  only  mean  to 
draw  a  distinction  between  the  laborers  and 
the  masters,  or  the  real  proprietors  of  the  soil. 
3  L 


Even  the  name  of  Cshatriyas  signifies  landed 
proprietor ;  and  as  in  the  old  Germanic  consti- 
tution, the  arriere-ban  was  composed  of  landed 
proprietors,  and  the  very  possession  of  the  soil 
imposed  on  the  nobility  the  obligation  of  mili- 
tary service;  so,  in  the  Indian  constitution,  the 
two  ideas  of  property  inMand  and  military  ser- 
vice, are  indissolubly  connected.  Some  modern 
inquirers  have  attached  very  great  importance 
to  the  undoubtedly  wide  and  remarkable  sepa- 
ration of  the  fourth  or  menial  caste  of  Sudras 
from  the  three  upper  castes.  They  have  thought 
they  perceived,  also,  a  very  great  difference  in 
the  bodily  structure  and  general  physiognomy 
of  this  fourth  caste  from  those  of  the  others;  and 
have  thence  concluded  that  the  caste  of  Sudras 
is  descended  from  a  totally  different  race,  some 
primitive  and  barbarous  people  whom  a  more 
civilized  nation,  to  whom  the  three  upper  castes 
must  have  belonged,  have  conquered  and  sub- 
dued, and  degraded  to  that  menial  condition, 
the  lowest  grade  in  the  social  scale — a  grade  to 
which  the  iron  arm  of  law  eternally  binds  them 
down.  This  hypothesis  is,  in  itself,  not  very  im- 
probable ;  and  it  may  be  proved  from  history, 
that  the  like  has  really  occurred  in  several 
Asiatic  and  even  European  countries.  In  the 
back-ground  of  old,  mighty  and  civilized  na- 
tions, we  can  almost  always  trace  the  primeval 
inhabitants  of  the  country,  who,  dispossessed 
of  their  territory,  have  been  either  reduced  to 
servitude  by  their  conquerors,  or  have  gradually 
been  incorporated  with  them.  These  primitive 
inhabitants,  when  compared  with  their  later 
and  more  civilized  conquerors,  appear  indeed 
in  general  rude  and  barbarous,  though  we  find 
among  them  a  certain  number  of  ancient  cus- 
toms and  arts,  which  by  no  means  tend  to  con- 
firm the  notion  of  an  original  and  universal 
savage  state  of  nature.  It  is  possible  that  the 
same  circumstances  have  occurred  in  India, 
though  this  is  by  no  means  a  necessary  infer- 
ence, for  humanity  in  its  progress  follows  not 
one  uniform  course,  but  pursues  various  and 
widely  different  paths;  and  hitherto,  at  least, 
no  adequate  historical  proof  has,  in  my  opinion, 
been  adduced  for  the  reality  of  such  an  occur- 
rence in  India.  It  has  also  been  conjectured 
that  the  caste  of  warriors,  or  the  princes  and 
hereditary  nobility,  possessed  originally  greater 
power  and  influence;  and  that  it  is  only  by 
degrees  the  race  of  Brahmins  has  attained  to 
that  great  preponderance  which  it  displays  in 
later  times,  and  which  it  even  still  possesses. 
We  find,  indeed,  in  the  old  epic,  mythological, 
and  historical  poems  of  the  Indians,  many  pas- 
sages which  describe  a  contest  between  these 
two  classes,  and  which  represent  the  deified 
heroes  of  India  victoriously  defending  the  wise 
and  pious  Brahmins  from  the  attacks  of  the 
fierce  and  presumptuous  Cshatriyas.  This  ac- 
count, however,  is  susceptible  of  another  inter- 
pretation, and  should  not  be  taken  exclusively 
ill  this  political  sense.  That  in  the  brilliant 
period  of  their  ancient  and  national  dynasties 
41   


462 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


and  governments,  the  princes  and  warlike  nobi- 
lity possessed  greater  weight  and  importance 
than  at  present,  is  quite  in  the  nature  of  things, 
and  appears  indeed  to  have  been  undoubtedly 
the  case.  From  many  indications  in  the  old 
Indian  traditions  and  histories,  it  would  appear 
that  the  caste  of  Cshatriyas  was  partially,  at 
least,  of  foreign  extraction;  while  those  tradi- 
tionary accounts  constantly  represent  the  caste 
of  Brahmins  as  the  highest  class,  and  nobler 
part,  nay,  the  corner-stone  of  the  whole  com- 
munity. 

The  origin  of  an  hereditary  caste  of  warriors, 
when  considered  in  itself,  may  be  easily  ac- 
counted for,  and  it  is  nowise  contrary  to  the  na- 
ture of  things  that,  even  in  a  state  of  society 
where  legal  rights  are  yet  undefined,  the  son, 
especially  the  eldest,  should  govern  and  admin- 
ister the  territory  or  property  which  his  deceased 
father  possessed,  and  even  in  those  cases  where 
it  was  necessary,  should  take  possession,  admin- 
ister, and  defend  this  property  by  open  force 
and  the  aid  of  his  dependants. 

But  afterwards,  when  the  social  relations  be- 
came more  clearly  fixed  by  law,  and  a  union 
on  a  larger  scale  was  formed  by  a  general 
league,  as  the  duties  of  military  service  were 
annexed  to  the  soil,  so  the  right  to  the  soil  was 
again  determined  by,  and  depended  on,  mili- 
tary service  ;  now,  in  that  primitive  period  of 
history,  such  a  political  union  might  have  been 
formed  by  a  common  subordination  to  a  higher 
power,  or  by  a  confederacy  between  several 
potentates;  and  this  has  really  been  the  origin 
of  an  hereditary,  landed  nobility,  in  many 
countries. 

The  hereditary  continuance  or  transmission 
of  arts  and  trades,  whereby  the  son  pursues  the 
occupation  of  the  father,  and  learns  and  applies 
what  the  latter  has  discovered,  has  nothing  sin- 
gular in  itself,  and  appears  indeed  to  contain  its 
own  explanation.  But  it  is  not  easy,  or,  at  least, 
equally  so,  to  account  for  the  exclusive  distribu- 
tion and  the  exact  and  rigid  separation  of  castes, 
particularly  by  any  religious  motives  and  prin- 
ciples, which  are,  however,  indubitably  con- 
nected with  this  institution.  Still  less  can  we 
understand  the  existence  of  a  great,  hereditary 
class  of  priests,  eternally  divided  from  the  rest 
of  the  community,  such  as  existed  both  in  India 
and  Egypt.  To  comprehend  this  strange  phe- 
nomenon, we  must  endeavor  to  discover  its 
origin,  and  trace  it  back,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to 
the  primitive  ages  of  the  world.  If,  for  the 
sake  of  brevity,  I  have  used  the  expression,  "a 
class  of  hereditary  priests,"  I  ought  to  add,  in 
order  to  explain  my  meaning  more  clearly,  that 
the  word  priests  must  not  be  taken  in  that  literal 
sense  which  antiquity  attached  to  it;  that  the 
Brahmins  axe  not  confined  merely  to  the  func- 
tions of  prayer,  but  are  strictly  and  eminently 
theologians,  since  they  alone  are  permitted  to 
read  and  interpret  the  Vedas,  while  the  other 
castes  can  read  only  with  their  sanction  such 
passages  of  those  sacred  writings  as  are  adapted 


to  their  circumstances,  and  the  fourth  caste  are 
entirely  prohibited  from  hearing  any  portion  of 
them.  The  Brahmins  are  also  the  lawyers  and 
physicians  of  India,  and  hence  the  Greeks  did 
not  designate  them  erroneously,  when  they 
termed  them  the  caste  of  philosophers.  *  * 
*  *  *  Among  the  Indians,  the  ruling  prin- 
ciple of  existence  was  the  doctrine  of  the  trans- 
migration of  souls,  which  appears  indeed  to  be 
the  most  characteristic  of  all  their  opinions,  and 
was,  by  its  influence  on  real  life,  by  far  the 
most  important.  We  must  in  the  first  place 
remember,  and  keep  well  in  our  minds,  that, 
among  those  nations  of  primitive  antiquity,  the 
doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul  was  not 
a  mere  probable  hypothesis,  which,  as  with 
many  moderns,  needs  laborious  researches  and 
diffuse  argumentations,  in  order  to  produce  con- 
viction on  the  mind.  Nay,  we  can  hardly  give 
the  name  of  faith  to  this  primitive  conception; 
for  it  was  a  lively  certainty,  like  the  feeling  of 
one's  own  being,  and  of  what  is  actually  pre- 
sent ;  and  this  firm  belief  in  a  mere  future 
existence  exerted  its  influence  on  all  sublunary 
affairs,  and  was  often  the  motive  of  mightier 
deeds  and  enterprises,  than  any  more  earthly 
interest  could  inspire.  I  said  above,  that  the 
doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls  was  not 
unconnected  with  the  Indian  system  of  castes ; 
for  the  most  honorable  appellation  of  a  Brahmin 
is  Tvija,  that  is  to  say,  a  second  time  born,  or 
regenerated.  On  one  hand,  this  appellation  re- 
fers to  that  spiritual  renovation  and  second 
birth  of  a  life  of  purity  consecrated  to  God,  as 
in  this  consists  the  true  calling  of  a  Brahmin, 
and  the  special  purpose  of  his  caste.  On  the 
other  hand,  this  term  refers  to  the  belief  that 
the  soul,  after  many  transmigrations  through 
various  forms  of  animals,  and  various  stages  of 
natural  existence,  is  permitted  in  certain  cases, 
as  a  peculiar  recompense,  when  it  has  gone 
through  its  prescribed  cycle  of  migrations,  to 
return  to  the  world,  and  be  born  in  the  class  of 
Brahmins.  This  doctrine  of  the  transmigration 
of  souls  through  various  bodies  of  animals  or 
other  forms  of  existence,  and  even  through  more 
than  one  repetition  of  human  life  (whether  such 
migrations  were  intended  as  the  punishment  of 
souls  for  their  viciousness  and  impiety,  or  as 
trials  for  their  further  purification  and  amend- 
ment)—  this  doctrine  which  has  always  been, 
and  is  still  so  prevalent  in  India,  was  held  like 
wise  by  the  ancient  Egyptians.  This  accord- 
ance in  the  faith  of  these  two  ancient  nations, 
established  beyond  all  doubt  by  historical  testi- 
mony, is  indeed  remarkable  ;  and  even  in  the 
minutest  particulars  on  the  course  of  migration 
allotted  to  souls,  and  on  the  stated  periods  and 
cycles  of  that  migration,  the  coincidence  is  often 
perfectly  exact.  In  this  doctrine  there  was  a 
noble  element  of  truth  —  the  feeling  that  man, 
since  he  has  gone  astray  and  wandered  so  far 
from  his  God,  must  needs  exert  many  efforts, 
and  undergo  a  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
before  he  can  join  the  source  of  all  perfection; — 


F.  SCHLEG  EL.  483 


the  firm  conviction  and  positive  certainty  that 
nothing  defective,  impure,  or  defiled  with  earthly 
stains,  can  enter  the  pure  region  of  perfect  spirits, 
or  be  eternally  united  to  God  ;  and  that  thus, 
before  it  can  attain  to  this  blissful  end,  the  im- 
mortal soul  must  pass  through  long  trials  and 
many  purifications.  It  may  now  well  be  con- 
ceived, and  indeed  the  experience  of  this  life 
would  prove  it,  that  suffering,  which  deeply 
pierces  the  soul,  anguish,  that  convulses  all  the 
members  of  existence,  may  contribute,  or  may 
even  be  necessary  to  the  deliverance  of  the  soul 
from  all  alloy  and  pollution,  as,  to  borrow  a 
comparison  from  natural  objects,  the  generous 
metal  is  melted  down  in  fire  and  purged  from 
its  dross.  It  is  certainly  true  that  the  greater 
the  degeneracy  and  the  degradation  of  man,  the 
nearer  his  approximation  to  the  brute ;  and 
when  the  transmigration  of  the  immortal  soul 
through  the  bodies  of  various  animals  is  merely 
considered  as  the  punishment  of  its  former 
transgressions,  we  can  very  well  understand 
the  opinion  which  supposes  that  man,  who,  by 
his  crimes  and  the  abuse  of  his  reason,  had  de- 
scended to  the  level  of  the  brute,  should  at  last 
be  transformed  into  the  brute  itself.  But  what 
could  have  given  rise  to  the  opinion  that  the 
transmigration  of  souls  through  the  bodies  of 
beasts  was  the  road  or  channel  of  amendment, 
was  destined  to  draw  the  soul  nearer  to  infinite 
perfection,  and  even  to  accomplish  its  total 
union  with  the  Supreme  Being,  from  whom,  in 
all  appearance,  it  seemed  calculated  to  remove 
it  further  ?  And  as  regards  a  return  to  the  pre- 
sent state  and  existence  of  man,  what  thinking 
person  would  ever  wish  to  return  to  a  life 
divided  and  fluctuating  as  it  is,  between  desire 
and  disgust,  wasted  in  internal  and  external 
strife,  and  which,  though  brightened  by  a  few 
scattered  rays  of  truth,  is  still  encompassed 
with  the  dense  clouds  of  error;  —  even  though 
this  return  to  earthly  existence  should  be  ac- 
complished in  the  Brahminical  class  so  highly 
revered  in  India,  or  in  the  princely  and  royal 
race  so  highly  favored  by  fortune  1  There  is  in 
all  this  a  strange  mixture  and  confusion  of  the 
ideas  of  this  world  with  those  of  the  next ;  and 
how  the  latter  is  separated  from  the  former  by 
an  impassable  gulf,  they  seem  not  to  have  been 
sufficiently  aware.  Both  these  ancient  nations, 
the  Egyptians  as  well  as  the  Indians,  regarded, 
with  few  exceptions,  the  Metempsychosis,  not 
as  an  object  of  joyful  hope,  but  rather  as  a 
calamity  impending  over  the  soul;  and  whether 
they  considered  it  to  be  a  punishment  for  earthly 
transgressions,  or  a  state  of  probation — a  severe 
but  preparatory  trial  of  purification  —  they  still 
looked  on  it  as  a  calamity,  which  to  avert  or  to 
mitigate,  they  deemed  that  no  attempt,  no  act, 
no  exertion,  no  sacrifice,  ought  to  be  spared. 

In  the  manner,  however,  in  which  these  two 
nations  conceived  this  doctrine,  there  was  a 
striking  and  fundamental  difference;  and  if  the 
leading  tenet  was  the  same  among  both,  the 
views  which  each  connected  with  it  were  very 


dissimilar.  Deprived,  as  we  are,  of  the  old 
books  and  original  writings  of  the  Egyptians, 
we  are  unable  perfectly  to  comprehend  and 
seize  their  peculiar  ideas  on  this  subject,  and 
state  them  with  the  same  assurance  as  we  can 
those  of  the  Indians,  whose  ancient  writings  we 
now  possess  in  such  abundance,  and  which  in 
all  main  points  perfectly  agree  with  the  accounts 
of  the  ancient  classics.  But  we  are  left  to  infer 
the  ideas  of  the  Egyptians  on  the  Metempsy- 
chosis only  from  their  singular  treatment  of  the 
dead  and  the  bodies  of  the  deceased;  from  that 
sepulchral  art  (if  I  may  use  the  expression) 
which  with  them  acquired  a  dignity  and  an  im- 
portance, and  was  carried  to  a  pitch  of  refine- 
ment, such  as  we  find  among  no  other  people  ; 
from  that  careful  and  costly  consecration  of  the 
corpse,  which  we  still  regard  with  wonder  and 
astonishment  in  their  mummies  and  other  monu- 
ments. That  all  these  solemn  preparations,  and 
the  religious  rites  which  accompanied  them,  that 
the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  and  mummies  had 
all  a  religious  meaning  and  object,  and  were 
intimately  connected  with  the  doctrine  of  the 
transmigration  of  souls,  can  admit  of  no  doubt, 
though  it  is  a  matter  of  greater  difficulty  to 
ascertain  with  precision  the  peculiar  ideas  they 
were  meant  to  express.  Did  the  Egyptians 
believe  that  the  soul  did  not  separate  imme- 
diately from  the  body  which  it  has  ceased  to 
animate,  but  only  on  the  decay  and  putrefaction 
of  the  corpse  ?  Or  did  they  wish,  by  their  art 
of  embalmment,  to  preserve  the  body  from 
decay,  in  order  to  deliver  the  soul  from  the 
dreaded  transmigration  1  The  Egyptian  treat- 
ment of  the  dead  would  certainly  seem  to 
imply  a  belief  that,  for  some  time  at  least  after 
death,  there  existed  a  certain  connection  be- 
tween the  soul  and  body.  Yet  we  cannot  adopt 
this  supposition  to  an  unqualified  extent,  as  it 
would  be  in  contradiction  to  those  symbolical 
representations  that  so  frequently  occur  in  Egyp- 
tian art,  and  in  which  the  soul,  immediately 
after  death,  is  represented  as  summoned  before 
the  judgment-seat  of  God,  severely  accused  by 
the  hostile  demon,  but  defended  by  the  friendly 
and  guardian  spirit,  who  employs  every  resource 
to  procure  the  deliverance  and  acquittal  of  the 
soul.  Or  did  the  Egyptians  think  that  by  all 
these  rites,  as  by  so  many  magical  expedients, 
they  would  keep  off  the  malevolent  fiend  from 
the  soul,  and  obtain  for  it  the  succour  of  good 
and  friendly  divinities?  Now,  that  the  gates 
of  hieroglyphic  science  have  been  at  last  opened, 
we  may  trust  that  a  further  progress  in  the 
science  will  disclose  to  us  more  satisfactory  in- 
formation on  all  these  topics. 

The  Indians,  however,  \\  ho  always  remained 
total  strangers  to  the  mode  of  burial  and  treat- 
ment of  the  dead  practised  in  Egypt,  adopted  a 
very  different  course  to  procure  the  deliverance 
of  the  human  soul  from  transmigration:  they 
had  recourse  to  philosophy,  to  the  highest  aspir- 
ings of  thought  towards  God,  to  a  total  and 
lasting  immersion  of  feeling  in  the  unfathom- 


484 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


able  abyss  of  the  divine  essence.  They  have 
never  doubted  that  by  this  means  a  perfect 
union  with  the  Deity  might  be  obtained  even 
in  this  life,  and  that  thus  the  soul,  emanci- 
pated from  all  mutation  and  migration  through 
the  various  forms  of  animated  nature  in  this 
world  of  illusion,  might  remain  forever  united 
with  its  God.  Such  is  the  object  to  which  all 
the  different  systems  of  Indian  philosophy  tend 
— such  is  the  term  of  all  their  inquiries.  This 
philosophy  contains  a  multitude  of  the  sub- 
limest  reflections  on  the  separation  from  all 
earthly  things,  and  on  the  union  with  the  God- 
head ;  and  there  is  no  high  conception  in  this 
department  of  metaphysics,  unknown  to  the 
Hindoos.  But  this  absorption  of  all  thought 
and  all  consciousness  in  God  —  this  solitary  en- 
during feeling  of  internal  and  eternal  union 
with  the  Deity,  they  have  carried  to  a  pitch 
and  extreme  that  may  almost  be  called  a  moral 
and  intellectual  self-annihilation.  This  is  the 
same  philosophy,  though  in  a  different  form, 
which,  in  the  history  of  European  intellect 
and  science,  has  received  the  denomination  of 
mysticism.  The  possible  excesses,  the  perilous 
abyss  in  this  philosophy  has  been  in  general  ac- 
knowledged, and  even  pointed  out  in  particular 
cases,  where  egotism  or  pride  has  been  detected 
under  a  secret  disguise,  or  where  this  total  ab- 
straction of  thought  and  feeling  has  spurned  all 
limit,  measure,  and  law.  In  general,  however, 
the  European  mind,  by  its  more  temperate  and 
harmonious  constitution,  by  the  greater  variety 
of  its  attainments,  and,  above  all,  by  the  purer 
and  fuller  light  of  revealed  truth,  has  been  pre- 
served from  those  aberrations  of  mysticism 
which  in  India  have  been  carried  to  such  a 
fearful  extent,  not  only  in  speculation,  but  in 
real  life  and  practice;  and  which,  transcending 
as  they  do  all  the  limits  of  human  nature,  far 
exceed  the  bounds  of  possibility,  or  what  men 
have  in  general  considered  as  such.  And  the 
apparently  incredible  things  which  the  Greeks 
related  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago, 
respecting  the  recluses  of  India,  or  Gymnoso- 
phists,  as  they  called  those  Yogis,  are  found  to 
exist  even  at  the  present  day ;  and  ocular  ex- 
perience has  fully  corroborated  the  truth  of 
their  narratives. 

*        *        $        *        *        *  * 

Of  the  political  history  of  India,  little  can  be 
said,  for  the  Indians  scarcely  possess  any  regu- 
lar-history—  any  works  to  which  we  should 
give  the  denomination  of  historical ;  for  their 
history  is  interwoven  and  almost  confounded 
with  mythology,  and  is  to  be  found  only  in  the 
old  mythological  works,  especially  in  their  two 
great  national  and  epic  poems,  the  Kamayan 
and  the  Mahabarat,  and  in  the  eighteen  Puranas 
(the  most  select  and  classical  of  the  popular 
and  mythological  legends  of  India),  and  per- 
haps in  the  traditionary  history  of  particular 
dynasties  and  provinces ;  and  even  the  works 
«ve  have  mentioned  are  not  merely  of  a  mytho- 


historical,  but  in  a  great  measure  of  a  theolo- 
gical and  philosophical  purport.  The  more 
modern  history  of  Hindostan,  from  the  first 
Mahometan  conquest  at  the  commencement  of 
the  eleventh  century  of  our  era,  can  indeed  be 
traced  with  pretty  tolerable  certainty;  but  as 
this  portion  of  Indian  history  is  unconnected 
with,  and  incapable  of  illustrating  the  true  state 
and  progress  of  the  intellectual  refinement  of 
the  Hindoos,  it  is  of  no  importance  to  our  imme- 
diate object.  The  more  ancient  history  of  that 
country,  particularly  in  the  earlier  period,  is 
mostly  fabulous,  or,  to  characterize  it  by  a  softer, 
and  at  the  same  time  more  correct  name,  a  his- 
tory purely  mythic  and  traditionary ;  and  it 
would  be  no  easy  task  to  divest  the  real  and 
authentic  history  of  ancient  India  of  the  garb 
of  mythology  and  poetical  tradition ;  a  task 
which  at  least  has  not  yet  been  executed  with 
adequate  critical  acumen. 

Chronology,  too,  shares  the  same  fate  with  the 
sister  science  of  history,  for  in  the  early  period 
it  is  fabulous,  and  in  the  more  modern,  it  is 
often  not  sufficiently  precise  and  accurate.  The 
number  of  years  assigned  to  the  first  three 
epochs  of  the  world  must  be  considered  as  pos- 
sessing an  astronomical  import,  rather  than  as 
furnishing  any  criterion  for  an  historical  use.  It 
is  only  the  fourth  and  last  period  of  the  world — 
the  age  of  progressive  misery  and  all-prevailing 
wo,  which  the  Indians  term  Caliyug — that  we 
can  in  any  way  consider  an  historical  epoch  ; 
and  this,  the  duration  of  which  is  computed  at 
four  thousand  years,  began  about  a  thousand 
years  before  the  Christian  era.  Of  the  progress 
and  term  of  this  period  of  the  world,  considered 
in  reference  to  the  history  of  mankind,  the  In- 
dians entertain  a  very  simple  notion.  They 
believe  that  the  condition  of  mankind  will  be- 
come at  first  much  worse,  but  will  be  afterwards 
ameliorated.  The  regular  historical  epoch,  when 
the  chronology  of  India  begins  to  acquire  greater 
certainty,  and  from  which  indeed  it  is  ordina- 
rily computed,  is  the  age  of  King  Vikramaditya, 
who  reigned  in  the  more  civilized  part  of  India, 
somewhat  earlier  than  the  Emperor  Augustus, 
in  the  West,  perhaps  about  sixty  years  before 
our  era.  It  was  at  the  court  of  this  monarch, 
that  nine  of  the  most  celebrated  sages  and  poets 
of  the  second  era  of  Indian  literature  flourished  ; 
and  among  these  was  Calidas,  the  author  of  the 
beautiful  dramatic  poem  of  Sacontala,  so  gene- 
rally known  by  the  English  and  German  trans- 
lations. It  was  in  the  age  of  Vikramaditya,  that 
the  later  poetry  and  literature  of  India,  of  which 
Calidas  was  so  bright  an  ornament,  reached  its 
full  bloom.  The  elder  Indian  poetry,  particu- 
larly the  two  great  epic  poems  above  mentioned, 
entirely  belong  to  the  early  and  more  fabulous 
ages  of  the  world ;  so  far  at  least  as  the  poets 
themselves  are  assigned  to  those  ages,  and  figure 
in  some  degree,  as  fabulous  personages.  We 
may,  however,  observe  that  in  the  style  of  po- 
etry, in  art,  and  even  in  the  language  itself, 
there  reigns  a  very  great  difference  between 


F.  SCHLEGEL.  485 


these  primitive  heroic  poems,  and  the  works  of 
Calidas  and  other  contemporary  poets — the  dif- 
ference is  at  least  as  great  as  that  which  exists 
between  Homer  and  Theocritus,  or  the  other 
Bucolic  poets  of  Greece.  The  oldest  of  the  two 
epic  poems  of  the  Indians,  the  Ramayana,  by 
the  poet  Valimki,  celebrates  Rama,  his  love  for 
a  royal  princess,  the  beautiful  Sita,  and  his  con- 
quest of  Lanka,  or  the  modern  Isle  of  Ceylon. 
Although  in  the  old  historical  Sagas  of  the  In- 
dians, we  find  mention  made  of  far-ruling  mo- 
narchs  and  all -conquering  heroes,  still  these 
traditions  seem  to  show,  as  in  the  instanoe  first 
cited,  that  in  the  oldest,  as  in  the  latest  times, 
prior  to  foreign  conquest,  India  was  not  united 
in  one  great  monarchy,  but  was  generally  par- 
celled out  into  a  variety  of  states;  and  this  fact 
serves  to  prove  that  such  has  ever  been  in  gene- 
ral the  political  condition  of  that  country.  The 
whole  body  of  ancient  Indian  traditions  and 
mythological  history  is  to  be  found  in  the  other 
great  epic  of  the  Indians,  the  Mahabarata,  whose 
author,  or  at  least  compiler,  was  Vyasa,  the 
founder  of  the  Vedanta  philosophy,  the  most 
esteemed  and  most  prevalent  of  all  the  philoso- 
phical systems  of  the  Hindoos. 

******* 

In  the  whole  Indian  philosophy,  there  are  in 
fact  only  three  different  modes  of  thought,  or 
three  systems  absolutely  divergent,  and  we 
shall  give  a  sufficiently  clear  idea  of  these  sys- 
tems, if  we  say  that  the  first  is  founded  on  na- 
ture, the  second  on  thought,  or  on  the  thinking 
self,  and  the  third  attaches  itself  exclusively  to 
the  revelation  comprised  in  the  Vedas.  The 
first  system,  which  seems  to  be  one  of  the  most 
ancient,  bears  the  name  of  the  Sanchya  philo- 
sophy— a  name  which  signifies  "  the  philosophy 
of  Numbers."  This  is  not  to  be  understood  in 
the  Pythagorean  sense,  that  numbers  are  the 
principle  of  all  things,  or  according  to  the  very 
similar  principle  laid  down  in  the  books  of 
I-King,  where  we  find  the  eight  kona,  or  the 
symbolic,  primary  lines  of  all  existence.  But 
the  Sanchya  system  bears  this  name  because  it 
reckons  successively  the  first  principles  of  all 
things  and  of  all  being  to  the  number  of  four  or 
five-and-twenty.  Among  these  first  principles, 
it  assigns  the  highest  place  to  Nature,  the  second 
to  understanding,  and  by  this  is  meant  not 
merely  human  understanding,  but  general  and 
even  Infinite  Intelligence ;  so  that  we  may  con- 
sider this  system  as  a  very  partial  philosophy 
of  Nature ;  and  indeed  it  has  been  regarded  by 
some  Indian  writers  as  atheistical — a  censure 
in  which  the  learned  Englishman,  Mr.  Cole- 
brooke  (to  whose  extracts  and  notices  we  are 
indebted  for  our  most  precise  information  on 
this  whole  branch  of  Indian  literature),  seems 
almost  inclined  to  concur.  This  system  was, 
however,  by  no  means  a  coarse  materialism,  or 
a  denial  of  the  Divinity  and  of  everything  sa- 
cred. The  doubts  expressed  in  the  passages 
cited  by  Mr.  Colebrooke,  are  directed  far  more 
against  the  Creation  than  against  God  j  they 


regard  the  motive  which  could  have  induced 
the  Supreme  Being,  the  Spirit  of  infinite  perfec- 
tion, to  create  the  external  world,  and  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  a  creation. 

This  Sanchya  Philosophy  would  bo  more 
properly  designated  in  our  modern  philosophic 
phraseology  as  a  system  of  complete  Dualism, 
where  two  substances  are  represented  as  coex- 
istent— on  one  hand,  a  self-existent  energy  of 
Nature,  which  emanated,  or  eternally  emanates, 
from  itself;  and  on  the  other  hand,  eternal  truth, 
or  the  Supreme  and  Infinite  Mind. 

The  Indian  Philosophers  in  general  were  so 
inclined  to  regard  the  whole  outward  world  of 
sense,  as  the  product  of  illusion,  as  a  vain  and 
idle  apparition,  that  we  can  well  imagine  they 
were  unable  to  reconcile  the  creation  of  such  a 
world  (which  appeared  to  them  a  world  of 
darkness,  or  perhaps,  on  a  somewhat  higher 
scale,  as  an  intermediate  state  of  illusion,)  with 
their  mystical  notion  of  the  infinite  perfection 
of  the  Supreme  Being  and  Eternal  Spirit.  For 
even  in  Ethics  they  were  wont  to  place  the  idea 
of  Supreme  Perfection  in  a  state  of  absolute 
repose,  but  not  (at  least  to  an  equal  degree)  in 
the  state  of  active  energy  or  exertion.  Great 
as  the  error  of  such  a  system  of  dualism  may 
be,  there  is  yet  a  mighty  difference  between  a 
philosophy  which  denies,  or  at  least  miscon- 
ceives, the  Creation,  and  one  which  denies  the 
existence  of  the  Deity ;  for  such  atheism  never 
occurred  to  the  minds  of  those  philosophers. 
The  doctrine  of  a  primary  self-existing  energy 
in  Nature,  or  of  the  eternity  of  the  Universe, 
may,  in  a  practical  point  of  view%  appear  as 
gross  an  error,  but  in  philosophy  we  must  make 
accurate  distinctions,  and  forbear  to  place  this 
ancient  dualism  on  the  same  level  with  that 
coarse  materialism,  that  destructive  and  athe- 
istic Atomical  philosophy,  or  any  other  doctrines 
professed  by  the  later  sects  of  a  dialectic  Ra- 
tionalism. 

Valuable,  undoubtedly,  as  are  such  extracts 
and  communications  from  the  originals  in  a 
branch  of  human  science  still  so  little  known, 
yet  they  will  not  alone  suffice,  and,  without  a 
certain  philosophic  flexibility  of  talent  in  the 
inquirer,  they  will  fail  to  afford  him  a  proper 
insight  into  the  true  nature,  the  real  spirit  and 
tendency  of  those  ancient  systems  of  philosophy. 
That  the  Indian  philosophy,  even  when  it  has 
started  from  the  most  opposite  principles,  and 
when  its  circuitous  or  devious  course  has 
branched  more  or  less  widely  from  the  common 
path,  is  sure  to  wind  round,  and  fall  into  the 
one  general  track — the  uniform  term  of  all  In- 
dian philosophy  —  is  well  exemplified  by  the 
second  part  of  the  Sanchya  system  (called  the 
Yoga  philosophy),  where  we  find  a  totally  dif- 
ferent principle  proclaimed  ;  and  while  it  ut- 
terly abandons  the  primary  doctrine  of  a  self- 
existent  principle  in  Nature  laid  down  in  the 
first  part  of  the  philosophy,  it  unfolds  those 
maxims  of  Indian  mysticism  which  recur  in 
every  department  of  Hindoo  literature.  That 
41  * 


48G 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


total  absorption  in  the  one  thought  of  the  Deity, 
that  entire  abstraction  from  all  the  impressions 
and  notions  of  sense  —  that  suspension  of  all 
outward,  and  in  part  even  of  inward  life,  ef- 
fected by  the  energy  of  a  will  tenaciously  fixed 
and  entirely  concentrated  on  a  single  point,  and 
by  which,  according  to  the  belief  of  the  Indians, 
miraculous  power  and  supernatural  knowledge 
are  attained — are  held  up  in  the  second  part  of 
the  Sanchya  system  as  the  highest  term  of  all 
mental  exertion.  The  word,  Yoga,  signifies  the 
complete  union  of  all  our  thoughts  and  faculties 
with  God,  by  which  alone  the  soul  can  be  freed, 
that  is,  delivered  from  the  unhappy  lot  of  trans- 
migration ;  and  this,  and  this  only,  forms  the 
object  of  all  Indian  philosophy. 

The  Indian  name  of  Yogi  is  derived  from  the 
same  word,  which  designates  this  philosophy. 
The  Indian  Yogi  is  a  hermit  or  penitent,  who, 
absorbed  in  this  mystic  contemplation,  remains 
often  for  years  fixed  immovably  to  a  single  spot. 
In  order  to  give  a  lively  representation  of  a 
phenomenon  so  strange  to  us,  which  appears 
totally  incredible  and  almost  impossible,  although 
it  has  been  repeatedly  attested  by  eye-witnesses, 
and  is  a  well-ascertained  historical  fact,  I  will 
extract  from  the  drama  of  Sacontala  by  the  poet 
Calidas,  a  description  of  a  Yogi,  remarkable  for 
its  vivid  accuracy,  or,  to  use  the  expression  of 
the  German  commentator,  its  fearful  beauty. 
King  Dusbmanta  inquires  of  Indra's  charioteer 
the  sacred  abode  of  him  whom  he  seeks ;  and 
to  this  the  charioteer  replies:*  "A  little  beyond 
the  grove,  where  you  see  a  pious  Yogi,  motion- 
less as  a  pollard,  holding  his  thick  bushy  hair 
and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  solar  orb.  Mark — 
his  body  is  half  covered  with  a  white  ant's  edi- 
fice made  of  raised  clay;  the  skin  of  a  snake 
supplies  the  place  of  his  sacerdotal  thread,  and 
part  of  it  girds  his  loins ;  a  number  of  knotty 
plants  encircle  and  wound  his  neck  ;  and  sur- 
rounding birds'  nests  almost  conceal  his  shoul- 
ders." We  must  not  take  this  for  the  invention 
of  fancy,  or  the  exaggeration  of  a  poet ;  the  ac- 
curacy of  this  description  is  confirmed  by  the 
testimony  of  innumerable  eye-witnesses,  who 
recount  the  same  fact,  and  in  precisely  similar 
colors.  During  that  period  of  wonderful  phe- 
nomena and  supernatural  powers  —  the  first 
three  centuries  of  the  Christian  church  —  we 
meet  with  only  one  Simon  Stylites,  or  column- 
stander;  and  his  conduct  is  by  no  means  held 
up  by  Christian  writers  as  a  model  of  imitation, 
but  is  regarded,  at  best,  as  an  extraordinary  ex- 
ception permitted  on  certain  special  grounds. 
In  the  Indian  forests  and  deserts,  and  in  the 
neighborhood  of  those  holy  places  of  pilgrimage 
mentioned  above,  there  are  many  hundreds  of 
these  hermits — those  strange  human  phenomena 
of  the  highest  intellectual  abstraction  or  delusion. 
Even  the  Greeks  were  acquainted  with  them, 
and,  among  so  many  other  wonders,  make  men- 


*  We  have  transcribed  Sir  William  Jones'  own  words, 
as  given  in  his  translation  of  Sacontala. 


tion  of  them,  in  their  description  of  India,  under 
the  name  of  the  Gymnosophists.  Formerly 
such  accounts  would  have  been  regarded  as 
incredible,  and  as  exceeding  the  bounds  of  pos- 
sibility;  but  such  conjectures  can  be  of  no  avail 
against  historical  facts  repeatedly  attested  and 
undeniably  proved.  Now  that  men  are  better 
acquainted  with  the  wonderful  flexibility  of 
human  organization,  and  with  those  marvellous 
powers  which  slumber  concealed  within  it,  they 
are  less  disposed  to  form  light  and  hasty  deci- 
sions on  phenomena  of  this  description.  The 
whole  is  indeed  a  magical  intellectual  self-ex- 
altation, accomplished  by  the  energy  of  the  will 
concentrated  on  a  single  point:  and  this  con- 
centration of  the  mind,  when  carried  to  this  ex- 
cess, may  lead  not  merely  to  a  figurative,  but  to 
a  real  intellectual  self-annihilation,  and  to  the 
disorder  of  all  thought,  even  of  the  brain.  While 
on  the  one  hand  we  must  remain  amazed  at  the 
strength  of  a  will  so  tenaciously  and  persever- 
ingly  fixed  on  an  object  purely  spiritual,  we 
must,  on  the  other  hand,  be  filled  with  profound 
regret  at  the  sight  of  so  much  energy  wasted  for 
a  purpose  so  erroneous,  and  in  a  manner  so 
appalling. 

The  second  species  of  Indian  philosophy,  to- 
tally different  from  the  other  two  kinds,  and 
which  proceeds  not  from  Nature,  but  from  the 
principle  of  thought  and  from  the  thinking  self, 
is  comprised  in  the  Nyaya  system,  whose  foun- 
der was  Gautama,  a  personage  whom  several 
of  the  earlier  investigators  of  Indian  literature, 
particularly  Dr.  Taylor,  in  his  Translation  of 
the  "Prabodha  Chandrodaya"  (page  116),  have 
confounded  with  the  founder  of  the  Buddhist 
sect,  as  both  bear  the  same  name.  But  a  closer 
inquiry  has  proved  them  to  be  distinct  persons ; 
and  Mr.  Colebrooke  himself  finds  greater  points 
of  coincidence  or  affinity  between  the  Sanchya 
philosophy  and  Buddhism,  than  between  the 
latter  and  the  Nyaya  system.  This  Nyaya  phi- 
losophy, proceeding  from  the  act  of  thought, 
comprises  in  the  doctrine  of  particulars,  distinc- 
tions and  subdivisions,  the  application  of  the 
thinking  principle  ;  and  this  part  of  the  system 
embraces  all  which  among  the  Greeks  went 
under  the  name  of  logic  or  dialectic ;  and  which 
with  us  is  partly  classed  under  the  same  head. 
Very  many  writings  and  commentaries  have 
been  devoted  to  the  detailed  treatment  and  ex- 
position of  these  subjects,  which  the  Indians 
seem  to  have  discussed  with  almost  the  same 
diffuseness,  or  at  least  copiousness,  as  the  Greeks. 
Like  the  Indians,  the  learned  Englishman,  who 
has  first  unlocked  to  our  view  this  department 
of  Indian  literature,  has  paid  comparatively 
most  attention  to  this  second  part  of  the  Nyaya 
philosophy.  But  all  this  logical  philosophy, 
though  it  may  furnish  one  more  proof  (if  such 
be  necessary)  of  the  extreme  richness,  variety, 
and  refinement  of  the  intellectual  culture  of  the 
Hindoos,  yet  possesses  no  immediate  interest  for 
the  object  we  here  propose  to  ourselves.  Mr. 
Colebrooke  remarks,  however,  that  the  funda- 


F.  SCHLEGEL. 


437 


mental  tenets  of  this  philosophy  comprise,  as 
indeed  is  evident,  not  merely  a  logic  in  the  or- 
dinary acceptation  of  the  word,  but  the  meta- 
physics of  all  logical  science.  On  this  part  of 
the  subject,  I  could  have  wished  that  in  the 
authentic  extracts  he  has  given  us  from  the 
Sancrit  originals,  he  had  more  distinctly  educed 
the  leading  doctrines  of  the  system,  and  thus 
furnished  us  with  adequate  data  for  forming 
a  judgment  on  the  general  character  of  this  phi- 
losophy, as  well  as  on  its  points  of  coincidence 
with  other  systems,  and  with  the  philosophy  of 
the  Buddhists.  For  although  it  appears  to  be 
well  ascertained  that  the  religion  of  Buddha 
sprang  from  some  perverted  system  of  Hindoo 
philosophy,  yet  the  points  of  transition  to  such 
a  religious  creed  existing  in  the  Indian  systems 
of  philosophy  have  not  yet  been  clearly  pointed 
out.  The  Vedanta  philosophy  must  here  evi- 
dently be  excepted ;  for  to  this  Buddhism  is  as 
much  opposed  as  to  the  old  Indian  religion  of 
the  Vedas.  Moreover  that  endless  confusion 
and  unintelligibleness  of  the  Buddhist  metaphy- 
sics, which  we  have  before  spoken  of,  may  first 
be  traced  to  the  source  of  Idealism ;  though  in 
the  progress  of  that  philosophy,  many  errors 
have  been  associated  with  it,  errors  which  even, 
in  its  origin,  were  most  widely  removed  from 
it ;  for  every  system  of  error  asserts  and  even 
believes  that  it  is  perfectly  consistent,  though  in 
none  is  such  consistency  found. 

The  basis  and  prevailing  tendency  of  the 
Nyaya  system  (to  judge  from  the  extracts  with 
which  we  have  been  furnished)  is  most  decid- 
edly ideal.  On  the  whole  we  can  very  well 
conceive  that  a  system  of  philosophy  beginning 
with  the  highest  act  of  thought,  or  proceeding 
from  the  thinking  self,  should  run  into  a  course 
of  the  most  decided  and  absolute  idealism,  and 
that  the  general  inclination  of  the  Indian  philo- 
sophers to  regard  the  whole  external  world  of 
sense  as  vain  illusion,  and  to  represent  indivi- 
dual personality  as  absorbed  in  the  Godhead 
by  the  most  intimate  union,  should  have  given 
birth  to  a  complete  system  of  self-delusion — a 
diabolic  self-idolatry,  very  congenial  with  the 
principles  of  that  most  ancient  of  all  anti-chris- 
tian  sects — the  Buddhists. 

The  Indian  authorities  cited  by  Colebrooke 
impute  to  the  second  part  of  the  Nyaya  philo- 
sophy a  strong  leaning  to  the  atomical  system. 
We  must  here  recollect  that,  as  the  Indian  mind 
pursued  the  most  various  and  opposite  paths  of 
inquiry  even  in  philosophy,  there  were  besides 
the  six  most  prevalent  philosophic  systems,  re- 
cognized as  generally  conformable  to  religion, 
several  others  in  direct  opposition  to  the  esta- 
blished doctrines  on  the  Deity  and  on  religion. 
Among  these  the  Charvaca  philosophy,  which, 
according  to  Mr.  Colebrooke,  comprises  the 
metaphysics  of  the  sect  of  Jains,  deserves  a 
passing  notice.  It  is  a  system  of  complete  ma- 
terialism founded  on  the  atomical  doctrines, 
such  as  Epicurus  taught,  and  which  met  with 
so  much  favor  and  adhesion  in  the  declining 


ages  of  Greece  and  Rome ;  doctrines  which 
several  moderns  have  revived  in  latter  times, 
but  which  the  profound  investigations  of  natural 
philosophy,  now  so  far  advanced,  will  scarcely 
ever  permit  to  take  root  again. 

The  third  species  or  branch  of  Indian  philo- 
sophy, is  that  which  is  attached  to  the  Vedas, 
and  to  the  sacred  revelation  and  traditions  tlu.-y 
contain.  The  first  part  of  this  philosophy — the 
Mimansa — is,  according  to  Mr.  Colebrooke,  more 
immediately  devoted  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
Vedas,  and  most  probably  contains  the  funda- 
mental rules  of  interpretation,  or  the  leading 
principles,  whereby  independent  reason  is  made 
to  harmonize  with  the  word  of  revelation  con- 
veyed by  sacred  tradition.  The  second  or 
finished  part  of  the  system  is  called  the  Vedanta 
philosophy.  The  last  word  in  this  term,  "  Ve- 
danta," which  is  compounded  of  two  roots,  is 
equivalent  to  the  German  word  ende  (end),  or 
still  more  to  the  Latin,  finis,  and  denotes  the 
end  or  ultimate  object  of  any  effort;  and  so  the 
entire  term  Vedanta  will  signify  a  philosophy 
which  reveals  the  true  sense,  the  internal  spirit, 
and  the  proper  object  of  the  Vedas,  and  of  the 
primitive  revelation  of  Brahma  comprised  there- 
in. This  Vedanta  philosophy  is  the  one  which 
now  generally  exerts  the  greatest  influence  on 
Indian  literature  and  Indian  life ;  and  it  is  very 
possible  that  some  of  the  six  recognized,  or  at 
least  tolerated,  systems  of  philosophy,  may  have 
been  purposely  thrown  into  the  back-ground,  or, 
when  they  clashed  too  rudely  with  the  princi- 
ples of  the  prevailing  system,  have  been  soft- 
ened down  by  their  partisans,  and  have  thus 
come  to  us  in  that  state.  A  wide  field  is  here 
opened  to  the  future  research  and  critical  inqui- 
ries of  Indian  scholars. 

This  Vedanta  philosophy  is,  in  its  general 
tendency,  a  complete  system  of  Pantheism  ;  but 
not  the  rigid,  mathematical,  abstract,  negative 
Pantheism  of  some  modern  thinkers ;  for  such 
a  total  denial  of  all  personality  in  God,  and  of 
all  freedom  in  man,  is  incompatible  with  the 
attachment  which  the  Vedanta  philosophy  pro- 
fesses for  sacred  tradition  and  ancient  mytho- 
logy ;  and  accordingly  a  modified,  poetical,  and 
half- mythological  system  of  Pantheism,  may 
here  naturally  be  expected,  and  actually  exists. 
Even  in  the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  of  the  Metempsychosis,  the  personal 
existence  of  the  human  soul,  inculcated  by  the 
ancient  faith,  is  not  wholly  denied  or  rejected 
by  this  more  modern  system  of  philosophy ; 
though  on  the  whole  it  certainly  is  not  exempt 
from  the  charge  of  Pantheism.  But  all  the  sys- 
tems of  Indian  philosophy  tend  more  or  less  to 
one  practical  aim  —  namely,  the  final  deliver- 
ance and  eternal  emancipation  of  the  soul  from 
the  old  calamity — the  dreaded  fate — the  fright- 
ful lot — of  being  compelled  to  wander  through 
the  dark  regions  of  nature — through  the  various 
forms  of  the  brute  creation — and  to  change  ever 
anew  its  terrestrial  shape.  The  second  point 
in  which  the  different  systems  of  Indian  philo- 


488 


F.  SCHLEGE L. 


sophy  mostly  agree  is  this,  that  the  various 
sacrifices  prescribed  for  this  end  in  the  Vedas, 
are  not  free  from  blame  or  vice,  partly  on  ac- 
count of  the  effusion  of  blood  necessarily  con- 
nected with  animal  sacrifice  —  and  partly  on 
account  of  the  inadequacy  of  such  sacrifices  to 
the  final  deliverance  of  the  soul,  useful  and 
salutary  though  they  be  in  other  respects. 

The  general  and  fundamental  doctrine  of  the 
Metempsychosis  has  rendered  the  destruction 
of  animals  extremely  repulsive  to  Indian  feel- 
ings, from  the  strong  apprehension  that  a  case 
may  occur  where,  unconsciously  and  innocently, 
one  may  violate  or  injure  the  soul  of  some  former 
relative  in  its  present  integument.  But  even 
the  Vedas  themselves  inculcate  the  necessity 
of  that  sublime  science  which  rises  above  na- 
ture, for  the  attainment  of  the  full  and  final  de- 
liverance of  the  soul;  as  is  expressed  in  an  old 
remarkable  passage  of  the  Vedas,  thus  literally 
translated  by  Mr.  Colebrooke*  "  Man  must 
recognise  the  soul — man  must  separate  it  from 
nature — then  it  comes  not  again — then  it  comes 
not  again."  These  last  words  signify,  Then  the 
soul  is  delivered  from  the  danger  of  a  return  to 
earth — from  the  misfortune  of  transmigration, 
and  it  remains  forever  united  to  God  ;  a  union 
which  can  be  obtained  only  by  that  pure  sepa- 
ration from  nature,  which  is  that  sublimest  sci- 
ence, invoked  in  the  first  words  of  this  passage. 

Animal  sacrifices  for  the  souls  of  the  departed, 
particularly  for  those  of  deceased  parents,  which 
were  regarded  as  the  most  sacred  duty  of  the 
son  and  of  the  posterity,  were  among  those  re- 
ligious usages  which  occupied  an  important 
place  in  the  patriarchal  ages,  and  were  most 
deeply  interwoven  with  the  whole  arrangement 
of  life  in  that  primitive  period,  as  is  evident 
from  all  those  Indian  rites,  and  the  system  of 
doctrines  akin  to  them.  These  sacrifices  are 
certainly  of  very  ancient  origin,  and  may  well 
have  been  derived  from  the  mourning  father  of 
mankind,  and  the  first  pair  of  hostile  brothers. 
To  these  may  afterwards  have  been  added  all 
that  multitude  of  religious  rites  and  doctrines, 
or  marvellous  theories  respecting  the  immortal 
soul  and  its  ulterior  destinies.  Hence  the  in- 
dispensable obligation  of  marriage  for  the  Brah- 
mins, in  order  to  insure  the  blessing  of  legiti- 
mate offspring,  regarded  as  one  of  the  highest 


*  See  Colebrooke's  article  on  the  Vedas,  in  the  eighth 
volume  of  Asiatic  Researches. 


objects  of  existence  in  the  patriarchal  ages,  for 
the  prayers  of  the  son  only  could  obtain  the 
deliverance,  and  secure  the  repose,  of  a  departed 
parent's  soul ;  and  this  was  one  of  his  most 
sacred  duties.  The  high  reverence  for  women, 
among  the  Indians,  rests  on  the  same  religious 
notion,  as  is  expressed  by  the  old  poet  in  these 
lines : 

"  Woman  is  man's  better  half. 
Woman  is  man's  bosom  friend, 
Woman  is  redemption's  source. 
From  Woman  springs  the  liberator." 

This  last  line  signifies,  what  we  mentioned 
above,  that  the  son  is  the  Liberator  appointed 
by  God,  to  deliver  by  prayer  the  soul  of  his 
deceased  father.  The  poet  then  continues : — 
"Women  are  the  friends  of  the  solitary — they 
solace  him  with  their  sweet  converse;  like  to 
a  father,  in  discharge  of  duty,  consoling  as  a 
mother  in  misfortune." 

We  should  scarcely  conceive  it  possible  (and 
it  certainly  tends  to  prove  the  original  power, 
copiousness  and  flexibility  of  the  human  mind) 
that,  by  the  side  of  a  false  mysticism  totally 
sunk  and  lost  in  the  abyss  of  the  eternally  in- 
comprehensible and  unfathomable,  like  the  In- 
dian philosophy,  a  rich,  various,  beautiful  and 
highly- wrought  poetry  should  have  existed. 
The  Epic  narrative  of  the  old  Indian  poems 
bears  a  great  resemblance  to  the  Homeric  poetry, 
in  its  inexhaustible  copiousness,  in  the  touching 
simplicity  of  its  antique  forms,  in  justness  of 
feeling,  and  accuracy  of  delineation.  Yet  in  its 
subjects,  and  in  the  prevailing  tone  of  its  My- 
thological fictions,  this  Indian  Epic  poetry  is 
characterized  by  a  style  of  fancy  incomparably 
more  gigantic,  such  as  occasionally  prevails  in 
the  mythology  of  Hesiod — in  the  accounts  of  the 
old  Titanic  wars — or  in  the  fabulous  world  of 
iEschylus,  and  of  the  Doric  Pindar.  In  the 
tenderness  of  amatory  feeling,  in  the  description 
of  female  beauty,  of  the  character  and  domestic 
relations  of  woman,  the  Indian  poetry  may  be 
compared  to  the  purest  and  noblest  effusions  of 
Christian  poesy;  though,  on  the  whole,  from 
the  thoroughly  mythical  nature  of  its  subjects, 
and  from  the  rhythmical  forms  of  its  speech,  it 
bears  a  greater  resemblance  to  that  of  the  an- 
cients. Among  the  latter  poets,  Calidas,  who 
is  the  most  renowned  and  esteemed  in  the  dra- 
matic poetry  of  the  Indians,  might  be  called, 
by  way  of  comparison,  an  Idyllic  and  senti- 
mental Sophocles. 


NOVALIS.  (FKIEDRICH  VON  II ARDENBEIIG). 


Boru  1772.   Died  1801. 


Novalis  is  known  as  the  associate  of  Tieck 
and  the  Schlegels  in  establishing  the  Romantic 
School  of  Poetry  which  blossomed  in  Germany 
toward  the  close  of  the  last  century.  But  No- 
valis possesses  a  significance  independent  of 
any  clique,  and,  amid  this  famed  constellation, 
shines  as  a  particular  star,  with  proper  and  in- 
dividual lustre.  The  literary  firmament  of 
Germany  has  many  greater  lights,  but  none 
fairer.  His  contributions  to  the  national  lite- 
rature are  insignificant  in  extent,  and  consist, 
for  the  most  part,  of  fragments  and  rhapsodies; 
but  the  little  he  wrote  is  instinct  with  a  rare 
and  noble  spirit,  and  the  effect  has  been  alto- 
gether disproportionate  to  the  bulk. 

A  singular  charm  invests  this  youth.  For 
youth  he  was  at  the  time  of  his  death.  His  pre- 
mature decease  enhances  the  interest  created 
by  his  lofty  aims  and  his  deep-eyed  enthusiasm, 
imparting  a  certain  ideal  and  heroic  beauty  to 
the  early  lost,  whose  germ  of  golden  promise 
was  not  permitted  to  unfold  in  this  present. 
Purity  of  heart,  religious  fervor,  deep  poetic 
feeling,  and  mystic  inwardness,  combined  with 
true  philosophic  genius  and  scientific  attain- 
ments far  above  the  standard  of  general  scho- 
larship, constitute  his  distinguishing  charac- 
teristics. 

Friedrich  von  Hardenberg  was  born  in  the 
county  of  Mansfeld,  in  Saxony.  His  father 
(Baron  von  Hardenberg)  and  his  mother  were 
members  of  the  Moravian  Communion,  pro- 
foundly religious,  without  narrowness  or  bigotry. 
He  was  one  of  eleven  children,  all  of  whom  are 
said  to  have  been  distinguished  by  remarkable 
endowments  of  mind  and  heart.  As  a  child, 
he  was  weakly,  and  discovered  but  little  intel- 
lect. But  after  a  dangerous  illness,  which  oc- 
curred in  his  ninth  year,  he  seemed  to  wake 
as  from  a  dream,  and  thenceforward  showed 
himself  a  youth  of  rare  promise.  He  studied 
successively  at  the  universities  of  Jena,  Leipzig 
and  Wittemberg,  but  chose  a  practical  calling 
for  his  pursuit,  in  preference  to  the  learned 
professions,  and  held  an  office  under  his  father, 
who  was  director  of  the  government  salt-works 
in  Saxony. 

3m 


The  critical  event  of  his  life  was  the  death 
of  his  betrothed,  Sophie  v.  K.,  who  is  repre- 
sented as  a  being  of  preternatural  beauty  of 
person  and  of  soul.  "The  first  glimpse,"  says 
Tieck,*  "of  this  beautiful  and  wondrous  lovely 
form  determined  his  whole  life ;  nay,  we  may 
say,  that  the  sentiment  which  penetrated  and 
animated  him  became  the  theme  of  his  whole 
life."  *  *  *  "  All  who  knew  this  wonder- 
ful beloved  of  our  friend,  are  agreed  that  no 
description  can  express  with  what  a  grace  and 
heavenly  charm  this  unearthly  being  moved, 
what  beauty  shone  around  her,  what  pathos 
and  majesty  invested  her.  Novalis  became  a 
poet  whenever  he  spoke  of  her."  She  died  the 
day  but  one  succeeding  her  fifteenth  birth-day, 
the  19th  March,  1797.  "  No  one  dared  to  com- 
municate the  tidings  to  Novalis.  At  length, 
his  brother  Carl  undertook  it.  The  mourner 
locked  himself  up  for  three  days  and  nights, 
and  then  journeyed  to  Arnstadt,  that,  with 
faithful  friends,  he  might  be  nearer  the  beloved 
spot  which  now  concealed  the  remains  of  this 
most  precious  being."  *  *  *  "At  this 
period,  Novalis  lived  only  in  his  grief ;  it  be- 
came natural  to  him  to  regard  the  visible  and 
the  invisible  world  as  one,  and  to  distinguish 
between  life  and  death  only  by  his  longing  for 
the  latter.  At  the  same  time,  life  became  to 
him  transfigured,  and  his  whole  being  was  dis- 
solved as  in  a  lucid,  conscious  dream  of  a  higher 
existence." 

Novalis  died  within  four  years  from  the  date 
of  this  affliction.  That  term  comprises  near> 
all  his  writings. 

"  Since  he  had  so  far  outstripped  his  age,  his 
country  was  authorized  to  expect  extraordinary 
things  of  him,  had  not  this  early  death  over- 
taken him.  The  unfinished  writings  he  has 
left  behind  him  have  already  wrought  much ; 
many  of  his  great  thoughts  will  exert  their  in- 
spiration in  the  future,  and  noble  minds  and 
deep  thinkers  will  be  enlightened  and  in- 
flamed by  the  scintillations  of  his  spirit." 

*  See  the  biographical  sketch  prefixed  to  Tieck  and  Fr. 
Schlegel's  edition  of  Novalis'  works,  from  which  this  ac- 
count is  taken. 

(489) 


NOVALIS. 


490 


"  Novalis  was  tall,  slender,  and  of  noble  pro- 
portions. He  wore  his  light-brown  hair  in  pen- 
dent locks ;  his  hazel  eye  was  clear  and  gleam- 
ing ;  and  the  complexion  of  his  countenance, 
especially  of  the  intellectual  forehead,  almost 
transparent."  *  *  *  "Profile  and  expres- 
sion resembled  very  nearly  the  Evangelist  John, 
as  we  see  him  in  the  glorious  great  picture  of  A. 
Durer,  preserved  at  Nurnberg  and  Miinchen." 

"  His  conversation  was  lively  and  loud,  his 
gesticulation  noble.  I  have  never  seen  him 
wearied ;  even  when  we  continued  the  conver- 
sation far  into  the  night,  he  put  a  stop  to  it 
only  by  an  effort  of  the  will,  in  order  to  rest, 
and  still  read  before  he  slept.  Ennui  he  knew 
not,  even  in  oppressive  company  with  mediocre 
heads,  for  he  was  sure  to  discover  some  person 
who  could  impart  to  him  a  new  knowledge 
which  might  be  of  use  to  him,  insignificant  as 
it  seemed.  His  kindliness,  his  open  communi- 
cation, made  him  everywhere  beloved.  His 
skill  in  the  art  of  conversation  was  so  great, 
that  inferior  heads  never  perceived  how  far  he 
overlooked  them.  Though  in  conversation  he 
loved  best  to  uncover  the  depths  of  the  soul, 
and  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  regions  of 
the  invisible,  he  was  yet  frolicsome  as  a  child, 
jested  with  unembarrassed  cheerfulness,  and 
gave  nimself  to  the  jests  of  the  company. 
Without  vanity  or  pride  of  learning,  a  stranger 
to  all  affectation  and  hypocrisy,  he  was  a 
genuine,  true  man,  the  purest  and  loveliest 
embodiment  of  a  lofty,  immortal  mind." 

"His  true  studies,  for  several  years,  had 
been  philosophy  and  physics.  In  the  latter, 
his  observations,  combinations,  and  surmises, 
often  outstripped  his  time.  In  philosophy,  he 
studied  especially  Spinoza  and  Fichte.  *  *  * 
His  knowledge  of  mathematics  and  the  me- 
chanic arts,  especially  mining,  was  remarkable. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  was  but  little  interested 
in  the  fine  arts.  Music  he  loved  much,  but 
had  only  a  superficial  knowledge  of  it ;  to 
sculpture  and  painting  his  mind  was  not  much 
drawn,  although  he  could  express  the  most 
original  ideas  and  the  highest  surmises  respect- 
ing all  these  arts.  Thus  I  remember,  e.  g.  a  con- 
troversy respecting  landscape-painting,  in  which 


I  could  not  comprehend  his  view ;  but  the  ex- 
cellent landscape-painter,  Friedrich,  in  Dres- 
den, has  since  actualized  it,  in  great  part,  out 
of  his  own  rich,  poetic  mind.  *  *  *  Goethe 
had  long  been  his  study ;  he  preferred  before 
all  other  works  Wilhelm  Meister,  as  little  as 
one  would  suppose  it,  from  his  severe  criticism 
of  this  work  in  his  Fragments."     *     *  * 

"  It  had  become  with  him  the  most  natural 
view  to  regard  the  commonest,  nearest,  as 
miraculous,  and  the  strange,  the  supernatural, 
as  something  common.  Thus,  every-day  life 
itself  environed  him  like  a  wondrous  tale,  and 
that  region  which  most  men  but  surmise  or 
doubt,  as  distant,  incomprehensible,  was  to 
him  a  beloved  home.  Thus  he  invented,  un- 
bribed  by  examples,  a  new  mode  of  representa- 
tion; and  in  many-sidedness  of  reference,  in 
his  view  of  love,  in  his  faith  in  it — as  for  him, 
at  once,  instructress,  wisdom,  religion ;  —  in 
that  a  single  great  life-moment  and  one  deep 
pain  and  loss  became  the  substance  of  his 
poetry  and  his  contemplation,  he  alone  among 
moderns  resembles  the  sublime  Dante,  and 
sings  to  us,  like  him,  an  unfathomable  mystic 
song,  very  different  from  that  of  many  imitators 
who  think  they  can  put  on  and  put  off  mysti- 
cism like  an  ornament.  Therefore  is,  also, 
his  Romance*  consciously  and  unconsciously 
but  the  representation  of  his  own  mind  and 
destiny;  as  he  himself  makes  his  Heinrich 
say,  in  the  fragment  of  the  second  part,  that 
destiny  and  mind  are  names  of  one  idea." 

Novalis  did  not  leave  the  Lutheran  Church 
for  the  Church  of  Rome,  as  has  been  falsely 
asserted,  f 


*  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen. 

t  See  Tieck's  preface  to  the  fifth  edition  of  Novalis' 
works,  in  which  he  says:  "I  may  affirm  that  to  my 
friend  Hardenberg  this  transition  into  another  Christian 
Communion  from  the  Lutheran,  in  which  he  was  born, 
was  utterly  impossible."  This  fifth  edition  excludes  the 
essay  entitled  "  Christianity  or  Europe,"  which  it  seems 
had  been  inserted  in  the  fourth  edition  without  Tieck's 
consent,  by  Fr.  von  Schlegel,  as  seeming  to  favor  Ro- 
manism. This  essay,  when  offered  for  publication  in  the 
Athenieum,  in  1799,  had  been  rejected  by  a  committee 
of  the  friends  of  the  author,  consisting  of  Tieck,  the  two 
Schlegels,  and  Schelling,  as  "weak  and  unsatisfactory," 
and  altogether  unworthy  of  Novalis'  genius. 


NOVALIS. 


491 


FROM  HEINRICH  VON  OFTERDINGEN* 

THE  VISIT  TO  THE  CAVE. 

[Heinrich  is  travelling,  with  his  mother,  to 
Augsburg,  the  residence  of  his  grandfather. 
Several  merchants,  bound  in  the  same  direction, 
join  their  company.  At  an  inn  on  the  road 
they  fall  in  with  an  aged  miner,  who  entertains 
them  with  matters  pertaining  to  his  craft.  At 
length,  he  proposes  an  expedition  to  some  caves 
in  the  vicinity,  in  which  he  is  joined  by  Hein- 
rich,  by  the  merchants,  and  by  several  villagers.] 

The  evening  was  cheerful  and  warm.  The 
moon  stood  in  mild  glory  above  the  hills,  and 
caused  wondrous  dreams  to  arise  in  all  crea- 
tures. Herself  a  dream  of  the  sun,  she  lay  above 
the  introverted  dream-world,  and  led  Nature, 
divided  with  innumerable  boundaries,  back  into 
that  fabulous  prime,  when  each  germ  still  slum- 
bered within  itself,  and,  solitary  and  untouched, 
longed  in  vain  to  unfold  the  dark  fulness  of  its 
measureless  being.  The  wonder-story  of  the 
evening  mirrored  itself  in  Heinrich's  mind.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  the  world  reposed  unco- 
vered within  him,  and  exhibited  to  him,  as  to  a 
guest,  all  its  treasures  and  its  hidden  charms. 
The  grand  and  simple  appearance  around  him 
seemed  to  him  so  intelligible.  He  thought  Na- 
ture incomprehensible  to  man,  only  because  she 
piles  up  around  him  the  nearest,  the  most  inti- 
mate, with  such  lavishness  of  manifold  expres- 
sion. The  words  of  the  old  man  had  opened  a 
hidden  tapestry-door  within  him.  He  saw  that 
his  little  chamber  was  built  contiguous  to  a  lofty 
minster,  out  of  whose  floor  of  stone  arose  the 
grave  fore-world,  while  from  the  dome,  the 
clear,  glad  future,  in  the  form  of  angel-children, 
hovered  singing  above  it.  Mighty  voices  trem- 
bled through  the  silvery  song,  and  through  the 
wide  portals  all  creatures  entered  in,  each  ex- 
pressing its  inner  nature  in  a  simple  petition, 
and  a  dialect  peculiar  to  itself.  How  did  he 
wonder  that  this  luminous  view,  which  was 
now  already  become  indispensable  to  his  exist- 
ence, had  so  long  been  foreign  to  him  !  Now 
he  overlooked  at  once  all  his  relations  with  the 
wide  world  around  him,  and  comprehended  all 
the  strange  conceptions  and  suggestions  which 
he  had  often  experienced  in  the  contemplation 
of  it.  The  story  told  by  the  merchants,  of  the 
.  youth  who  studied  nature  so  diligently,  and  who 
became  the  son-in-law  of  a  king,  came  into  his 
mind,  and  a  thousand  other  reminiscences  of  his 
life  associated  themselves,  of  their  own  accord, 
by  a  magic  thread. 

While  Heinrich  gave  himself  up  to  his  medi- 
tations, the  company  had  approached  the  cave. 
The  entrance  was  low;  the  old  man  took  a 
torch,  and  clambering  over  some  stones,  entered 

*  An  unfinished  Romance,  which  the  author  designed, 
he  says,  to  be  "  an  apotheosis  of  Poetry."  The  first  part 
contains  the  initiation  of  the  poet;  the  second  his  trans- 
figuration. The  name  of  the  hero  is  that  of  an  actual 
German  poet  or  Minnesinger  of  the  13th  century.— Tr. 


first.  A  quite  perceptible  current  of  air  streamed 
toward  him,  and  the  old  man  assured  them  that 
they  might  follow  with  safety.  The  most  timid 
went  last,  and  held  their  weapons  in  readiness. 
Heinrich  and  the  merchants  walked  behind  the 
miner,  and  the  boy  strode  briskly  by  his  side. 
The  way,  at  first,  was  through  a  somewhat  nar- 
row passage,  but  soon  terminated  in  a  very  ex- 
tensive and  lofty  cave,  which  the  glare  of  the 
torches  was  unable  wholly  to  illumine.  One 
saw,  however,  in  the  background,  several  open- 
ings, which  lost  themselves  in  the  wall  of  rock. 
The  floor  was  soft  and  tolerably  even;  likewise 
the  walls  and  the  ceiling  were  not  rough  or 
irregular.  But  what  especially  engaged  the 
attention  of  all,  was  the  countless  multitude  of 
bones  and  teeth  which  strewed  the  floor.  Some 
of  them  were  perfectly  preserved,  in  others 
there  were  marks  of  corruption,  and  those  which 
here  and  there  protruded  from  the  walls,  seemed 
to  have  become  petrified.  Most  of  them  were 
of  unusual  size  and  strength.  The  old  miner 
rejoiced  in  these  relics  of  a  primeval  age  ;  only 
the  peasants  had  misgivings  about  them,  for 
they  regarded  them  as  manifest  traces  of  beasts 
of  prey  at  hand,  although  the  old  man  pointed 
out  to  them  most  convincingly  the  evidences  of 
an  inconceivable  antiquity,  and  asked  them  if 
they  had  ever  noticed  any  signs  of  ravages 
among  their  herds,  or  of  the  plunder  of  human 
neighbors,  and  whether  they  could  regard,  these 
bones  as  those  of  known  animals  or  men  ?  The 
old  man  wished  now  to  penetrate  farther  into 
the  mountain,  but  the  peasants  deemed  it  ad- 
visable for  them  to  retreat,  and  to  await  his 
entrance  before  the  cave.  Heinrich,  the  mer- 
chants, and  the  boy,  remained  with  the  miner, 
and  provided  themselves  with  ropes  and  torches. 
They  soon  reached  a  second  cave,  and  the  old 
man  did  not  forget  to  mark  the  passage  through 
which  they  had  entered,  by  a  figure  composed 
of  bones,  which  he  placed  before  it.  This  cave 
resembled  the  first,  and  was  equally  rich  in 
animal  remains. 

Heinrich  experienced  a  strange  awe ;  it  struck 
him  as  if  he  were  wandering  through  the  fore- 
courts of  the  inner  earth-palace.  Heaven  and 
earth  were  suddenly  far  removed  from  him  ; 
and  these  dark,  wide  halls  appeared  to  belong 
to  a  wondrous  subterranean  kingdom.  He 
thought  within  himself,  were  it  not  possible 
that  a  separate  world  stirs  this  monstrous  life 
beneath  our  feet1?  that  unheard-of  births  have 
their  being  and  their  doings  in  the  fastnesses 
of  the  earth,  which  the  interior  fire  of  the  dark 
womb  works  up  into  gigantic  forms  of  spirit- 
power?  Might  not,  some  time,  these  awful 
strangers,  driven  forth  by  the  in-pressing  cold, 
appear  among  us,  while  perhaps,  at  the  same 
time,  heavenly  guests — living,  speaking  Powers 
of  the  star-world  —  became  visible  above  our 
heads?  Are  these  bones  the  remains  of  emi- 
grations toward  the  surface,  or  signs  of  a  flight 
into  the  deeps? 

Suddenly,  the  old  man  called  to  the  rest,  and 


492 


NOVALIS. 


showed  them  a  human  footstep  quite  fresh  on 
the  floor  of  the  cave.  No  others  appeared;  so 
he  thought  they  might  follow  this  trace  without 
fear  of  meeting  with  robhers.        #        #  # 

After  some  searching,  they  found  in  an  angle 
of  the  side-wall,  on  the  right,  a  sloping  passage, 
into  which  the  footsteps  appeared  to  lead.  Soon 
they  thought  they  could  perceive  a  brightness, 
which  grew  stronger  the  nearer  they  approached. 
A  new  vault,  of  greater  extent  than  the  former, 
opened  itself  before  them,  in  the  background  of 
which  they  saw,  sitting  by  a  lamp,  the  figure  of 
a  man,  who  had  a  large  book  lying  before  him 
on  a  stone  tablet,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
reading.  He  turned  himself  toward  them,  rose 
and  came  to  meet  them.  He  looked  neither  old 
nor  young,  no  traces  of  time  were  perceptible 
in  him,  except  his  straight  grey  hairs,  which 
were  parted  on  the  forehead.  He  had  soles 
bound  to  his  feet,  and  seemed  to  have  no  other 
clothing  except  a  wide  mantle  which  was  folded 
about  him,  and  made  more  prominent  his  large 
and  noble  form.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  re- 
ceiving expected  guests  in  his  dwelling. 

"It  is  kind  in  you  to  visit  me,"  he  said;  "you 
are  the  first  friends  I  have  seen  here,  as  long  as 
I  have  lived  in  this  place.  It  would  seem  that 
people  are  beginning  to  consider  more  atten- 
tively our  large  and  wondrous  house."  The  old 
man  replied  :  "  We  did  not  expect  to  find  here 
so  friendly  a  host.  We  were  told  of  wild  beasts 
and  goblins,  and  find  ourselves  very  agreeably 
deceived.  If  we  have  disturbed  you  in  your 
devotions  and  profound  contemplations,  pardon 
thus  much  to  our  curiosity."  "  Can  any  contem- 
plation be  more  delightful,"  said  the  unknown, 
"  than  that  of  glad  and  congenial  human  faces  1 
Do  not  think  me  a  misanthrope,  because  you  find 
me  in  this  solitude.  I  have  not  fled  the  world, 
I  have  only  sought  a  place  of  rest,  where  I 
might  pursue  my  meditations  undisturbed." 
"Do  you  never  repent  your  resolution?  and  are 
there  not  hours  when  you  feel  afraid,  and  when 
your  heart  longs  for  a  human  voice  ?" 

"  Not  now.  There  was  a  time,  in  my  youth, 
when  ardent  enthusiasm  induced  me  to  become 
a  recluse.  Dim  presentiments  occupied  my 
youthful  imagination.  I  hoped  to  find  full  nou- 
rishment for  my  heart  in  solitude.  Inexhaustible 
seemed  to  me  the  fountain  of  my  inner  life. 
But  I  soon  perceived  that  one  must  bring  with 
him  abundance  of  experiences,  that  a  young 
heart  cannot  be  alone,  nay,  that  it  is  only  by 
manifold  converse  with  his  kind,  that  man  can 
acquire  a  certain  self-subsistence.  *  *  * 
The  dangers  and  vicissitudes  of  war,  the  high 
poetic  spirit  which  accompanies  a  war-host, 
tore  me  from  my  youthful  solitude,  and  deter- 
mined the  fortunes  of  my  life.  It  may  be,  that 
the  long  tumult,  the  numberless  events  which  I 
witnessed,  have  expanded  yet  farther  my  taste 
for  solitude.  Innumerable  reminiscences  are 
entertaining  company,  —  the  more  entertaining 
the  more  varied  the  glance  with  which  we 
overlook  them,  and  which  now  first  discovers 


their  true  connection,  the  deep  meaning  of  their 
sequence,  and  the  import  of  their  phenomena. 
The  true  understanding  of  human  history  does 
not  unfold  itself  till  late,  and  rather  under  the 
still  influences  of  recollection,  than  under  the 
more  powerful  impressions  of  the  present  time. 
The  nearest  events  seem  but  loosely  connected, 
but  they  sympathize  all  the  more  wonderfully 
with  remote  ones  ;  and  only  then  when  one  is 
in  a  condition  to  overlook  a  long  series,  and 
neither  to  take  everything  literally,  nor,  with 
wanton  vagaries,  to  confound  the  true  order, 
does  one  perceive  the  secret  concatenation  of 
the  former  and  the  future,  and  learn  to  com- 
pound history  out  of  hope  and  memory.  Only 
he,  however,  to  whom  the  entire  fore-time  is 
present,  can  succeed  in  discovering  the  simple 
rule  of  history.  We  attain  only  to  imperfect, 
cumbrous  formulas,  and  may  be  glad  if  we  can 
but  find  for  ourselves  an  available  prescript, 
which  shall  give  us  satisfactory  solutions  for  our 
own  short  life.  But  I  may.  venture  to  affirm 
that  every  careful  contemplation  of  the  fates  of 
life  affords  a  deep  and  inexhaustible  enjoyment, 
and,  of  all  thoughts,  exalts  us  most  above  earthly 
ills.  Youth  reads  history  only  from  curiosity, 
like  an  entertaining  wonder-tale ;  to  riper  age 
it  becomes  a  heavenly,  consoling  and  edifying 
friend,  who  by  her  wise  discourses  gently  pre- 
pares us  for  a  higher,  more  comprehensive 
career,  and  by  means  of  intelligible  images, 
makes  us  acquainted  with  the  unknown  world. 
The  Church  is  the  dwelling-house  of  History, 
and  the  still  churchyard  her  emblematic  flower- 
garden.  Only  aged,  God-fearing  men  should 
write  of  History,  whose  own  history  is  nearly 
at  an  end,  and  who  have  nothing  more  to  hope 
for,  but  to  be  transplanted  into  the  garden.  Not 
gloomy  and  troubled  will  their  account  be ; — 
rather,  a  ray  from  the  cupola  will  exhibit  every- 
thing in  the  most  correct  and  beautiful  light, 
and  a  holy  Spirit  will  hover  over  those  strangely 
moved  waters."  *  *  *  "  When  I  consider 
all  these  things  aright,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
historian  should  be  a  poet  also,  for  only  poets 
understand  the  art  of  presenting  events  in  their 
true  connection.  In  their  narratives  and  fables, 
I  have  observed  with  silent  pleasure  a  delicate 
feeling  for  the  mysterious  spirit  of  life.  There 
is  more  truth  in  their  wonder-stories  than  in 
learned  chronicles.  Although  the  personages 
and  their  fortunes  are  fictitious,  the  sense  in 
which  they  are  invented  is  true  and  natural.  It 
is  to  a  certain  extent  indifferent,  as  it  regards 
our  entertainment  and  our  instruction,  whether 
the  persons  in  whose  destinies  we  trace  our 
own,  actually  lived  or  not.  What  we  want  is 
an  intuition  of  the  great,  simple  soul  of  the  phe- 
nomena of  time.  If  this  wish  is  satisfied,  we 
do  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the  accidental 
existence  of  the  external  figures."  *  *  * 
"  Since  I  have  inhabited  this  cave,"  continued 
the  recluse,  "  I  have  learned  to  meditate  more 
of  the  olden  time.  It  is  indescribable  how  this 
study  attracts.    I  can  imagine  the  love  which  a 


NOV 


miner  must  have  for  his  handicraft.  When  I 
look  at  these  strange  old  bones  which  are  ga- 
thered together  here  in  such  a  mighty  multitude, 
when  I  think  of  the  wild  time  in  which  these 
foreign,  monstrous  animals,  impelled,  perhaps, 
by  fear  and  alarm,  crowded  in  dense  masses 
into  these  caves,  and  here  found  their  death ; 
when,  again,  I  ascend  to  the  times  in  which 
these  caverns  grew  together,  and  vast  floods 
covered  the  land,  I  appear  to  myself  like  a 
dream  of  the  future,  like  a  child  of  the  everlast- 
ing peace.  How  quiet  and  peaceful,  how  mild 
and  clear  is  Nature  at  the  present  day,  com- 
pared with  those  violent,  gigantic  times  !  The 
most  fearful  tempest,  the  most  appalling  earth- 
quake in  our  days,  is  but  a  faint  echo  of  those 
terrific  birth-throes.  It  may  be,  that  the  vege- 
table and  animal  world,  and  even  the  human 
beings  of  that  time,  if  any  there  were  on  single 
islands  in  this  ocean,  had  a  different  structure, 
more  firm  and  rude.  At  least,  one  ought  not 
to  charge  the  traditions,  which  tell  of  a  race  of 
giants,  with  fabrication." 

'•'It  is  pleasant,"  said  the  old  man,  "  to  observe 
the  gradual  pacification  of  nature.  There  ap- 
pears to  have  formed  itself  gradually,  a  more 
and  more  intimate  agreement,  a  more  peaceful 
communion,  a  mutual  assistance  and  animation  ; 
and  we  can  look  forward  to  ever  better  times. 
Possibly,  here  and  there  the  old  leaven  may 
still  ferment,  and  some  violent  convulsions  may 
ensue,  but  we  can  discern,  notwithstanding 
these,  an  almighty  striving  after  a  freer,  a  more 
harmonious  constitution;  and,  in  this  spirit,  each 
convulsion  will  pass  by  and  lead  us  nearer  to 
the  great  goal.  It  may  be,  that  Nature  is  no 
longer  so  fruitful  as  formerly,  that  no  metals  or 
precious  stones  are  formed  in  these  days,  that 
no  more  rocks  and  mountains  arise,  that  plants 
and  animals  no  longer  swell  up  to  such  asto- 
nishing size  and  strength.  But  the  plastic,  en- 
nobling, social  powers  of  Nature  have  increased 
all  the  more.  Her  disposition  has  become  more 
receptive  and  delicate,  her  fantasy  more  mani- 
fold and  emblematic,  her  touch  lighter  and  more 
artistic.  She  approaches  human  kind ;  and  if 
once  she  was  a  wild-teeming  rock,  she  is  now 
a  still,  germinating  plant,  a  mere  human  artist." 
******* 

Heinrich  and  the  merchants  had  listened  at- 
tentively to  this  conversation,  and  the  former, 
especially,  experienced  new  developments  in 
his  fore-feeling  soul.  Many  words,  many  thoughts, 
fell  like  quickening  fruit-seed  into  his  bosom, 
and  transported  him  quickly  from  the  narrow 
sphere  of  his  youth  to  the  height  of  the  world. 
The  hours  just  past  lay  like  long  years  behind 
him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  never 
thought  or  felt  otherwise  than  now. 

The  recluse  showed  them  his  books ;  they 
were  old  histories  and  poems.  Heinrich  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  large  and  beautifully-illu- 
minated manuscripts.  The  short  lines  of  the 
verses,  the  titles,  single  passages,  and  the  neat 
pictures  which  appeared  here  and  there,  like 


ALIS.  493 


embodied  words,  for  the  purpose  of  seconding 
the  imagination  of  the  reader,  excited  mightily 
his  curiosity.  The  recluse  remarked  his  inward 
joy,  and  explained  to  him  the  singular  repre- 
sentations. The  most  manifold  life-scenes  were 
depicted  there.  Battles,  funeral  solemnities, 
wedding -festivals,  shipwrecks,  caves  and  pa- 
laces, kings,  heroes,  priests,  old  men  and  young, 
men  in  foreign  costume,  and  strange  animals, 
appeared  in  various  alternations  and  connec- 
tions. Heinrich  could  not  see  his  fill,  and  would 
have  desired  nothing  better  than  to  stay  with 
the  recluse,  who  attracted  him  irresistibly,  and 
to  be  instructed  by  him  concerning  these  books. 
Meanwhile  the  old  man  asked  if  there  were 
any  more  caves,  and  the  recluse  answered  that 
there  were  several  very  spacious  ones  in  the 
vicinity,  and  that  he  would  accompany  him 
thither.  The  old  man  was  ready,  and  the  re- 
cluse, who  had  noticed  the  pleasure  which 
Heinrich  had  in  his  books,  induced  him  to  re- 
main behind,  and  to  entertain  himself  with  these 
during  their  absence.  Heinrich  was  glad  to 
remain  with  the  books,  and  thanked  him  heartily 
for  the  permission.  He  turned  over  the  leaves 
with  infinite  joy.  At  length  there  fell  into  his 
hands  a  book  written  in  a  foreign  language, 
which  appeared  to  him  to  bear  some  resem- 
blance to  the  Latin  and  to  the  Italian.  He  longed 
very  much  to  know  the  language,  for  the  book 
particularly  pleased  him,  although  he  understood 
not  a  word  of  it.  It  had  no  title,  but  he  found, 
in  seeking,  several  pictures.  They  seemed  to 
him  strangely  familiar,  and  as  he  gazed  more 
attentively,  he  discovered  his  own  form  quite 
distinguishable  among  the  figures.  He  started 
and  thought  he  had  been  dreaming,  but  after 
repeated  inspection,  he  could  not  doubt  the  per- 
fect similitude.  He  could  scarcely  believe  his 
senses  when,  presently,  he  discovered  in  one 
of  the  pictures,  the  cave,  with  the  recluse  and 
the  old  man  by  his  side.  By  degrees,  he  found 
in  other  pictures  the  Eastern  maid,  his  parents, 
the  count  and  countess  of  Thuringen,  his  friend 
the  court-chaplain,  and  many  others  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. But  their  garments  were  different, 
and  they  appeared  to  belong  to  another  age.  A 
great  number  of  figures  he  knew  not  how  to 
name,  yet  they  seemed  familiar  to  him.  He 
saw  his  similitude  in  various  situations.  To- 
ward the  end  of  the  book,  he  appeared  larger 
and  nobler.  A  guitar  was  lying  on  his  arm, 
and  the  countess  was  handing  him  a  garland. 
He  saw  himself  at  the  Imperial  court,  on  ship- 
board, in  close  embrace  with  a  slender,  lovely 
maiden,  in  battle  with  wild-looking  men,  in 
friendly  converse  with  Saracens  and  Moors.  A 
man  of  earnest  aspect  appeared  frequently  in 
his  company.  He  conceived  a  profound  reve- 
rence for  this  lofty  figure,  and  was  rejoiced  to 
see  himself  arm  in  arm  with  him.  The  last 
pictures  were  dark  and  unintelligible  ;  but  some 
of  the  forms  of  his  dream  surprised  him  with 
intense  delight.  The  conclusion  appeared  to 
be  wanting.  Heinrich  was  much  troubled,  and 
42 


494 


NOVALIS. 


wished  nothing  more  ardently  than  to  be  able 
to  read  the  book  and  to  possess  it  entire.  He 
viewed  the  pictures  again  and  again,  and  was 
confused  when  he  heard  the  company  returning. 
An  unaccountable  shame  came  over  him.  He 
did  not  dare  to  make  known  his  discovery,  and 
merely  asked  the  recluse,  as  unconcernedly  as 
possible,  respecting  the  title  and  the  language. 
He  learned  that  it  was  written  in  the  Provencal 
tongue.  "  It  is  a  great  while  since  I  have  read 
it,"  said  the  recluse  ;  "  I  do  not  remember  ex- 
actly the  subject.  All  I  know  is,  that  it  is  a 
Romance  of  the  wonderful  fortunes  of  a  poet, 
in  which  poetry  is  represented  and  lauded  in 
manifold  relations.  The  conclusion  is  wanting 
to  this  copy,  which  I  brought  with  me  from  Je- 
rusalem, where  I  found  it  among  the  effects  of 
a  deceased  friend,  and  kept  it  as  a  memorial 
of  him. 

THE  POET  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

The  journey  was  now  ended.  It  was  toward 
evening  when  our  travellers  arrived,  safe  and 
in  good  spirits,  in  the  world-renowned  city  of 
Augsburg,  and  rode  through  the  lofty  streets  to 
the  house  of  old  Schwaning.  *  *  *  They 
found  the  house  illuminated,  and  a  merry  music 
reached  their  ears.  "  What  will  you  wager," 
said  the  merchants,  "that  your  grandfather  is 
giving  a  merry  entertainment?  We  come  as  if 
called.  How  surprised  he  will  be  at  the  unin- 
vited guests !  Little  does  he  dream  that  the 
true  festival  is  now  to  begin." 

******** 

Among  the  guests,  Heinrich  had  noticed  a 
man  who  appeared  to  be  the  person  that  he  had 
seen  often  at  his  side,  in  that  book.  His  noble 
aspect  distinguished  him  before  all  the  rest.  A 
cheerful  earnestness  was  the  spirit  of  his  counte- 
nance. An  open,  beautifully  arched  brow ;  great, 
black,  piercing  and  firm  eyes;  a  roguish  trait 
about  the  merry  mouth,  and  altogether  clear  and 
manly  proportions  made  it  significant  and  attract- 
ive. He  was  strongly  built,  his  movements  were 
easy  and  full  of  expression,  and  where  he  stood, 
it  seemed  as  if  he  would  stand  forever.  Hein- 
rich asked  his  grandfather  about  him.  "  I  am 
glad,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  you  have  re- 
marked him  at  once.  It  is  my  excellent  friend 
Klingsohr,  the  poet.  Of  his  acquaintance  and 
friendship  you  may  be  prouder  than  of  the  em- 
peror's. But  how  stands  it  with  your  heart? 
He  has  a  beautiful  daughter ;  perhaps  she  will 
supplant  the  father  in  your  regards.  I  shall  be 
surprised  if  you  have  not  observed  her."  Hein- 
rich blushed.  "  I  was  absent,  dear  grandfather. 
The  company  was  numerous,  and  I  noticed  only 
your  friend."  "It  is  very  easy  to  see,"  replied 
Schwaning,  « that  you  are  from  the  north.  We 
will  soon  find  means  to  thaw  you,  here.  You 
shall  soon  learn  to  look  out  for  pretty  eyes." 

The  old  Schwaning  led  Heinrich  to  Kling- 
sohr, and  told  him  how  Heinrich  had  observed 
him  at  once,  and  felt  a  very  lively  desire  to  be 
acquainted  with  him.    Heinrich  was  diffident. 


Klingsohr  spoke  to  him  in  a  very  friendly  man- 
ner of  his  country  and  his  journey.  There  was 
something  so  confidential  in  his  voice,  that 
Heinrich  soon  took  heart  and  conversed  with 
him  freely.  After  some  time  Schwaning  re- 
turned, and  brought  with  him  the  beautiful 
Mathilde.  "  Have  compassion  on  my  shy  grand- 
son, and  pardon  him  for  seeing  your  father  be- 
fore he  did  you.  Your  gleaming  eyes  will 
awaken  his  slumbering  youth.  In  his  country 
the  spring  is  late." 

Heinrich  and  Mathilde  colored.  They  looked 
at  each  other  with  wondering  eyes.  She  asked 
him  with  gentle,  scarce  audible  words:  "did 
he  like  to  dance?"  Just  as  he  was  affirming 
this  question  a  merry  dancing-music  struck  up. 
Silently  he  offered  her  his  hand,  she  gave  hers, 
and  they  mingled  in  the  ?anks  of  the  waltzing 
pairs.  Schwaning  and  Klingsohr  looked  on. 
The  mother  and  the  merchants  rejoiced  in  Hein- 
rich's  activity,  and  in  his  beautiful  partner. 
*  *  *  Heinrich  wished  the  dance  never  to 
end.  With  intense  satisfaction  his  eye  rested 
on  the  roses  of  his  partner.  Her  innocent  eye 
shunned  him  not.  She  seemed  the  spirit  of  her 
father  in  the  loveliest  disguise.  Out  of  her 
large,  calm  eyes,  spoke  eternal  youth.  On  a 
light,  heaven -blue  ground  reposed  the  mild 
glory  of  the  dusky  stars.  Around  them  brow 
and  nose  sloped  gracefully.  A  lily  inclined 
toward  the  rising  sun,  was  her  face ;  and  from 
the  slender  white  neck,  blue  veins  meandered 
in  tempting  curves  around  the  delicate  cheeks. 
Her  voice  was  like  a  far-away  echo,  and  the 
small  brown  curly  head  seemed  to  hover  over 
the  light  form. 

THE  FEAST. 

The  music  banished  reserve  and  roused  every 
inclination  to  cheerful  sport.  Baskets  of  flowers 
in  full  splendor  breathed  forth  odors  on  the 
table,  and  the  wine  crept  about  among  the 
dishes  and  the  flowers,  shook  his  golden  wings, 
and  wove  curtains  of  bright  tapestry  between 
the  guests  and  the  world.  Heinrich  now,  for 
the  first  time,  understood  what  a  feast  was.  A 
thousand  gay  spirits  seemed  to  him  to  dance 
about  the  table,  and  in  still  sympathy  with  gay 
men,  to  live  by  their  joys  and  to  intoxicate  them- 
selves with  their  delights.  The  joy  of  life  stood 
like  a  sounding  tree  full  of  golden  fruits  before 
him.  Evil  did  not  show  itself,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible  that  ever  human  inclination 
should  have  turned  from  this  tree  to  the  dan- 
gerous fruit  of  knowledge,  to  the  tree  of  conflict. 
He  now  understood  wine  and  food.  He  found 
their  savor  surpassingly  delicious.  They  were 
seasoned  for  him  by  a  heavenly  oil,  and  sparkled 
from  the  cup  the  glory  of  earthly  life. 

******** 

It  was  deep  in  the  night  when  the  company 
separated.  The  first  and  only  feast  of  my  life  ! 
said  Heinrich  to  himself  when  he  was  alone. 

He  went  to  the  window.  The  choir  of  the 
stars  stood  in  the  dark  sky,  and  in  the  east  a 


NOVALIS.  495 


white  sheen  announced  the  coming  day.  With 
full  transport  Heinrich  exclaimed:  "You,  ye 
everlasting  stars,  ye  silent  pilgrims,  you  I  in- 
voke as  witnesses  of  my  sacred  oath!  For 
Mathilde  I  will  live,  and  eternal  truth  shall 
bind  my  heart  to  hers.  For  me  too  the  morn 
of  an  everlasting  day  is  breaking.  The  night 
is  past.  I  kindle  myself,  a  never-dying  sacri- 
fice to  the  rising  sun ! 

THE  DREAM. 

Heinrich  was  heated,  and  it  was  late,  toward 
morning,  when  he  fell  asleep.  The  thoughts 
of  his  soul  ran  together  into  wondrous  dreams. 
A  deep  blue  river  shimmered  from  the  green 
plain.  On  the  smooth  surface  swam  a  boat. 
Mathilde  sat  and  rowed.  She  was  decked  with 
garlands,  sang  a  simple  song,  and  looked  toward 
him  with  a  sweet  sorrow.  His  bosom  was  op- 
pressed, he  knew  not  why.  The  sky  was 
bright,  and  peaceful  the  flood.  Her  heavenly 
countenance  mirrored  itself  in  the  waves.  Sud- 
denly the  boat  began  to  spin  round.  He  called 
to  her,  alarmed.  She  smiled,  and  laid  the  oar 
in  the  boat,  which  continued  incessantly  to 
whirl.  An  overwhelming  anxiety  seized  him. 
He  plunged  into  the  stream,  but  could  make  no 
progress,  the  water  bore  him.  She  beckoned, 
she  appeared  desirous  to  say  something.  Al- 
ready the  boat  shipped  water,  but  she  smiled 
with  an  ineffable  inwardness,  and  looked  cheer- 
fully into  the  whirlpool.  All  at  once  it  drew 
her  down.  A  gentle  breath  streaked  across  the 
waves,  which  flowed  on  as  calm  and  as  shining 
as  before.  The  terrific  agony  deprived  him  of 
consciousness.  His  heart  beat  no  more.  He 
did  not  come  to  himself  until  he  found  himself 
on  dry  ground.  He  might  have  swam  far,  it 
was  a  strange  country.  He  knew  not  what  had 
befallen  him  ;  his  mind  was  gone  : — thoughtless 
he  wandered  farther  into  the  land.  He  felt 
himself  dreadfully  exhausted.  A  little  fountain 
trickled  from  a  hill,  it  sounded  like  clear  bells. 
With  his  hand  he  scooped  a  few  drops,  and 
wetted  his  parched  lips.  Like  an  anxious  dream 
the  terrible  event  lay  behind  him.  He  walked 
on  and  on;  flowers  and  trees  spoke  to  him. 
He  felt  himself  so  well,  so  at  home.  Then  he 
heard  again  that  simple  song.  He  pursued  the 
sound.  Suddenly  some  one  held  him  back  by 
his  garment.  Dear  Heinrich !  called  a  well- 
known  voice.  He  looked  round,  and  Mathilde 
clasped  him  in  her  arms.  "  Why  didst  thou  run 
from  me,  dear  heart  ?"  said  she,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "  I  could  scarce  overtake  thee."  Hein- 
rich wept.  He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. — 
"  Where  is  the  river  ?"  he  exclaimed  with  tears. 
"  Seest  thou  not  its  blue  waves  above  us  ?" 
He  looked  up,  and  the  blue  river  was  flowing 
gently  above  their  heads.  "Where  are  we, 
dear  Mathilde?"  "With  our  parents."  "Shall 
we  remain  together?"  "  Forever,"  she  replied, 
while  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his,  and  so  clasped 
him  that  she  could  not  be  separated  from  him 
again.     She  whispered  a  strange  mysterious 


word  into  his  mouth,  which  vibrated  through 
his  whole  being.  He  wished  to  repeat  it,  when 
his  grandfather  called  and  he  awoke.  He  would 
have  given  his  life  to  remember  that  word. 

THE   VEGETABLE  WORLD. 

Plants  are,  as  it  were,  the  most  direct  lan- 
guage of  the  earth.  Every  new  leaf,  every 
strange  flower,  is  some  secret  that  is  pressing 
forth,  and  which,  because  it  cannot  move  or 
speak  for  joy  and  love,  becomes  a  mute,  quiet 
plant.  When  we  find  such  a  flower  in  a  soli- 
tary place,  does  it  not  seem  as  if  everything 
around  were  transfigured,  and  as  if  the  little 
feathered  tones  loved  best  to  dwell  in  its  vi- 
cinity? One  could  weep  for  joy,  and,  secluded 
from  the  world,  thrust  hands  and  feet  into  the 
ground  and  strike  root,  in  order  never  to  leave 
the  happy  neighborhood.  Over  the  whole  dry 
world  is  flung  this  green,  mysterious  carpet  of 
love.  With  every  spring  it  is  made  new,  and 
its  strange  writing  is  legible  only  to  the  beloved, 
like  the  posies  of  the  Orient.  Forever  will  he 
read,  and  never  read  his  fill ;  and  daily  become 
aware  of  new  meanings,  new,  transporting  reve- 
lations of  loving  Nature. 

CLOUDS. 

"  There  is  certainly  something  mysterious  in 
the  clouds,"  said  Sylvester,  "  and  certain  kinds 
have  often  a  quite  wonderful  influence  over  us. 
They  march,  and  would  take  us  up  with  their 
cool  shadows  and  bear  us  away;  and  while 
their  forms  are  lovely  and  variegated,  like  a 
breathed-out  wish  of  our  inner  man,  their  bright- 
ness, and  the  splendid  light  that  then  reigns  on 
the  earth,  are  like  a  prophecy  of  an  unknown, 
ineffable  glory.  But  there  are  also  dim,  and 
grave,  and  terrible  forms  of  clouds,  in  which  all 
the  terrors  of  the  ancient  night  appear  to  threaten 
us.  The  heaven  seems  as  if  it  would  never  be- 
come clear  again,  the  cheerful  blue  is  expunged, 
and  a  lurid,  copper-red,  on  a  black-grey  ground, 
awakens  awe  and  terror  in  every  breast.  When, 
then,  the  destructive  beams  dart  down,  and- 
with  mocking  laughter,  the  crashing  thunder- 
blows  follow  in  their  rear,  we  are  terrified  to 
the  very  centre  of  our  being;  and  if,  then,  there 
arises  not  in  us  the  sublime  feeling  of  our  moral 
supremacy,  we  think  we  are  delivered  up  to 
the  terrors  of  hell,  to  the  power  of  evil  spirits. 
These  are  echoes  of  the  old,  inhuman  Nature ; 
but  they  are  also  rousing  voices  of  the  higher 
Nature — the  heavenly  conscience  within  us. 
Mortality  groans  in  its  ground-fastnesses ;  but 
the  immortality  begins  to  shine  with  increased 
brightness,  and  to  know  itself. 

CONSCIENCE. 

"When,"  asked  Heinrich,  "when  will  there 
no  longer  be  any  need  of  terrors,  of  pains,  of 
distress,  and  of  evil  in  the  world?" 

When  there  is  but  one  power, —  the  power 
of  conscience ;  when  Nature  has  become  chaste 
and  moral.    There  is  but  one  cause  of  evil — 


496 


NOV  A  LIS. 


the  universal  weakness ;  and  this  weakness  is 
nothing  but  imperfect  moral  receptivity  and  in- 
sensibility to  the  charm  of  Freedom. 

Conscience  is  the  inborn  mediator  in  every 
man.  It  is  God's  vicegerent  on  the  earth,  and 
is  therefore  regarded  by  many  as  the  highest 
and  the  last.  *  *  *  Conscience  is  man's 
most  proper  essence,  completely  transfigured  ; — 
the  celestial,  aboriginal  man.  It  is  not  this  or 
that,  it  commands  not  in  general  propositions, 
it  consists  not  of  single  virtues.  There  is  but 
one  virtue — the  pure,  earnest  will  which,  in  the 
moment  of  decision,  resolves  and  chooses  imme- 
diately. In  living  and  peculiar  indivisibility,  it 
inhabits  and  animates  the  delicate  symbol  of 
the  human  body,  and  avails  to  call  the  spiritual 
members  into  truest  activity. 

Nature  subsists  only  through  the  spirit  of 
virtue,  and  is  destined  to  become  ever  more 
steadfast. 


FROM  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

Where  no  gods  are,  spectres  rule. 

The  best  thing  that  the  French  achieved  by 
their  Revolution,  was  a  portion  of  Germanity. 

Germanity  is  genuine  popularity,  and  there- 
fore an  ideal. 

Where  children  are,  there  is  the  golden  age. 

Spirit  is  now  active  here  and  there :  when 
will  Spirit  be  active  in  the  whole  ?  When  will 
mankind,  in  the  mass,  begin  to  consider  ? 

Nature  is  pure  Past,  foregone  freedom ;  and 
therefore,  throughout,  the  soil  of  history. 

The  antithesis  of  body  and  spirit  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  and  dangerous  of  all  anti- 
theses. It  has  played  an  important  part  in 
history. 

Only  by  comparing  ourselves,  as  men,  with 
other  rational  beings,  could  we  know  what  we 
truly  are,  what  position  we  occupy. 

The  history  of  Christ  is  as  surely  poetry  as  it 
is  history.  And,  in  general,  only  that  history  is 
history  which  might  also  be  fable. 

The  Bible  begins  gloriously  with  Paradise, 
the  symbol  of  youth,  and  ends  with  the  ever- 
lasting kingdom,  with  the  holy  city.  The  his- 
tory of  every  man  should  be  a  Bible. 

Prayer  is  to  religion  what  thinking  is  to  phi- 
losophy.   To  pray  is  to  make  religion. 

The  more  sinful  man  feels  himself  the  more 
Christian  he  is. 


Christianity  is  opposed  to  science,  to  art,  to 
enjoyment  in  the  proper  sense. 

It  goes  forth  from  the  common  man.  It  in- 
spires the  great  majority  of  the  limited  on  earth. 

It  is  the  germ  of  all  democracy,  the  highest 
fact  in  the  domain  of  the  popular. 

Light  is  the  symbol  of  genuine  self-possession. 
Therefore  light,  according  to  analogy,  is  the  ac- 
tion of  the  self-contact  of  matter.  Accordingly, 
day  is  the  consciousness  of  .the  planet,  and 
while  the  sun,  like  a  god,  in  eternal  self-action, 
inspires  the  centre,  one  planet  after  another 
closes  one  eye  for  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  and 
with  cool  sleep  refreshes  itself  for  new  life  and 
contemplation.  Accordingly,  here,  too,  there  is 
religion.  For  is  the  life  of  the  planets  aught 
else  but  sun-worship  ? 

The  Holy  Ghost  is  more  than  the  Bible.  This 
should  be  our  teacher  of  religion,  not  the  dead, 
earthly,  equivocal  letter. 

All  faith  is  miraculous,  and  worketh  miracles. 

Sin  is  indeed  the  real  evil  in  the  world.  All 
calamity  proceeds  from  that.  He  who  under- 
stands sin,  understands  virtue  and  Christianity, 
himself  and  the  world. 

The  greatest  of  miracles  is  a  virtuous  act. 

If  a  man  could  suddenly  believe,  in  sincerity, 
that  he  was  moral,  he  would  be  so. 

We  need  not  fear  to  admit  that  man  has  a 
preponderating  tendency  to  evil.  So  much  the 
better  is  he  by  nature,  for  only  the  unlike  attracts. 

Everything  distinguished  (peculiar)  deserves 
ostracism.  Well  for  it  if  it  ostracises  itself. 
Everything  absolute  must  quit  the  world. 

A  time  will  come,  and  that  soon,  when  all 
men  will  be  convinced,  that  there  can  be  no 
king  without  a  republic,  and  no  republic  with- 
out a  king;  that  both  are  as  inseparable  as  body 
and  soul.  The  true  king  will  be  a  republic,  the 
true  republic  a  king. 

In  cheerful  souls  there  is  no  wit.  Wit  shows 
a  disturbance  of  the  equipoise. 

Most  people  know  not  how  interesting  they 
are,  what  interesting  things  they  really  utter. 
A  true  representation  of  themselves,  a  record 
and  estimate  of  their  sayings,  would  make  them 
astonished  at  themselves,  would  help  them  to 
discover  in  themselves  an  entirely  new  world. 

Man  is  the  Messiah  of  Nature. 

The  soul  is  the  most  powerful  of  all  poi- 
sons. It  is  the  most  penetrating  and  dhTusible 
stimulus. 


NOVALIS. 


497 


Every  sickness  is  a  musical  problem  ;  the  cure 
is  the  musical  solution. 

Inoculation  with  death,  also,  will  not  be  want- 
ing in  some  future  universal  therapia. 

The  idea  of  a  perfect  health  is  interesting 
only  in  a  scientific  point  of  view.  Sickness  is 
necessary  to  individualization. 

If  God  could  be  man,  he  can  also  be  stone, 
plant,  animal,  element,  and  perhaps,  in  this  way, 
there  is  a  continuous  redemption  in  Nature. 

Life  is  a  disease  of  the  spirit,  a  passionate 
activity.  Rest  is  the  peculiar  property  of  the 
spirit.    From  the  spirit  comes  gravitation. 

As  nothing  can  be  free,  so,  too,  nothing  can 
be  forced,  but  spirit. 

A  space-filling  individual  is  a  body,  a  time- 
filling  individual  is  a  soul. 

It  should  be  inquired,  whether  Nature  has  not 
essentially  changed  with  the  progress  of  culture. 

All  activity  ceases  when  knowledge  comes. 
The  state  of  knowing  is  eudcemonism,  blest  re- 
pose of  contemplation,  heavenly  quietism. 

Miracles,  as  contradictions  of  Nature,  are 
amathematical.  But  there  are  no  miracles  in 
this  sense.  What  we  so  term,  is  intelligible 
precisely  by  means  of  mathematics;  for  nothing 
is  miraculous  to  mathematics. 

In  music,  mathematics  appears  formally,  as 
revelation,  as  creative  idealism.  All  enjoyment 
is  musical,  consequently  mathematical.  The 
highest  life  is  mathematics. 


There  may  be  mathematicians  of  the  first 
magnitude  who  cannot  cipher.  One  can  be  a 
great  cipherer  without  a  conception  of  mathe- 
matics. 

Instinct  is  genius  in  Paradise,  before  the  pe- 
riod of  self-abstraction  (self-recognition). 

The  fate  which  oppresses  us  is  the  sluggish- 
ness of  our  spirit.  By  enlargement  and  culti- 
vation of  our  activity,  we  change  ourselves  into 
fate.  Everything  appears  to  stream  in  upon 
us,  because  we  do  not  stream  out.  We  are  ne- 
gative, because  we  choose  to  be  so ;  the  more 
positive  we  become,  the  more  negative  will  the 
world  around  us  be,  until,  at  last,  there  is  no 
more  negative,  and  we  are  all  in  all.  God 
wills  gods. 

All  power  appears  only  in  transition.  Per- 
manent power  is  stuff. 

Every  act  of  introversion  —  every  glance  into 
our  interior — is  at  the  same  time  ascension, 
going  up  to  heaven,  a  glance  at  the  veritable 
outward. 

Only  so  far  as  a  man  is  happily  married  to 
himself,  is  he  fit  for  married  life  and  family 
life,  generally. 

One  must  never  confess  that  one  loves  one's 
self.  The  secret  of  this  confession  is  the 
life-principle  of  the  only  true  and  eternal 
love. 

We  conceive  God  as  persona],  just  as  we  con- 
ceive ourselves  personal.  God  is  just  as  per- 
sonal and  as  individual  as  we  are  ;  for  what 
we  call  /  is  not  our  true  i,  but  only  its  off- 
glance. 


LUDWIG 

Born 

Ludwio  Tieck,  born  at  Berlin,  on  the  31st 
of  May,  1773,  is  known  to  the  world  only  as  a 
Man  of  Letters,  having1  never  held  any  public 
station,  or  followed  any  profession,  except  that 
of  authorship.  Of  his  private  history  the  critics 
and  news-hunters  of  his  own  country  complain 
that  they  have  little  information  ;  a  deficiency 
which  may  arise  in  part  from  the  circumstance, 
that  till  of  late  years,  though  from  the  first  ad- 
mired by  the  Patricians  of  his  native  literature, 
he  has  stood  in  no  high  favor,  and  of  course 
awakened  no  great  curiosity,  among  the  read- 
ing Plebs  ;  and  may  indicate,  at  the  same  time, 
that  in  his  walk  and  conversation,  there  is  little 
wonderful  to  be  discovered. 

His  literary  life  he  began  at  Berlin,  in  his 
twenty-second  year,  by  the  publication  of  three 
novels,  following  each  other  in  quick  succes- 
sion :  Abdullah,  William  Lovell,  and  Peter 
Leberreckt.  These  works  found  small  patron- 
age at  their  first  appearance,  and  are  still  re- 
garded as  immature  products  of  his  genius;  the 
opening  of  a  cloudy,  as  well  as  fervid  dawn ; 
betokening  a  day  of  strong  heat,  and  perhaps 
at  last,  of  serene  brightness.  A  gloomy  tragic 
spirit  is  said  to  reign  throughout  all  of  them  ; 
the  image  of  a  high  passionate  mind,  scorning 
the  base  and  the  false,  rather  than  accomplish- 
ing the  good  and  the  true ;  in  rapt  earnestness 
"  interrogating  Fate,"  and  receiving  no  answer 
but  the  echo  of  its  own  questions  reverberated 
from  the  dead  walls  of  its  vast  and  lone  impri- 
sonment. 

In  this  stage  of  spiritual  progress,  where  so 
many  not  otherwise  ungifted  minds  at  length 
painfully  content  themselves  to  take  up  their 
permanent  abode,  where  our  own  noble  and 
hapless  Byron  perished  from  among  us  at  the 
instant  when  his  deliverance  seemed  at  hand, 
it  was  not  Tieck's  ill  fortune  to  continue  too 
long.  His  Popular  Talcs,  published  in  1797, 
as  an  appendage  to  his  last  novel,  under  the 
title  of  Peter  Leberrechts  Volksmahrchen,  al- 
ready indicate  that  he  had  worked  his  way 

*  The  following  notice,  as  well  as  the  translation  from 
Tieck,  is  from  Carlyle's  "German  Romance." 


TIECK.* 

1773. 

through  these  baleful  shades  into  a  calmer  and 
sunnier  elevation ;  from  which,  and  happily 
without  looking  at  the  world  through  a  painted 
glass  of  any  sort,  he  had  begun  to  see  that  there 
were  things  to  be  believed,  as  well  as  things 
to  be  denied ;  things  to  be  loved  and  forwarded, 
as  well  as  things  to  be  hated  and  trodden  under 
foot.  The  active  and  positive  of  Goodness  was 
displacing  the  barren  and  tormenting  negative; 
and  worthy  feelings  were  now  to  be  translated 
into  their  only  proper  language,  worthy  actions. 
In  Tieck's  mind,  all  Goodness,  all  that  was 
noble  or  excellent  in  Nature,  seems  to  have 
combined  itself  under  the  image  of  Poetic 
Beauty ;  to  the  service  and  defence  of  which 
he  has  ever  since  unweariedly  devoted  his  gifts 
and  his  days. 

These  Volkmdhrchen  are  of  the  most  varied 
nature:  sombre,  pathetic,  fantastic,  satirical; 
but  all  pervaded  by  a  warm,  genial  soul,  which 
accommodates  itself  with  equal  aptitude  to  the 
gravest  or  the  gayest  form.  A  soft  abundance, 
a  simple  and  kindly  but  often  solemn  majesty 
is  in  them  :  wondrous  shapes,  full  of  meaning, 
move  over  the  scene,  true  modern  denizens  of 
the  old  Fairyland ;  low  tones  of  plaintiveness 
or  awe  flit  round  us;  or  a  starry  splendor  twin- 
kles down  from  the  immeasurable  depths  of 
Night. 

It  is  by  this  work,  as  revised  and  perfected 
long  afterwards,  that  we  now  purpose  introduc- 
ing Tieck  to  the  notice  of  the  English  reader : 
it  was  by  this  also  that  he  was  introduced  to 
the  notice  of  his  countrymen.  Peter  Leber- 
rechts Volksmahrchen  was  reviewed  by  August 
Wilhelm  Schlegel,  in  the  Jena  Litteraturzei- 
tung ;  and  its  author,  for  the  first  time,  brought 
under  the  eye  of  the  world  as  a  man  of  rich 
endowments,  and  in  the  fair  way  for  turning 
them  to  proper  account.  To  the  body  of  the 
world,  however,  this  piece  of  news  was  sur- 
prising rather  than  delightful;  for  Tieck's 
merits  were  not  of  a  kind  to  split  the  ears  of 
the  groundlings,  and  his  manner  of  producing 
them  was  ill  calculated  to  conciliate  a  kind 
hearing.    Schiller  and  Goethe  were  at  this 

(498) 


TIECK. 


499 


time  silent,  or  occupied  with  History  and  Phi- 
losophy :  Tieck  belonged  not  to  the  existing  po- 
etic guild  ;  and,  far  from  soliciting  admission,  he 
had  not  scrupled,  in  the  most  pleasant  fashion, 
to  inform  the  craftsmen  that  their  great  Diana 
was  a  dumb  idol,  and  their  silver  shrines  an 
unprofitable  thing.  Among  these  Volksmahr- 
chen,  one  of  the  most  prominent  is  Der  Gestie- 
felle  Kater,  a  dramatised  version  of  Puss  in 
Boots ;  under  the  grotesque  mask  of  which,  he 
had  laughed  with  his  whole  heart,  in  a  true 
Aristophanic  vein,  at  the  actual  aspect  of  lite- 
rature ;  and  without  mingling  his  satire  with 
personalities,  or  any  other  false  ingredient,  had 
rained  it  like  a  quiet  shower  of  volcanic  ashes 
on  the  cant  of  Illumination,  the  cant  of  Sensi- 
bility, the  cant  of  Criticism,  and  the  many  other 
cants  of  that  shallow  time,  till  the  gum-flower 
products  of  the  poetic  garden  hung  draggled 
and  black  under  their  unkindly  coating.  In 
another  country,  at  another  day,  the  drama  of 
Puss  in  Boots  may  justly  be  supposed  to  ap- 
pear with  enfeebled  influences ;  yet  even  to  a 
stranger  there  is  not  wanting  a  feast  of  broad 
joyous  humor  in  this  strange  phantasmagoria, 
where  pit  and  stage,  and  man  and  animal,  and 
earth  and  air,  are  jumbled  in  confusion  worse 
confounded,  and  the  copious,  kind,  ruddy  light 
of  true  mirth  overshines  and  warms  the  whole. 

This  What-d'ye-call  it  of  Puss  in  Boots  was, 
as  it  were,  the  key-note  which  for  several  years 
determined  the  tone  of  Tieck's  literary  enter- 
prises. The  same  spirit  lives  in  his  Verkehrte 
Welt  (World  Turned  Topsy-turvy),  a  drama 
of  similar  structure,  which  accompanied  the 
former ;  in  his  tale  of  Zerbino,  or  the  Tour  in 
search  of  Taste,  which  soon  followed  it ;  and 
in  numerous  parodies  and  lighter  pieces  which 
he  gave  to  the  world  in  his  Poetic  Journal 
the  second  and  last  volume  of  which  periodical 
contains  his  Letters  on  Shakspeare,  inculcating 
the  same  doctrines,  in  a  graver  shape.  About 
this  time,  after  a  short  residence  in  Hamburgh, 
where  he  had  married,  he  removed  his  abode 
to  Jena;  a  change  which  confirmed  him  in  his 
literary  tendencies,  and  facilitated  the  attain- 
ment of  their  objects.  It  was  here  that  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  the  two  Schlegels ;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  with  their  friend  Novalis,  a 
young  man  of  a  pure,  warm,  and  benignant 
genius,  whose  fine  spirit  died  in  its  first  blos- 
soming, and  whose  posthumous  works  it  was, 
ere  long,  the  melancholy  task  of  Tieck,  and  the 
younger  Schlegel,  to  publish  under  their  su- 


perintendence. With  Wuckcnroder  of  Berlin, 
a  person  of  kindred  mind  with  Novalis,  and 
kindred  fortune  also,  having  died  very  early, 
Tieck  was  already  acquainted  and  united ;  for 
he  had  co-operated  in  the  Herzensergiessungen 
eincs  einsarnen  Klosterbruders,  an  elegant  and 
impressive  work  on  pictorial  art,  and  Wacken- 
roder's  chief  performance. 

These  young  men  sympathised  completely 
in  their  critical  ideas  with  Tieck;  and  each 
was  laboring  in  his  own  sphere  to  disseminate 
them,  and  reduce  them  to  practice.  Their  en- 
deavors, it  would  seem,  have  prospered ;  fbr,  in 
colloquial  literary  history,  this  gifted  cinquefoil, 
often  it  is  only  the  trefoil  of  Tieck  and  the  two 
Schlegels,  have  the  credit,  which  was  long  the 
blame,  of  founding  a  New  School  of  Poetry,  by 
which  the  Old  School,  first  fired  upon  in  the 
Gestiefelte  Kater,  and  ever  afterwards  assailed, 
without  intermission,  by  eloquence  and  ridi- 
cule, argument  and  entreaty,  was  at  length 
displaced  and  hunted  out  of  being;  or,  like 
Partridge  the  Astrologer,  reduced  to  a  life 
which  could  be  proved  to  be  no  life. 

Of  this  New  School,  which  has  been  the 
subject  of  much  unwise  talk,  and  of  much  not 
very  wise  writing,  we  cannot  here  attempt  to 
offer  any  suitable  description,  far  less  any  just 
estimate.  One  thing  may  be  remarked,  that 
the  epithet  School  seems  to  describe  the  case 
with  little  propriety.  That  since  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  a  great  change  has 
taken  place  in  German  literature,  is  plain 
enough,  without  commentators ;  but  that  it  was 
effected  by  three  young  men,  living  in  the  little 
town  of  Jena,  is  not  by  any  means  so  plain. 
The  critical  principles  of  Tieck  and  the  Schle- 
gels had  already  been  set  forth,  in  the  form 
both  of  precept  and  prohibition,  and  with  all 
the  aids  of  philosophic  depth  and  epigrammatic 
emphasis,  by  the  united  minds  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller,  in  the  Horen  and  Xenien.  The  de- 
velopment and  practical  application  of  the  doc- 
trine is  all  that  pertains  to  these  reputed  foun- 
ders of  the  sect.  But  neither  can  the  change 
be  said  to  have  originated  with  Schiller  and 
Goethe ;  for  it  is  a  change  originating  not  in 
individuals,  but  in  universal  circumstances,  and 
belongs  not  to  Germany,  but  to  Europe.  Among 
ourselves,  for  instance,  within  the  last  thirty 
years,  who  has  not  lifted  up  his  voice  with 
double  vigor  in  praise  of  Shakspeare  and  Na- 
ture, and  vituperation  of  French  taste  and 
French  philosophy  3  Who  has  not  heard  of  the 


500 


TIECK. 


glories  of  old  English  literature ;  the  wealth 
of  Queen  Elizabeth's  age ;  the  penury  of  Queen 
Anne's;  and  the  inquiry  whether  Pope  was  a 
poet]  A  similar  temper  is  breaking  out  in 
France  itself,  hermetically  sealed  as  that  coun- 
try seemed  to  be  against  all  foreign  influences ; 
and  doubts  are  beginning  to  be  entertained,  and 
even  expressed,  about  Corneille  and  the  Three 
Unities.  It  seems  to  be  substantially  the  same 
thing  which  has  occurred  in  Germany,  and 
been  attributed  to  Tieck  and  his  associates : 
only,  that  the  revolution,  which  is  here  pro- 
ceeding, and  in  France  commencing,  appears 
in  Germany  to  be  completed.  Its  results  have 
there  been  embodied  in  elaborate  laws,  and 
profound  systems  have  been  promulgated  and 
accepted :  whereas  with  us,  in  past  years,  there 
has  been  as  it  were  a  Literary  Anarchy ;  for 
the  Pandects  of  Blair  and  Bossu  are  obsolete 
or  abrogated,  but  no  new  code  supplies  their 
place ;  and,  author  and  critic,  each  sings  or 
says  that  which  is  right  in  his  own  eyes.  For 
the  principles  of  German  Poetics,  we  can  only 
refer  the  reader  to  the  treatises  of  Kant,  Schil- 
ler, Richter,  the  Schlegels,  and  their  many 
copyists  and  expositors  ;  with  the  promise  that 
his  labor  will  be  hard,  but  not  unrewarded  by 
a  plenteous  harvest  of  results,  which,  whether 
they  be  doubted,  denied,  or  believed,  he  will 
find  no  trivial  or  unprofitable  subject  for  his 
contemplation. 

These  doctrines  of  taste,  which  Tieck  em- 
braced every  opportunity  of  enforcing  as  a 
critic,  he  did  not  fail  diligently  to  exemplify  in 
practice  ;  as  a  long  and  rapid  series  of  poetical 
performances  lies  before  the  world  to  attest. 
Of  these,  his  Genoveva,  a  play  grounded  on 
the  legend  of  that  Saint,  appears  to  be  regarded 
as  his  master-piece  by  the  best  judges;  though 
Franz  Sternebalds  Wanderungen,  the  ficti- 
tious History  of  a  Student  of  Painting,  was 
more  relished  by  others;  and,  as  a  critic  tells 
us,  "here  and  there  a  low  voice  might  be  even 
heard  voting  that  this  novel  equalled  Wilhelm 
Meister ;  the  peaceful  clearness  of  which  it 
however  nowise  attained,  but  only,  with  visible 
effort,  strove  to  imitate."  In  this  last  work  he 
was  assisted  by  Wackenroder.  At  an  earlier 
period,  he  had  come  forth,  as  a  translator,  with 
a  new  version  of  Don  Quixote :  he  now  ap- 
peared also  as  a  commentator,  with  a  work 
entitled  Minnelieder  aus  dem  Schwabischen 
Zeitaller  (Minstrelsy  of  the  Swabian  Era), 


published  at  Berlin  in  1803;  with  an  able  Pre- 
face, explaining  the  relation  of  these  poets  to 
Petrarca  and  the  Troubadours.  In  1804,  he 
sent  out  his  Kaiser  Octavianus,  a  story  which, 
like  the  other  works  mentioned  in  this  para- 
graph, I  have  never  seen,  but  which  I  find 
praised  by  his  countrymen  in  no  very  intelligi- 
ble terms,  as  "  a  fair  revival  of  the  old  Ma.hr- 
chen  (Traditionary  Tale) ;  in  which,  however, 
the  poet  moves  freely,  and  has  completed  the 
cycle  of  the  romance."  Die  Gemalde  (the 
Pictures),  another  of  his  fictions,  has  lately 
been  translated  into  English. 

Tieck's  frequent  change  of  place  bespeaks 
less  settledness  in  his  domestic,  than  happily 
existed  in  his  intellectual  circumstances.  From 
Jena  he  seems  to  have  again  removed  to  Ber- 
lin ;  then  to  a  country  residence  near  Frankfort 
on  the  Oder ;  which,  in  its  turn,  he  quitted  for 
a  journey  into  Italy.  In  this  classic  country 
he  found  new  facilities  for  two  of  his  favorite 
pursuits:  he  employed  himself,  it  is  said,  to 
good  purpose,  in  the  study  of  ancient  and  mo- 
dern art ;  to  which,  while  in  Rome,  he  added 
the  examining  of  many  old  German  manuscripts 
preserved  in  the  Vatican  Library.  From  ins 
labors  in  this  latter  department,  and  elsewhere, 
his  countrymen  have  not  long  ago  obtained,  in 
addition  to  the  Minstrelsy,  an  Altdeutsches 
Theater  (Old-German  Theatre),  in  two  vo- 
lumes, with  the  hope  of  more.  A  collection  of 
Old-German  Poetry  is  still  expected. 

In  1806,  he  returned  to  Germany;  first  to 
Munich,  then  to  his  former  retreat  near  Frank- 
fort; but  for  the  next  seven  years,  he  was  little 
heard  of  as  an  active  member  of  the  literary 
world  ;  and  the  regret  of  his  admirers  was  in- 
creased by  intelligence  that  ill  health  was  the 
cause  of  his  inactivity.  That  this  inactivity 
was  more  apparent  than  real,  he  has  proved  by 
his  reappearance  in  new  vigor,  at  a  time  when 
he  finds  a  readier  welcome  and  more  willing 
audience.  He  has  since  published  abundantly 
in  various  forms ;  as  a  translator,  an  editor,  and 
a  writer  both  of  poetry  and  prose.  In  1812, 
appeared  his  early  Volksmahrchen,  retouched, 
and  improved,  and  combined  into  a  whole,  by 
conversations,  critical,  disquisitionary,  and  de- 
scriptive, in  two  volumes,  entitled  Phantasus; 
from  which  our  present  specimens  of  him  are 
taken.  His  Altdeutsches  Theater  was  followed 
by  an  Altenglisches,  including  the  disputed 
plays  of  Shakspeare ;  a  work  gladly  received 


TIECK. 


001 


by  his  countrymen,  no  less  devoted  admirers 
of  Shakspeare  than  ourselves.  Since  that  time, 
he  has  paid  us  a  personal  visit.  In  1818,  he 
was  in  London,  and  is  said  to  have  been  well 
satisfied  with  his  reception ;  which  we  cannot 
but  hope  was  as  respectful  and  kind  as  a  guest 
so  accomplished,  and  so  friendly  to  England, 
deserved  at  our  hands.  The  fruit  of  his  resi- 
dence among  us,  it  seems,  has  already  appeared 
in  his  writings.  He  has  very  lately  given  to 
the  world  a  novel  on  Shakspeare  and  his  Times ; 
in  which  he  has  not  trembled  to  introduce,  as 


acting  characters,  the  great  dramatist  himself, 
with  Marlowe,  and  various  other  poets  of  that 
age.  Such  is  the  report,  which  adds,  that  his 
work  is  admired  in  Germany;  but  that  any 
copy  of  it  has  crossed  the  Channel,  I  have  not 
heard. 

Of  Tieck's  present  residence,  or  special 
pursuits,  or  economical  circumstances,  I  am 
sorry  to  confess  my  entire  ignorance.  One 
little  fact  may  perhaps  be  worth  adding ;  that 
Sophia  Bernhardi,  an  esteemed  authoress,  is 
his  sister.  


THE  ELVES. 

"Where  is  our  little  Mary?"  said  the  father. 

"  She  is  playing  out  upon  the  green  there,  with 
our  neighbor's  boy,"  replied  the  mother. 

"I  wish  they  may  not  run  away  and  lose 
themselves,"  said  he;  "they  are  so  thought- 
less." 

The  mother  looked  for  the  little  ones,  and 
brought  them  their  evening  luncheon.  "  It  is 
warm,"  said  the  boy;  "and  Mary  had  a  longing 
for  the  red  cherries." 

"Have  a  care,  children,"  said  the  mother, 
"  and  do  not  run  too  far  from  home,  or  into  the 
wood  ;  father  and  I  are  going  to  the  fields." 

Little  Andres  answered:  "Never  fear,  the 
wood  frightens  us ;  we  shall  sit  here  by  the 
house,  where  there  are  people  near  us." 

The  mother  went  in,  and  soon  came  out  again 
with  her  husband.  They  locked  the  door,  and 
turned  towards  the  fields  to  look  after  their 
laborers,  and  see  their  hay-harvest  in  the  mea- 
dow. Their  house  lay  upon  a  little  green 
height,  encircled  by  a  pretty  ring  of  paling, 
which  likewise  enclosed  their  fruit  and  flower- 
garden.  The  hamlet  stretched  somewhat  deeper 
down,  and  on  the  other  side  lay  the  castle  of  the 
Count.  Martin  rented  the  large  farm  from  this 
nobleman  ;  and  was  living  in  contentment  with 
his  wife  and  only  child ;  for  he  yearly  saved 
some  money,  and  had  the  prospect  of  becoming 
a  man  of  substance  by  his  industry,  for  the 
ground  was  productive,  and  the  Count  not 
illiberal. 

As  he  walked  with  his  wife  to  the  fields,  he 
gazed  cheerfully  round,  and  said  :  "  What  a  dif- 
ferent look  this  quarter  has,  Brigitta,  from  the 
place  we  lived  in  formerly !  Here  it  is  all  so 
green;  the  whole  village  is  bedecked  with  thick- 
spreading  fruit-trees  ;  the  ground  is  full  of  beau- 
tiful herbs  and  flowers  ;  all  the  houses  are  cheer- 
ful and  cleanly,  the  inhabitants  are  at  their  ease  : 
nay,  I  could  almost  fancy  that  the  woods  are 
greener  here  than  elsewhere,  and  the  sky  bluer; 
and,  so  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  you  have  plea- 
sure and  delight  in  beholding  the  bountiful 
Earth." 


"And  whenever  you  cross  the  stream,"  said 
Brigitta,  "you  are,  as  it  were,  in  another  world, 
all  is  so  dreary  and  withered ;  but  every  tra- 
'veller  declares  that  our  village  is  the  fairest  in 
the  country,  far  and  near." 

"All  but  that  fir-ground,"  said  her  husband; 
"  do  but  look  back  to  it,  how  dark  and  dismal 
that  solitary  spot  is  lying  in  the  gay  scene :  the 
dingy  fir-trees,  with  the  smoky  huts  behind 
them,  the  ruined  stalls,  the  brook  flowing  past 
with  a  sluggish  melancholy." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  Brigitta ;  "  if  you  but  ap- 
proach that  spot,  you  grow  disconsolate  and  sad, 
you  know  not  why.  What  sort  of  people  can 
they  be  that  live  there,  and  keep  themselves  so 
separate  from  the  rest  of  us,  as  if  they  had  an 
evil  conscience  ?" 

"A  miserable  crew,"  replied  the  young  far- 
mer: "gipsies,  seemingly,  that  steal  and  cheat 
in  other  quarters,  and  have  their  hoard  and 
hiding-place  here.  I  wonder  only  that  his  lord- 
ship suffers  them." 

"Who  knows,"  said  the  wife,  with  an  accent 
of  pity,  "but  perhaps  they  may  be  poor  people, 
wishing,  out  of  shame,  to  conceal  their  poverty ; 
for,  after  all,  no  one  can  say  aught  ill  of  them ; 
the  only  thing  is,  that  they  do  not  go  to  church, 
and  none  knows  how  they  live ;  for  the  little 
garden,  which  indeed  seems  altogether  waste, 
cannot  possibly  support  them ;  and  fields  they 
have  none." 

"  God  knows,"  said  Martin,  as  they  went 
along,  "  what  trade  they  follow ;  no  mortal 
comes  to  them ;  for  the  place  they  live  in  is  as 
if  bewitched  and  excommunicated,  so  that  even 
our  wildest  fellows  will  not  venture  into  it." 

Such  conversation  they  pursued,  while  walk- 
ing to  the  fields.  That  gloomy  spot  they  spoke 
of  lay  aside  from  the  hamlet.  In  a  dell,  begirt 
with  firs,  you  might  behold  a  hut,  and  various 
ruined  office-houses ;  rarely  was  smoke  seen  to 
mount  from  it,  still  more  rarely  did  men  appear 
there;  though  at  times  curious  people,  venturing 
somewhat  nearer,  had  perceived  upon  the  bench 
before  the  hut,  some  hideous  women,  in  ragged 
clothes,  dandling  in  their  arms  some  children 
equally  dirty  aud  ill-favored  ;  black  dogs  were 


502 


T1ECK. 


running  up  and  down  upon  the  boundary;  and, 
of  an  evening,  a  man  of  monstrous  size  was  seen 
to  cross  the  foot-bridge  of  the  brook,  and  disap- 
pear in  the  hut;  and,  in  the  darkness,  various 
shapes  were  observed,  moving  like  shadows 
round  a  fire  in  the  open  air.  This  piece  of 
ground,  the  firs,  and  the  ruined  huts,  formed  in 
truth  a  strange  contrast  with  the  bright  green 
landscape,  the  white  houses  of  the  hamlet,  and 
the  stately  new-built  castle. 

The  two  little  ones  had  now  eaten  their  fruit; 
it  came  into  their  heads  to  run  races ;  and  the 
little  nimble  Mary  always  got  the  start  of  the 
less  active  Andres.  "  It  is  not  fair,"  cried  An- 
dres at  last:  "let  us  try  it  for  some  length,  then 
we  shall  see  who  wins." 

"As  thou  wilt,"  said  Mary;  "only  to  the 
brook  we  must  not  run." 

"  No,"  said  Andres ;  "  but  there,  on  the  hill, 
stands  the  large  pear-tree,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  this.  I  shall  run  by  the  left,  round  past 
the  fir-ground;  thou  canst  try  it  by  the  right,' 
over  the  fields;  so  we  do  not  meet  till  we  get 
up,  and  then  we  shall  see  which  of  us  is  the 
swifter." 

"  Done,"  cried  Mary,  and  began  to  run  ;  «  for 
we  shall  not  mar  one  another  by  the  way,  and 
my  father  says  it  is  as  far  to  the  hill  by  that 
side  of  the  gipsies'  house  as  by  this." 

Andres  had  already  started,  and  Mary,  turn- 
ing to  the  right,  could  no  longer  see  him.  "  It 
is  very  silly,"  said  she  to  herself :  "  I  have  only 
to  take  heart,  and  run  along  the  bridge,  past  the 
hut,  and  through  the  yard,  and  I  shall  certainly 
be  first."  She  was  already  standing  by  the 
brook  and  the  clump  of  firs.  "Shall  I?  No; 
it  is  too  frightful,"  said  she.  A  little  white  dog 
was  standing  on  the  farther  side,  and  barking 
with  might  and  main.  In  her  terror,  Mary 
thought  the  dog  some  monster,  and  sprang  back. 
"Fy!  fy!"  said  she  :  "  the  dolt  is  gone  half  way 
by  this  time,  while  I  stand  here  considering." 
The  little  dog  kept  barking,  and,  as  she  looked 
at  it  more  narrowly,  it  seemed  no  longer  fright- 
ful, but,  on  the  contrary,  quite  pretty  :  it  had  a 
red  collar  round  its  neck,  with  a  glittering  bell ; 
and  as  it  raised  its  head,  and  shook  itself  in 
barking,  the  little  bell  sounded  with  the  finest 
tinkle.  "Well,  I  must  risk  it!"  cried  she:  "I 
will  run  for  life ;  quick,  quick,  I  am  through  ; 
certainly  to  Heaven,  they  cannot  eat  me  up 
alive  in  half  a  minute!"  And  with  this,  the 
gay,  courageous,  little  Mary,  sprang  along  the 
foot-bridge ;  passed  the  dog,  which  ceased  its 
barking,  and  began  to  fawn  on  her ;  and  in  a 
moment  she  was  standing  on  the  other  bank, 
and  the  black  firs  all  round  concea^d  from 
view  her 
landscape. 

But  what  was  her  astonishment  when  here! 
The  loveliest,  most  variegated  flower-garden 
lay  round  her ;  tulips,  roses,  and  lilies,  were 
glittering  in  the  fairest  colours;  blue  and  gold- 
red  butterflies  were  wavering  in  the  blossoms ; 
cages  of  shining  wire  were  hung  on  the  espa- 


liers, with  many-colored  birds  in  them,  singing 
beautiful  songs ;  and  children,  in  short  white 
frocks,  with  flowing  yellow  hair  and  brilliant 
eyes,  were  frolicking  about;  some  playing  with 
lambkins,  some  feeding  the  birds,  or  gathering 
flowers,  and  giving  them  to  one  another;  some, 
again,  were  eating  cherries,  grapes,  and  ruddy 
apricots.  No  hut  was  to  be  seen ;  but  instead 
of  it,  a  large  fair  house,  with  a  brazen  door  and 
lofty  statues,  stood  glancing  in  the  middle  of  the 
space.  Mary  was  confounded  with  surprise, 
and  knew  not  what  to  think ;  but,  not  being 
bashful,  she  went  right  up  to  the  first  of  the 
children,  held  out  her  hand,  and  wished  the 
little  creature  good  even. 

"Art  thou  come  to  visit  us,  then?"  said  the 
glittering  child;  "I  saw  thee  running,  playing 
on  the  other  side,  but  thou  wert  frightened  for 
our  little  dog." 

"  So  you  are  not  gipsies  and  rogues,"  said 
Mary,  "as  Andres  always  told  me?  He  is  a 
stupid  thing,  and  talks  of  much  he  does  not  un- 
derstand." 

"Stay  with  us,"  said  the  strange  little  girl; 
"  thou  wilt  like  it  well." 

"  But  we  are  running  a  race." 

"  Tbou  wilt  find  thy  comrade  soon  enough. 
There,  take  and  eat." 

Mary  ate,  and  found  the  fruit  more  sweet 
than  any  she  had  ever  tasted  in  her  life  before ; 
and  Andres,  and  the  race,  and  the  prohibition 
of  her  parents,  were  entirely  forgotten. 

A  stately  woman,  in  a  shining  robe,  came  to- 
wards them,  and  asked  about  the  stranger  child. 
"Fairest  lady,"  said  Mary,  "I  came  running 
hither  by  chance,  and  now  they  wish  to  keep 
me." 

"Thou  art  aware,  Zerina,"  said  the  lady, 
"  that  she  can  be  here  but  for  a  little  while  ; 
besides,  thou  should'st  have  asked  my  leave." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Zerina,  "  when  I  saw  her 
admitted  across  the  bridge,  that  I  might  do  it; 
we  have  often  seen  her  running  in  the  fields, 
and  thou  thyself  hast  taken  pleasure  in  her 
lively  temper.  She  will  have  to  leave  us  soon 
enough." 

"  No,  I  will  stay  here,"  said  the  little  stran- 
ger; "for  here  it  is  so  beautiful,  and  here  I 
shall  find  the  prettiest  playthings,  and  store  of 
berries  and  cherries  to  boot.  On  the  other  side 
it  is  not  half  so  grand." 

The  gold-robed  lady  went  away  with  a  smile ; 
and  many  of  the  children  now  came  bounding 
round  the  happy  Mary  in  their  mirth,  and 
twitched  her,  and  incited  her  to  dance;  others 
brought  her  lambs,  or  curious  playthings;  others 
made  music  on  instruments,  and  sang  to  it. 

She  kept,  however,  by  the  playmate  who  had 
first  met  her ;  for  Zerina  was  the  kindest  and 
loveliest  of  them  all.  Little  Mary  cried  and 
cried  again :  "  I  will  stay  with  you  forever ;  I 
will  stay  with  you,  and  you  shall  be  my  sisters;'' 
at  which  the  children  all  laughed,  and  embraced 
her.  "  Now,  we  shall  have  a  royal  sport,"  said 
Zerina.    She  ran  into  the  palace,  and  returned 


TIE 


with  a  little  golden  box,  in  wliich  lay  a  quantity 
of  seeds,  like  glittering  dust.  She  lifted  of  it 
with  her  little  hand,  and  scattered  some  grains 
on  the  green  earth.  Instantly  the  grass  began  to 
move,  as  in  waves  ;  and,  after  a  few  moments, 
bright  rose-bushes  started  from  the  ground,  shot 
rapidly  up,  and  budded  all  at  once,  while  the 
sweetest  perfume  filled  the  place.  Mary  also 
took  a  little  of  the  dust,  and,  having  scattered 
it,  she  saw  white  lilies,  and  the  most  variegated 
pinks,  pushing  up.  At  a  signal  from  Zerina, 
the  flowers  disappeared,  and  others  rose  in 
their  room.  "  Now,"  said  Zerina,  "  look  for 
something  greater."  She  laid  two  pine-seeds 
in  the  ground,  and  stamped  them  in  sharply 
with  her  foot.  Two  green  bushes  stood  before 
them.  "Grasp  me  fast,"  said  she;  and  Mary 
threw  her  arms  about  the  slender  form.  She 
felt  herself  borne  upwards;  for  the  trees  were 
springing  under  them  with  the  greatest  speed  ; 
the  tall  pines  waved  to  and  fro,  and  the  two 
children  held  each  other  fast  embraced,  swing- 
ing this  way  and  that  in  the  red  clouds  of  the 
twilight,  and  kissed  each  other;  while  the  rest 
were  climbing  up  and  down  the  trunks  with 
quick  dexterity,  pushing  and  teasing  one  another 
with  loud  laughter  when  they  met;  if  any  one 
fell  down  in  the  press,  it  flew  through  the  air, 
and  sank  slowly  and  surely  to  the  ground.  At 
length  Mary  was  beginning  to  be  frightened  ; 
and  the  other  little  child  sang  a  few  loud  tones, 
and  the  trees  again  sank  down,  and  set  them 
on  the  ground  as  gradually  as  they  had  lifted 
them  before  to  the  clouds. 

They  next  went  through  the  brazen  door  of 
the  palace.  Here  many  fair  women,  elderly 
and  young,  were  sitting  in  the  round  hall,  par- 
taking of  the  fairest  fruits,  and  listening  to  glo- 
rious invisible  music.  In  the  vaulting  of  the 
ceiling,  palms,  flowers,  and  groves  stood  painted, 
among  which  little  figures  of  children  were 
sporting  and  winding  in  every  graceful  posture; 
and  with  the  tones  of  the  music,  the  images 
altered  and  glowed  with  the  most  burning  co- 
lours;  now  the  blue  and  green  were  sparkling 
like  radiant  light,  now  these  tints  faded  back  in 
paleness,  the  purple  flamed,  up,  and  the  gold 
took  fire  ;  and  then  the  naked  children  seemed 
to  be  alive  among  the  flower-garlands,  and  to 
draw  breath,  and  emit  it  through  their  ruby- 
colored  lips ;  so  that  by  fits  you  could  see  the 
glance  of  their  little  white  teeth,  and  the  light- 
ing up  of  their  azure  eyes. 

From  the  hall,  a  stair  of  brass  led  down  to  a 
subterranean  chamber.  Here  lay  much  gold 
and  silver,  and  precious  stones  of  every  hue 
shone  out  between  them.  Strange  vessels  stood 
along  the  walls,  and  all  seemed  filled  with 
costly  things.  The  gold  was  worked  into  many 
forms,  and  glittered  with  the  friendliest  red. 
Many  little  dwarfs  were  busied  in  sorting  the 
pieces  from  the  heap,  and  putting  them  in  the 
vessels;  others,  hunch-backed  and  bandy-legged, 
with  long  red  noses,  were  tottering  slowly 
along,  half-bent  to  the  ground,  under  full  sacks, 


CK.  503 


which  they  bore  as  millers  do  their  grain  ;  and, 
with  much  panting,  shaking  out  the  gold-dust 
on  the  ground.  Then  they  darted  awkwardly 
to  the  right  and  left,  and  caught  the  rolling  ball 
that  were  likely  to  run  away  ;  and  it  happened 
now  and  then  that  one  in  his  eagerness  overset 
the  other,  so  that  both  fell  heavily  and  clumsily 
to  the  ground.  They  made  angry  faces,  and 
looked  askance,  as  Mary  laughed  at  their  ges- 
tures and  their  ugliness.  Behind  them  sat  an 
old  crumpled  little  man,  whom  Zerina  reve- 
rently greeted  ;  he  thanked  her  with  a  grave 
inclination  of  his  head.  He  held  a  sceptre  in 
his  hand,  and  wore  a  crown  upon  his  brow, 
and  all  the  other  dwarfs  appeared  to  regard 
him  as  their  master,  and  obey  his  nod. 

"What  more  wanted?"  asked  he,  with  a 
surly  voice,  as  the  children  came  a  little  nearer. 
Mary  was  afraid,  and  did  not  speak  ;  but  her 
companion  answered,  they  were  only  come  to 
look  about  them  in  the  chamber.  «  Still  your 
old  child's  tricks!"  replied  the  dwarf:  "Will 
there  never  be  an  end  to  idleness?"  With  this, 
he  turned  again  to  his  employment,  kept  his 
people  weighing  and  sorting  the  ingots;  some 
he  sent  away  on  errands,  some  he  chid  with 
angry  tones. 

"Who  is  the  gentleman?"  said  Mary. 

"Our  Metal-Prince,"  replied  Zerina,  as  they 
walked  along. 

They  seemed  once  more  to  reach  the  open 
air,  for  they  were  standing  by  a  lake,  yet  no 
sun  appeared,  and  they  saw  no  sky  above  their 
heads.  A  little  boat  received  them,  and  Zerina 
steered  it  diligently  forwards.  It  shot  rapidly 
along.  On  gaining  the  middle  of  the  lake,  the 
stranger  saw  that  multitudes  of  pipes,  channels, 
and  brooks,  were  spreading  from  the  little  sea  in 
every  direction.  "  These  waters  to  the  right," 
said  Zerina,  "  flow  beneath  yon  garden,  and 
this  is  why  it  blooms  so  freshly  ;  by  the  other 
side  we  get  down  into  the  great  stream."  On 
a  sudden,  out  of  all  the  channeJs,  and  from  every 
quarter  of  the  lake,  came  a  crowd  of  little  chil- 
dren swimming  up  ;  some  wore  garlands  of 
sedge  and  water-lily;  some  had  red  stems  of 
coral,  others  were  blowing  on  crooked  shells ;  a 
tumultuous  noise  echoed  merrily  from  the  dark 
shores  ;  among  the  children  might  be  seen  the 
fairest  women  sporting  in  the  waters,  and  often 
several  of  the  children  sprang  about  some  one 
of  them,  and  with  kisses  hung  upon  her  neck 
and  shoulders.  All  saluted  the  strangers ;  and 
these  steered  onwards  through  the  revelry  out 
of  the  lake,  into  a  little  river,  which  grew  nar- 
rower and  narrower.  At  last  the  boat  came 
aground.  The  strangers  took  their  leave,  and 
Zerina  knocked  against  the  cliff.  This  opened 
like  a  door,  and  a  female  form,  all  red,  assisted 
them  to  mount.  "Are  you  all  brisk  here?*'  in- 
quired Zerina.  "They  are  just  at  work,"  re- 
j  plied  the  other,  "and  happy  as  they  could 
I  wish ;  indeed,  the  heat  is  very  pleasant." 

They  went  up  a  winding  stair,  and  on  a  sud- 
|  den  Mary  found  herself  in  a  most  resplendent 


504 


TIECK. 


hall,  so  that  as  she  entered,  her  eyes  were  daz- 
zled by  the  radiance.  Flame-colored  tapestry 
covered  the  walls  with  a  purple  glow  ;  and 
when  her  eye  had  grown  a  little  used  to  it,  the 
stranger  saw,  to  her  astonishment,  that,  in  the 
tapestry,  there  were  figures  moving  up  and 
down  in  dancing  joyfulness  ;  in  form  so  beauti- 
ful, and  of  so  fair  proportions,  that  nothing 
could  be  seen  more  graceful ;  their  bodies  were 
as  of  red  crystal,  so  that  it  appeared  as  if  the 
blood  were  visible  within  them,  flowing  and 
playing  in  its  courses.  They  smiled  on  the 
stranger,  and  saluted  her  with  various  bows ; 
but  as  Mary  was  about  approaching  nearer 
them,  Zerina  plucked  her  sharply  back,  crying: 
"  Thou  wilt  burn  thyself,  my  little  Mary,  for  the 
whole  of  it  is  fire." 

Mary  felt  the  heat.  "Why  do  the  pretty 
creatures  not  come  out,"  said  she,  "  and  play 
with  us  ?" 

"  As  thou  livest  in  the  Air,"  replied  the  other, 
*  so  are  they  obliged  to  stay  continually  in  Fire, 
and  would  faint  and  languish  if  they  left  it. 
Look  now,  how  glad  they  are,  how  they  laugh 
and  shout;  those  down  below  spread  out  the 
fire-floods  everywhere  beneath  the  earth,  and 
thereby  the  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  wine,  are 
made  to  flourish  ;  these  red  streams  again,  are 
to  run  beside  the  brooks  of  water;  and  thus  the 
fiery  creatures  are  kept  ever  busy  and  glad. 
But  for  thee  it  is  too  hot  here ;  let  us  return  to 
the  garden." 

In  the  garden,  the  scene  had  changed  since 
they  left  it.  The  moonshine  was  lying  on  every 
flower ;  the  birds  were  silent,  and  the  children 
were  asleep  in  complicated  groups,  among  the 
green  groves.  Mary  and  her  friend,  however, 
did  not  feel  fatigue,  but  walked  about  in  the 
warm  summer  night,  in  abundant  talk,  till 
morning. 

When  the  day  dawned,  they  refreshed  them- 
selves on  fruit  and  milk,  and  Mary  said  :  "  Sup- 
pose we  go,  by  way  of  change,  to  the  firs,  and 
see  how  things  look  there'?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Zerina  ;  "  thou 
wilt  see  our  watchmen,  too.  and  they  will  surely 
please  thee;  they  are  standing  up  among  the 
trees  on  the  mound."  The  two  proceeded 
through  the  flower-garden  by  pleasant  groves, 
full  of  nightingales ;  then  they  ascended  a  vine- 
hill  ;  and  at  last,  after  long  following  the  wind- 
ings of  a  clear  brook,  arrived  at  the  firs,  and  the 
height  which  bounded  the  domain.  "  How  does 
it  come,"  said  Mary,  « that  we  have  to  walk  so 
far  here,  when  without,  the  circuit  is  so  narrow  ?" 

"  I  know  not,"  said  her  friend  ;  "  but  so  it  is." 

They  mounted  to  the  dark  firs,  and  a  chill 
wind  blew  from  without  in  their  faces ;  a  haze 
seemed  lying  far  and  wide  over  the  landscape. 
On  the  top  were  many  strange  forms  standing ; 
with  mealy,  dusty  faces ;  their  mis-shapen  heads 
not  unlike  those  of  white  owls ;  they  were  clad 
in  folded  cloaks  of  shaggy  wool ;  they  held  um- 
brellas of  curious  skins  stretched  out  above 
them ;  and  they  waved  and  fanned  themselves 


incessantly  with  large  bat's  wings,  which  flared 
out  curiously  beside  the  woollen  roquelaures. 
"I  could  laugh,  yet  I  am  frightened,"  cried 
Mary. 

"  These  are  our  good  trusty  watchmen,"  said 
her  playmate  ;  "  they  stand  here  and  wave  their 
fans,  that  cold  anxiety  and  inexplicable  fear 
may  fall  on  every  one  that  attempts  to  approach 
us.  They  are  covered  so,  because  without  it  is 
now  cold  and  rainy,  which  they  cannot  bear. 
But  snow,  or  wind,  or  cold  air,  never  reaches 
down  to  us ;  here  is  an  everlasting  spring  and 
summer :  yet  if  these  poor  people  on  the  top 
were  not  frequently  relieved,  they  would  cer- 
tainly perish." 

"  But  who  are  you,  then  ?"  said  Mary,  while 
again  descending  to  the  flowery  fragrance ;  "  or 
have  you  no  name  at  all  ?" 

"We  are  called  the  Elves,"  replied  the 
friendly  child;  "people  talk  about  us  in  the 
Earth,  as  I  have  heard." 

They  now  perceived  a  mighty  bustle  on  the 
green.  "The  fair  Bird  is  come!"  cried  the 
children  to  them :  all  hastened  to  the  hall. 
Here,  as  they  approached,  young  and  old  were 
crowding  over  the  threshold,  all  shouting  for 
joy ;  and  from  within  resounded  a  triumphant 
peal  of  music.  Having  entered,  they  perceived 
the  vast  circuit  filled  with  the  most  varied  forms, 
and  all  were  looking  upwards  to  a  large  Bird 
with  glancing  plumage,  that  was  sweeping 
slowly  round  in  the  dome,  and  in  its  stately 
flight  describing  many  a  circle.  The  music 
sounded  more  gaily  than  before;  the  colors  and 
lights  alternated  more  rapidly.  At  last  the 
music  ceased ;  and  the  Bird,  with  a  rustling 
noise,  floated  down  upon  a  glittering  crown  that 
hung  hovering  in  air  under  the  high  window, 
by  which  the  hall  was  lighted  from  above.  His 
plumage  was  purple  and  green,  and  shining 
golden  streaks  played  through  it ;  on  his  head 
there  waved  a  diadem  of  feathers,  so  resplendent 
that  they  glanced  like  jewels.  His  bill  was 
red,  and  his  legs  of  a  glancing  blue.  As  he 
moved,  the  tints  gleamed  through  each  other, 
and  the  eye  was  charmed  with  their  radiance. 
His  size  was  as  that  of  an  eagle.  But  now  he 
opened  his  glittering  beak  ;  and  sweetest  melo- 
dies came  pouring  from  his  moved  breast,  in 
finer  tones  than  the  lovesick  nightingale  gives 
forth  ;  still  stronger  rose  the  song,  and  streamed 
like  floods  of  Light,  so  that  all,  the  very  children 
themselves,  were  moved  by  it  to  tears  of  joy 
and  rapture.  When  he  ceased,  all  bowed  be- 
fore him  ;  he  again  flew  round  the  dome  in  cir- 
cles, then  darted  through  the  door,  and  soared 
into  the  light  heaven,  where  he  shone  far  up 
like  a  red  point,  and  then  soon  vanished  from 
their  eyes. 

"Why  are  ye  all  so  glad?"  inquired  Mary, 
bending  to  her  fair  playmate,  who  seemed 
smaller  than  yesterday. 

"The  King  is  coming!"  said  the  little  one; 
"  many  of  us  have  never  seen  him,  and  whither- 
soever he  turns  his  face,  there  is  happiness  and 


TIECK 


005 


mirth;  we  have  long  looked  for  him,  more  anx- 
iously than  you  look  for  spring  when  winter 
lingers  with  you ;  and  now  he  has  announced, 
by  his  fair  herald,  that  he  is  at  hand.  This 
wise  and  glorious  Bird,  that  has  been  sent  to  us 
by  the  King,  is  called  Phoenix ;  he  dwells  far 
off  in  Arabia,  on  a  tree,  which  there  is  no  other 
that  resembles  on  Earth,  as  in  like  manner  there 
is  no  second  Phoenix.  When  he  feels  himself 
grown  old,  he  builds  a  pile  of  balm  and  incense, 
kindles  it,  and  dies  singing ;  and  then  from  the 
fragrant  ashes,  soars  up  the  renewed  Phoenix 
with  unlessened  beauty.  It  is  seldom  he  so 
wings  his  course  that  men  behold  him ;  and 
when  once  in  centuries  this  does  occur,  they 
note  it  in  their  annals,  and  expect  remarkable 
events.  But  now,  my  friend,  thou  and  I  must 
part;  for  the  sight  of  the  King  is  not  permitted 
thee." 

Then  the  lady  with  the  golden  robe  came 
through  the  throng,  and  beckoning  Mary  to  her, 
led  her  into  a  sequestered  walk.  "  Thou  must 
leave  us,  my  dear  child,"  said  she  ;  "  the  King 
is  to  hold  his  court  here  for  twenty  years,  per- 
haps longer ;  and  fruitfulness  and  blessings  will 
spread  far  over  the  land,  but  chiefly  here  beside 
us;  all  the  brooks  and  rivulets  will  become 
more  bountiful,  all  the  fields  and  gardens  richer, 
the  wine  more  generous,  the  meadows  more 
fertile,  and  the  woods  more  fresh  and  green ;  a 
milder  air  will  blow,  no  hail  shall  hurt,  no  flood 
shall  threaten.  Take  this  ring,  and  think  of  us: 
but  beware  of  telling  any  one  of  our  existence ; 
or  we  must  fly  this  land,  and  thou  and  all  around 
will  lose  the  happiness  and  blessing  of  our 
neighborhood.  Ouce  more,  kiss  thy  playmate, 
and  farewell."  They  issued  from  the  walk; 
Zerina  wept,  Mary  stooped  to  embrace  her,  and 
they  parted.  Already  she  was  on  the  narrow 
bridge ;  the  cold  air  was  blowing  on  her  back 
from  the  firs ;  the  little  dog  barked  with  all  its 
might,  and  rang  its  little  bell ;  she  looked  round, 
then  hastened  over,  for  the  darkness  of  the  firs, 
the  bleakness  of  the  ruined  huts,  the  shadows 
of  the  twilight,  were  filling  her  with  terror. 

"What  anight  my  parents  must  have  had  on 
my  account!"  said  she  within  herself,  as  she 
stept  on  the  green  ;  «  and  I  dare  not  tell  them 
where  I  have  been,  or  what  wonders  I  have 
witnessed,  nor  indeed  would  they  believe  me." 
Two  men  passing  by  saluted  her,  and  as  they 
went  along,  she  heard  them  say:  "What  a 
pretty  girl !  Where  can  she  come  from  ?"  With 
quickened  steps  she  approached  the  house  :  but 
the  trees  which  were  hanging  last  night  loaded 
with  fruit,  were  now  standing  dry  and  leafless ; 
the  house  was  differently  painted,  and  a  new 
barn  had  been  built  beside  it.  Mary  was 
amazed,  and  thought  she  must  be  dreaming. 
In  this  perplexity  she  opened  the  door;  and 
behind  the  table  sat  her  father,  between  an  un- 
known woman  and  a  stranger  youth.  "Good 
God  !  Father,"  cried  she,  "  where  is  my  mother  ?" 

"Thy  mother!"  said  the  woman,  with  a  fore- 
casting tone,  and  sprang  towards  her:  "Ha, 
3  o 


thou  surely  canst  not — Yes,  indeed,  indeed  thou 
art  my  lost,  long-lost  dear,  only  Mary!"  She 
had  recognised  her  by  a  little  brown  mole  be- 
neath the  chin,  as  well  as  by  her  eyes  and 
shape.  All  embraced  her,  all  were  moved 
with  joy,  and  the  parents  wept.  Mary  was 
astonished  that  she  almost  reached  to  her  father's 
stature ;  and  she  could  not  understand  how  her 
mother  had  become  so  changed  and  faded  ;  she 
asked  the  name  of  the  stranger  youth.  "  It  is 
our  neighbour's  Andres,"  said  Martin.  "  How 
comest  thou  to  us  again,  so  unexpectedly,  after 
seven  long  years'?  Where  hast  thou  been1? 
Why  didst  thou  never  send  us  tidings  of  thee?" 

"Seven  years!"  said  Mary,  and  could  not 
order  her  ideas  and  recollections.  "Seven 
whole  years?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Andres,  laughing,  and  shak- 
ing her  trustfully  by  the  hand;  "I  have  won 
the  race,  good  Mary ;  I  was  at  the  pear-tree  and 
back  again  seven  years  ago,  and  thou,  sluggish 
creature,  art  but  just  returned  1" 

They  again  asked,  they  pressed  her;  but  re- 
membering her  instruction,  she  could  answer 
nothing.  It  was  they  themselves  chiefly  that, 
by  degrees,  shaped  a  story  for  her  :  How,  hav- 
ing lost  her  way,  she  had  been  taken  up  by  a 
coach,  and  carried  to  a  strange  remote  part, 
where  she  could  not  give  the  people  any  notion 
of  her  parents'  residence  ;  how  she  was  con- 
ducted to  a  distant  town,  where  certain  worthy 
persons  brought  her  up,  and  loved  her ;  how 
they  had  lately  died,  and  at  length  she  had  re- 
collected her  birth-place,  and  so  returned.  "  No 
matter  how  it  is!"  exclaimed  her  mother; 
"  enough  that  we  have  thee  again,  my  little 
daughter,  my  own,  my  all !" 

Andres  waited  supper,  and  Mary  could  not 
be  at  home  in  anything  she  saw.  The  house 
seemed  small  and  dark ;  she  felt  astonished  at 
her  dress,  which  was  clean  and  simple,  but 
appeared  quite  foreign ;  she  looked  at  the  ring 
on  her  finger,  and  the  gold  of  it  glittered  strange- 
ly, inclosing  a  stone  of  burning  red.  To  her 
father's  question,  she  replied  that  the  ring  also 
was  a  present  from  her  benefactors. 

She  was  glad  when  the  hour  of  sleep  arrived, 
and  she  hastened  to  her  bed.  Next  morning 
she  felt  much  more  collected ;  she  had  now 
arranged  her  thoughts  a  little,  and  could  better 
stand  the  questions  of  the  people  in  the  village, 
all  of  whom  came  in  to  bid  her  welcome.  An- 
dres was  there  too  with  the  earliest,  active, 
glad,  and  serviceable  beyond  all  others.  The 
blooming  maiden  of  fifteen  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  him  ;  he  had  passed  a  sleepless 
night.  The  people  of  the  castle  likewise  sent 
for  Mary,  and  she  had  once  more  to  tell  her 
story  to  them,  which  was  now  grown  quite  fa- 
miliar to  her.  The  old  Count  and  his  Lady 
were  surprised  at  her  good  breeding;  she  was 
modest,  but  not  embarrassed ;  she  made  answer 
courteously  in  good  phrases  to  all  their  ques- 
tions ;  all  fear  of  noble  persons  and  their  equip- 
age had  passed  away  from  her  ;  for  when  she 
43 


506 


TIECK. 


measured  these  halls  and  forms  by  the  wonders 
and  the  high  beauty  she  had  seen  with  the 
Elves  in  their  hidden  abode,  this  earthly  splen- 
dor seemed  but  dim  to  her,  the  presence  of 
men  was  almost  mean.  The  young  lords  were 
charmed  with  her  beauty. 

It  was  now  February.  The  trees  were  bud- 
ding earlier  than  usual;  the  nightingale  had 
never  come  so  soon  ;  the  spring  rose  fairer  in 
the  land  than  the  oldest  men  could  recollect  it. 
In  every  quarter,  little  brooks  gushed  out  to  irri- 
gate the  pastures  arid  meadows  ;  the  hills  seemed 
heaving,  the  vines  rose  higher  and  higher,  the 
fruit-trees  blossomed  as  they  had  never  done  ; 
and  a  swelling  fragrant  blessedness  hung  sus- 
pended heavily  in  rosy  clouds  over  the  scene. 
All  prospered  beyond  expectation  :  no  rude  day, 
no  tempest  injured  the  fruits ;  the  wine  flowed 
blushing  in  immense  grapes;  and  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  place  felt  astonished,  and  were  cap- 
tivated as  in  a  sweet  dream.  The  next  year 
was  like  its  forerunner ;  but  men  had  now  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  marvellous.  In  autumn, 
Mary  yielded  to  the  pressing  entreaties  of  An- 
dres and  her  parents;  she  was  betrothed  to 
him,  and  in  winter  they  were  married. 

She  often  thought  with  inward  longing  of  her 
residence  behind  the  fir-trees;  she  continued 
serious  and  still.  Beautiful  as  all  that  lay  around 
her  was,  she  knew  of  something  yet  more  beau- 
tiful ;  and  from  the  remembrance  of  this,  a  faint 
regret  attuned  her  nature  to  soft  melancholy. 
It  smote  her  painfully  when  her  father  and 
mother  talked  about  the  gipsies  and  vagabonds, 
that  dwelt  in  the  dark  spot  of  ground.  Often 
she  was  on  the  point  of  speaking  out  in  defence 
1  of  those  good  beings,  whom  she  knew  to  be  the 
benefactors  of  the  land  ;  especially  to  Andres, 
who  appeared  to  take  delight  in  zealously  abus- 
ing them :  yet  still  she  repressed  the  word  that 
was  struggling  to  escape  her  bosom.  So  passed 
this  year;  in  the  next,  she  was  solaced,  by  a 
little  daughter,  whom  she  named  Elfrida,  think- 
ing of  the  designation  of  her  friendly  Elves. 

The  young  people  lived  with  Martin  and 
Brigitta,  the  house  being  large  enough  for  all ; 
and  helped  their  parents  in  conducting  their 
now  extended  husbandry.  The  little  Elfrida 
soon  displayed  peculiar  faculties  and  gifts;  for 
she  could  walk  at  a  very  early  age,  and  could 
speak  perfectly  before  she  was  a  twelvemonth 
old  ;  and  after  some  few  years,  she  had  become 
so  wise  and  clever,  and  of  such  wondrous 
beauty,  that  all  people  regarded  her  with  asto- 
nishment; and  her  mother  could  not  keep  away 
the  thought  that  her  child  resembled  one  of 
those  shining  little  ones  in  the  space  behind  the 
Firs.  Elfrida  cared  not  to  be  with  other  child- 
ren;  but  seemed  to  avoid,  with  a  sort  of  horror, 
their  tumultuous  amusements;  and  liked  best 
i  to  be  alone.  She  would  then  retire  into  a  corner 
of  the  garden,  and  read,  or  work  diligently  with 
her  needle ;  often  also  you  might  see  her  sitting, 
as  if  deep  sunk  in  thought;  or  violently  walking 
up  and  down  the  alleys,  speaking  to  herself. 


Her  parents  readily  allowed  her  to  have  her 
will  in  these  things,  for  she  was  healthy,  and 
waxed  apace ;  only  her  strange  sagacious  an- 
swers and  observations  often  made  them  anx- 
ious. "  Such  wise  children  do  not  grow  to  age," 
her  grandmother,  Brigitta,  many  times  observed  ; 
"  they  are  too  good  for  this  world  ;  the  child, 
besides,  is  beautiful  beyond  nature,  and  will 
never  find  its  proper  place  on  Earth." 

The  little  girl  had  this  peculiarity,  that  she 
was  very  loath  to  let  herself  be  served  by  any 
one,  but  endeavored  to  do  everything  herself. 
She  was  almost  the  earliest  riser  in  the  house ; 
she  washed  herself  carefully,  and  dressed  with- 
out assistance  :  at  night  she  was  equally  careful ; 
she  took  special  heed  to  pack  up  her  clothes  and 
washes  with  her  own  hands,  allowing  no  one, 
not  even  her  mother,  to  meddle  with  her  arti- 
cles. The  mother  humored  her  in  this  caprice, 
not  thinking  it  of  any  consequence.  But  what 
was  her  astonishment,  when,  happening  one 
holiday  to  insist,  regardless  of  Elfrida's  tears 
and  screams,  on  dressing  her  out  for  a  visit  to 
the  castle,  she  found  upon  her  breast,  suspended 
by  a  string-,  a  piece  of  gold  of  a  strange  form, 
which  she  directly  recognised  as  one  of  that  sort 
she  had  seen  in  such  abundance  in  the  subter- 
ranean vault!  The  little  thing  was  greatly 
frightened  ;  and  at  last  confessed  that  she  had 
found  it  in  the  garden,  and  as  she  liked  it  much, 
had  kept  it  carefully:  she  at  the  same  time 
prayed  so  earnestly  and  pressingly  to  have  it 
back,  that  Mary  fastened  it  again  on  its  former 
place,  and,  full  of  thoughts,  went  out  with  her 
in  silence  to  the  castle. 

Sidewards  from  the  farm-house  lay  some  of- 
fices for  the  storing  of  produce  and  implements  ; 
and  behind  these  there  was  a  little  green,  with 
an  old  grove,  now  visited  by  no  one,  as,  from 
the  new  arrangement  of  the  buildings,  it  lay  too 
far  from  the  garden.  In  this  solitude,  Elfrida 
delighted  most;  and  it  occurred  to  nobody  to 
interrupt  her  here,  so  that  frequently  her  parents 
did  not  see  her  for  half  a  day.  One  afternoon 
her  mother  chanced  to  be  in  these  buildings, 
seeking  for  some  lost  article  among  the  lumber  ; 
and  she  noticed  that  a  beam  of  light  was  com- 
ing in,  through  a  chink  in  the  wall.  She  took 
a  thought  of  looking  through  this  aperture,  and 
seeing  what  her  child  was  busied  with  ;  and  it 
happened  that  a  stone  was  lying  loose,  and 
could  be  pushed  aside,  so  that  she  obtained  a 
view  right  into  the  grove.  Elfrida  was  sitting 
there  on  a  little  bench,  and  beside  her  the  well- 
known  Zerina;  and  the  children  were  playing, 
and  amusing  one  another,  in  the  kindliest  unity. 
The  Elf  embraced  her  beautiful  companion,  and 
said  mournfully:  "Ah!  dear  little  creature,  as 
I  sport  with  thee,  so  have  I  sported  with  thy 
mother,  when  she  was  a  child  ;  but  you  mor- 
tals so  soon  grow  tall  and  thoughtful !  It  is 
very  hard :  wert  thou  but  to  be  a  child  as  long 
as  I !" 

"Willingly  would  I  do  it,"  said  Elfrida;  "but 
they  all  say,  I  shall  come  to  sense,  and  give  over 


TIECK. 


507 


playing  altogether;  for  I  have  great  gifts,  as 
they  think,  for  growing  wise.  Ah  !  and  then  I 
shall  see  thee  no  more,  thou  dear  Zerina!  Yet 
it  is  with  us  as  with  the  fruit-tree  flowers :  how 
glorious  the  blossoming  apple-tree,  with  its  red 
bursting  buds !  It  looks  so  stately  and  broad  ; 
and  every  one,  that  passes  under  it,  thinks 
surely  something  great  will  come  of  it;  then  the 
sun  grows  hot,  and  the  buds  come  joyfully  forth  ; 
but  the  wicked  kernel  is  already  there,  which 
pushes  off  and  casts  away  the  fair  flower's 
dress ;  and  now,  in  pain  and  waxing,  it  can  do 
nothing  more,  but  must  grow  to  fruit  in  harvest. 
An  apple,  to  be  sure,  is  pretty  and  refreshing; 
yet  nothing  to  the  blossom  of  spring.  So  is  it 
also  with  us  mortals:  I  am  not  glad  in  the  least 
at  growing  to  be  a  tall  girl.  Ah!  could  I  but 
once  visit  you !" 

"Since  the  King  is  with  us,"  said  Zerina,  "it 
is  quite  impossible  ;  but  I  will  come  to  thee, 
my  darling,  often,  often,  and  none  shall  see  me 
either  here  or  there.  I  will  pass  invisible 
through  the  air,  or  fly  over  to  thee  like  a  bird  ; 
Oh!  we  will  be  much,  much  together,  while 
thou  art  so  little.  What  can  I  do  to  please 
thee  3" 

"  Thou  must  like  me  very  dearly,"  said  El- 
frida,  "  as  I  like  thee  in  my  heart :  but  come, 
let  us  make  another  rose." 

Zerina  took  a  well-known  box  from  her  bo- 
som, threw  two  grains  from  it  on  the  ground  ; 
and  instantly  a  green  bush  stood  before  them, 
with  two  deep-red  roses,  bending  their  heads, 
as  if  to  kiss  each  other.  The  children  plucked 
them  smiling,  and  the  bush  disappeared.  "0 
that  it  would  not  die  so  soon  !"  said  Elfrida ; 
"  this  red  child,  this  wonder  of  the  Earth  !" 

"Give  it  me  here,"  said  the  little  Elf;  then 
breathed  thrice  upon  the  budding  rose,  and 
kissed  it  thrice.  "  Now,"  said  she,  giving  back 
the  rose,  "  it  will  continue  fresh  and  blooming 
till  winter." 

"I  will  keep  it,"  said  Elfrida,  "as  an  image 
of  thee ;  I  will  guard  it  in  my  little  room,  and 
kiss  it  night  and  morning,  as  if  it  were  thyself." 

"  The  sun  is  setting,"  said  the  other,  "  I  must 
home."  They  embraced  again,  and  Zerina 
vanished. 

In  the  evening,  Mary  clasped  her  child  to  her 
breast,  with  a  feeling  of  alarm  and  veneration. 
She  henceforth  allowed  the  good  little  girl  more 
liberty  than  formerly;  and  often  calmed  her 
husband,  when  he  came  to  search  for  the  child  ; 
which  for  some  time  he  was  wont  to  do,  as  her 
retiredness  did  not  please  him,  and  he  feared 
that,  in  the  end,  it  might  make  her  silly,  or  even 
pervert  her  understanding.  The  mother  often 
glided  to  the  chink ;  and  almost  always  found 
the  bright  Elf  beside  her  child,  employed  in 
sport,  or  in  earnest  conversation. 

"Wouldst  thou  like  to  fly?"  inquired  Zerina 
once. 

"  Oh,  well !  How  well !"  replied  Elfrida ;  and 
the  fairy  clasped  her  mortal  playmate  in  her 
arms,  and  mounted  with  her  from  the  ground, 


till  they  hovered  above  the  grove.  The  mother, 
in  alarm,  forgot  herself,  and  pushed  out  her 
head  in  terror  to  look  after  them;  when  Zerina, 
from  the  air,  held  up  her  finger,  and  threatened 
yet  smiled ;  then  descended  with  the  child, 
embraced  her,  and  disappeared.  After  this,  it 
happened  more  than  once  that  Mary  was  ob- 
served by  her;  and  every  time,  the  shining 
little  creature  shook  her  head,  or  threatened,  yet 
with  friendly  looks. 

Often,  in  disputing  with  her  husband,  Mary 
had  said  in  her  zeal:  "  Thou  dost  injustice  to 
the  poor  people  in  the  hut!"  But  when  Andres 
pressed  her  to  explain  why  she  differed  in  opi- 
nion from  the  whole  village,  nay,  from  his  Lord- 
ship himself;  and  how  she  could  understand  it 
better  than  the  whole  of  them,  she  still  broke 
off*  embarrassed,  and  became  silent.  One  day, 
after  dinner,  Andres  grew  more  violent  than 
ever ;  and  maintained  that,  by  one  means  or 
another,  the  crew  must  be  packed  away,  as  a 
nuisance  to  the  country;  when  his  wife,  in 
anger,  said  to  him  :  "  Hush  !  for  they  are  bene- 
factors to  thee  and  to  every  one  of  us." 

"Benefactors!"  cried  the  other,  in  astonish- 
ment: "These  rogues  and  vagabonds?" 

In  her  indignation,  she  was  now  at  last 
tempted  to  relate  to  him,  under  promise  of  the 
strictest  secrecy,  the  history  of  her  youth :  and 
as  Andres  at  every  word  grew  more  incredu- 
lous, and  shook  his  head  in  mockery,  she  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  chink; 
where,  to  his  amazement,  he  beheld  the  glitter- 
ing Elf  sporting  with  his  child,  and  caressing 
her  in  the  grove.  He  knew  not  what  to  say  ; 
an  exclamation  of  astonishment  escaped  him, 
and  Zerina  raised  her  eyes.  On  the  instant  she 
grew  pale,  and  trembled  violently;  not  with 
friendly,  but  with  indignant  looks,  she  made  the 
sign  of  threatening,  and  then  said  to  Elfrida  : 
"Thou  canst  not  help  it,  dearest  heart;  but  they 
will  never  learn  sense,  wise  as  they  believe 
themselves."  She  embraced  the  little  one  with 
stormy  haste  ;  and  then,  in  the  shape  of  a  raven, 
flew  with  hoarse  cries  over  the  garden,  towards 
the  Firs. 

In  the  evening,  the  little  one  was  very  still, 
she  kissed  her  rose  with  tears ;  Mary  felt  de- 
pressed and  frightened,  Andres  scarcely  spoke. 
It  grew  dark.  Suddenly  there  went  a  rustling 
through  the  trees;  birds  flew  to  and  fro  with 
wild  screaming,  thunder  was  heard  to  roll,  the 
Earth  shook,  and  tones  of  lamentation  moaned 
in  the  air.  Andres  and  his  wife  had  not  cou- 
rage to  rise ;  they  shrouded  themselves  within 
the  curtains,  and  with  fear  and  trembling  await- 
ed the  day.  Towards  morning,  it  grew  calmer; 
and  all  was  silent  when  the  Sun,  with  his  cheer- 
ful light,  rose  over  the  wood. 

Andres  dressed  himself,  and  Mary  now  ob- 
served that  the  stone  of  the  ring  upon  her  finger 
had  become  quite  pale.  On  opening  the  door, 
the  sun  shone  clear  on  their  faces,  but  the  scene 
around  them  they  could  scarcely  recognise.  The 
freshness  of  the  wood  was  gone;  the  hills  were 


508 


TIECK. 


shrunk,  the  brooks  were  flowing  languidly  with 
scanty  streams,  the  sky  seemed  grey  ;  and  when 
you  turned  to  the  Firs,  they  were  standing  there 
no  darker  or  more  dreary  than  the  other  trees. 
The  huts  behind  were  no  longer  frightful ;  and 
several  inhabitants  of  the  village  came  and  told 
about  the  fearful  night,  and  how  they  had  been 
across  the  spot  where  the  gipsies  had  lived ; 
how  these  people  must  have  left  the  place  at 
last,  for  their  huts  were  standing  empty,  and 
within  had  quite  a  common  look,  just  like  the 
dwellings  of  other  poor  people :  some  of  their 
household  gear  was  left  behind. 

Elfrida  in  secret  said  to  her  mother  :  "  I  could 
not  sleep  last  night;  and  in  my  fright  at  the 
noise,  I  was  praying  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  my 
playmate  entered  to  take  leave  of  me.  She  had 
a  travelling-pouch  slung  round  her,  a  hat  on  her 
head,  and  a  large  staff  in  her  hand.  She  was 
very  angry  at  thee ;  since  on  thy  account  she 
had  now  to  suffer  the  severest  and  most  painful 
punishments,  as  she  had  always  been  so  fond 
of  thee ;  for  all  of  them,  she  said,  were  very 
loath  to  leave  this  quarter." 

Mary  forbade  her  to  speak  of  this ;  and  now 
the  ferryman  came  across  the  river,  and  told 
them  new  wonders.  As  it  was  growing  dark, 
a  stranger  man  of  large  size  had  come  to  him, 
and  hired  his  boat  till  sunrise ;  and  with  this 
condition,  that  the  boatman  should  remain  quiet 
in  his  house,  at  least  should  not  cross  the  thres- 
hold of  his  door.  "  I  was  frightened,"  continued 
the  old  man,  "  and  the  strange  bargain  would 
not  let  me  sleep.  I  slipped  softly  to  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  towards  the  river.  Great 
clouds  were  driving  restlessly  through  the  sky, 
and  the  distant  woods  were  rustling  fearfully ; 
it  was  as  if  my  cottage  shook,  and  moans  and 
lamentations  glided  round  it.  On  a  sudden,  I 
perceived  a  white  streaming  light,  that  grew 
broader  and  broader,  like  many  thousands  of 
falling  stars  ;  sparkling  and  waving,  it  proceeded 
forward  from  the  dark  Fir-ground,  moved  over 
the  fields,  and  spread  itself  along  towards  the 
river.  Then  I  heard  a  trampling,  a  jingling,  a 
bustling,  and  rushing,  nearer  and  nearer ;  it 
went  forwards  to  my  boat,  and  all  stept  into  it, 
men  and  women,  as  it  seemed,  and  children ; 
and  the  tall  stranger  ferried  them  over.    In  the 


river  were  by  the  boat  swimming  many  thou- 
sands of  glittering  forms  ;  in  the  air  white  clouds 
and  lights  were  wavering;  and  all  lamented 
and  bewailed  that  they  must  travel  forth  so  far, 
far  away,  and  leave  their  beloved  dwelling. 
The  noise  of  the  rudder  and  the  water  creaked 
and  gurgled  between  whiles,  and  then  suddenly 
there  would  be  silence.  Many  a  time  the  boat 
landed,  and  went  back,  and  was  again  laden  ; 
many  heavy  casks,  too,  they  took  along  with 
them,  which  multitudes  of  horrid-looking  little 
fellows  carried  and  rolled  ;  whether  they  were 
devils  or  goblins,  Heaven  only  knows.  Then 
came,  in  waving  brightness,  a  stately  freight ; 
it  seemed  an  old  man,  mounted  on  a  small  white 
horse,  and  all  were  crowding  round  him.  I 
saw  nothing  of  the  horse  but  its  head ;  for  the 
rest  of  it  was  covered  with  costly  glittering 
cloths  and  trappings :  on  his  brow  the  old  man 
had  a  crown,  so  bright,  that  as  he  came  across, 
I  thought  the  sun  was  rising  there,  and  the  red- 
ness of  the  dawn  glimmering  in  my  eyes.  Thus 
it  went  on  all  night ;  I  at  last  fell  asleep  in  the 
tumult,  half  in  joy,  half  in  terror.  In  the  morn- 
ing all  was  still ;  but  the  river  is,  as  it  were, 
run  off,  and  I  know  not  how  I  am  to  steer  my 
boat  in  it  now." 

The  same  year  there  came  a  blight;  the 
woods  died  away,  the  springs  ran  dry ;  and  the 
scene,  which  had  once  been  the  joy  of  every 
traveller,  was  in  autumn  standing  waste,  naked, 
and  bald ;  scarcely  showing  here  and  there,  in 
the  sea  of  sand,  a  spot  or  two  where  grass,  with 
a  dingy  greenness,  still  grew  up.  The  fruit- 
trees  all  withered,  the  vines  faded  away,  and 
the  aspect  of  the  place  became  so  melancholy, 
that  the  Count,  with  his  people,  next  year  left 
the  castle,  which  in  time  decayed  and  fell  to 
ruins. 

Elfrida  gazed  on  her  rose  day  and  night  with 
deep  longing,  and  thought  of  her  kind  playmate; 
and  as  it  drooped  and  withered,  so  did  she  also 
hang  her  head ;  and  before  the  spring,  the  little 
maiden  had  herself  faded  away.  Mary  often 
stood  upon  the  spot  before  the  hut,  and  wept 
for  the  happiness  that  had  departed.  She 
wasted  herself  away  like  her  child,  and  in  a 
few  years  she  too  was  gone.  Old  Martin,  with 
his  son-in-law,  returned  to  the  quarter  where 
he  had  lived  before. 


FREDERIC  WILLIAM  JOSEPH  VON  SCHELLING. 

Born  1775. 


Schelling,  the  third  and  the  only  surviving 
one  of  the  great  quaternion  of  German  philoso- 
phers, was  born  at  Leonberg,  in  Wurtemberg, 
January  27th,  1775.  He  studied  philosophy 
and  theology  at  Tubingen,  Leipzig  and  Jena. 
At  the  latter  university  he  was  a  pupil  of  Fichte, 
and  afterward  (1798)  succeeded  him  as  pro- 
fessor of  philosophy.  In  1803,  he  went  to 
Wiirzburg,  as  professor  ordinarius  of  philoso- 
phy; in  1807,  to  Munich,  where  he  was  made 
general  secretary  of  the  Academy  of  the  Plastic 
Arts,  and  where  he  was  ennobled  by  the  King 
of  Bavaria.  In  1820,  he  left  that  place  in  dis- 
gust, in  consequence  of  a  literary  controversy 
with  the  president  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences, 
and  lectured  on  philosophy  in  Erlangen;  but 
accepted  an  invitation  to  return,  seven  years 
after,  as  professor  ordinarius  of  philosophy,  with 
the  title  of  Privy  Aulic  Counsellor.  He  re- 
mained in  Munich  until  the  beginning  of  the 
present  decade,  when  he  was  invited  to  Berlin 
by  the  reigning  monarch  of  Prussia,  to  lecture 
at  the  university  in  the  capacity  of  member  of 
the  Berlin  Academy;  a  situation  which  he 
holds,  it  is  believed,  to  this  day,  having  entered 
upon  it  in  November,  1841. 

If  Fichte's  is  the  most  interesting  character 
among  the  transcendental  philosophers  of  Ger- 
many, Schelling's  is  the  richest  genius  and  the 
widest  influence.  Incalculable  has  been  the 
influence  of  his  profound  intuitions  on  Philoso- 
phy, Letters,  Science,  Art ;  on  all  departments 
of  human  Thought.  His  word  was  the  breath 
of  spring  to  the  intellectual  world  of  his  time. 
It  brought  verdure  and  a  sudden  efflorescence 
to  every  branch  of  knowledge.  Probably  no 
man  of  his  age,  certainly  no  one  in  the  prov- 
ince of  abstract  speculation,  has  put  forth  so 
many  new  and  life-giving  thoughts.  His  phi- 
losophy is  creative,  as  that  of  Kant  is  destruc- 
tive. He  combines — what  is  so  rare  in  philo- 
sophy— intuitive  perception  and  poetic  imagi- 
nation, with  dialectic  subtlety  and  philosophical 
analysis.  He  is  the  poet  of  the  transcendental 
movement,  as  Fichte  is  its  preacher. 

Schelling  has  given  to  the  world  no  com- 


plete system  of  philosophy.  There  is  no  one 
work,  as  in  the  case  of  Kant  and  Fichte,  which 
can  be  referred  to  as  containing  a  full  and  sys- 
tematic exposition  of  his  distinctive  views. 
They  are  scattered  through  a  long  series  of 
works,  each  one  of  which  presents  some  par- 
ticular result  of  his  speculations,  or  some  par- 
ticular aspect  of  his  philosophy.  Moreover,  his 
view  varies  in  different  statements.  His  phi- 
losophy has  received  new  modifications  at  dif- 
ferent periods  of  his  long  life.  But  these  modi- 
fications have  not  changed  its  identity ;  and  the 
general  direction  of  his  opinions  remains  the 
same.  The  following  are  the  titles  of  some  of 
his  works :  "  On  the  Possibility  of  a  Form  of 
Philosophy;"  "Idea  of  a  Philosophy  of  Na- 
ture ;"  "  Introduction  to  a  System  of  Natural 
Philosophy;"  "Concerning  the  If*  "The  Soul 
of  the  World ;"  "  On  the  Relation  between  the 
Ideal  and  the  Real  in  Nature ;"  "  Philosophy 
and  Religion,"  &c.  &c. 

Schelling  differs  from  Fichte  in  the  objective 
or  realistic  direction  of  his  thought.  Both  en- 
deavored to  construct  a  philosophy  of  the  Abso- 
lute. Both  set  out  with  the  principle  that  there 
is  but  one  being,  one  substance.  Fichte  sought 
it  in  the  conscious  self;  Schelling  finds  it  in 
Nature.  Fichte  regarded  Nature,  or  the  world 
of  appearances,  as  a  modification  of  Thought ; 
Schelling  regards  Thought  as  a  function  or 
blossom  of  Nature.  Accordingly,  he  gave  to 
his  philosophy  the  title,  "Natural  Philosophy," 
or  "Philosophy  of  Nature."  It  is  also  called 
the  "  Philosophy  of  Identity,"  because  he  holds 
that  matter  and  spirit,  the  ideal  and  the  real, 
subject  and  object,  are  identical.  The  Abso- 
lute, according  to  him,  is  neither  real  nor  ideal, 
(neither  matter  nor  spirit,)  but  the  identity  of 
both.  There  is  but  one  Being;  that  Being 
may  be  considered  at  once  or  alternately,  as 
either  wholly  ideal  or  wholly  real.  God  is  the 
absolute  identity  of  Nature  and  Thought,  of 
matter  and  spirit.  And  this  absolute  identity 
is  not  the  cause  of  the  universe,  but  the  uni- 
verse itself — a  God-universe. 

From  this  account,  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
43  *  (509) 


510  SCHELLING. 


philosophy  of  Schelling  bears  a  close  resem- 
blance to  that  of  Spinoza.  What  Spinoza  dis- 
sected in  dry  mathematical  formulas,  Schelling 
gave  forth  a  living  soul.  But,  though  they 
agree  in  substance,  they  differ  in  spirit.  With 
Schelling,  the  spirit  predominates;  with  Spi- 
noza, the  substance.  Spinoza  saw  God  imma- 
nent in  Nature;  Schelling  sees  Nature  dis- 
solved in  God. 

"By  far  the  most  important  result  of  Schill- 
ing's philosophy,"  says  Menzel,  "  seems  to  be 
the  impartial  epical  view  of  the  world  which 
it  imparts.  In  the  system  of  Schelling,  every 
party  finds  its  place  opposite  another ;  the  sep- 
aration is  shown  to  be  a  natural  one ;  their 
contradictions  are  referred  to  an  original  and 
necessary  opposition.  This  system  throughout 
tolerates  nothing  exclusive,  no  unconditional 
persecution  of  another.   It  endeavors  to  secure 


to  every  spiritual  existence,  be  it  an  opinion,  a 
character  or  an  event,  the  same  right  in  a  na- 
tural philosophy  of  mind  and  history  which 
every  material  existence  has  in  common 
science.  It  considers  the  historical  periods  as 
seasons  of  the  year,  nationalities  as  zones,  tem- 
peraments as  the  elements,  characters  as  crea- 
tures, and  their  manifestations  in  thought  and 
action  as  necessarily  founded  in  Nature,  and  as 
diverse  as  the  instincts.  According  to  this 
system,  there  is  a  growth  and  a  progress,  a 
multiplicity  and  an  order,  in  the  intellectual 
world,  as  in  the  natural.  In  it  alone  the  end- 
less war  of  opinion  is  hushed,  and  every  con- 
tradiction finds  its  simplest  and  most  natural 
solution."* 


*  Menzel's  "  German  Literature."  Translated  by  C.  C. 
Felton. 


ON  THE  RELATION  OF  THE  PLASTIC 
ARTS  TO  NATURE. 

A  SPEECH  ON  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  12TH  OCTOBER,  18  07,  AS 
THE  NAME-DAY  OF  HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING  OF  BAVARIA. 

Delivered  before  the  Public  Assembly  of  the  Royal  Academy  of 
Sciences  at  Munich,  by  F.  W.  J.  Schelling.* 

*  *  *  Plastic  Art,  according  to  the  most 
ancient  expression,  is  silent  Poetry.  The  in- 
ventor of  this  definition  no  doubt  meant  thereby 
that  the  former,  like  the  latter,  is  to  express  spi- 
ritual thoughts — conceptions  whose  source  is  the 
soul ;  only  not  by  speech,  but  like  silent  Nature 
by  shape,  by  form,  by  corporeal,  independent 
works. 

Plastic  Art,  therefore,  evidently  stands  as  a 
uniting  link  between  the  soul  and  Nature, 
and  can  be  apprehended  only  in  the  living 
centre  of  both.  Indeed,  since  Plastic  Art  has 
its  relation  to  the  soul  in  common  with  every 
other  art,  and  particularly  with  Poetry,  that  by 
which  it  is  connected  with  Nature,  and,  like 
Nature,  a  productive  force,  remains  as  its  sole 
peculiarity.  So  that  to  this  alone  can  a  theory 
relate  which  shall  be  satisfactory  to  the  under- 
standing, and  helpful  and  profitable  to  Art 
itself. 

We  hope,  therefore,  in  considering  Plastic  Art 
in  relation  to  its  true  prototype  and  original 
source,  Nature,  to  be  able  to  contribute  some- 
thing new  to  its  theory — to  give  some  additional 
exactness  or  clearness  to  the  conceptions  of  it; 
but,  above  all,  to  set  forth  the  coherence  of  the 
whole  structure  of  Art  in  the  light  of  a  higher 
necessity. 

But  has  not  Science  always  recognised  this 
relation  ?    Has  not  indeed  every  theory  of  mod- 
translated  by  J.  Elliot  Cabot,  Esq. 


ern  times  taken  its  departure  from  this  very 
position,  that  Art  should  be  the  imitator  of  Na- 
ture? Such  has  indeed  been  the  case.  But 
what  should  this  broad  general  proposition  profit 
the  artist,  when  the  notion  of  Nature  is  of  so 
various  interpretation,  and  when  there  are  al- 
most as  many  differing  views  of  it,  as  various 
modes  of  life  ?  Thus,  to  one,  Nature  is  nothing 
more  than  the  lifeless  aggregate  of  an  indeter- 
minable crowd  of  objects,  or  the  space  in  which, 
as  in  a  vessel,  he  imagines  things  placed  ; — to 
another,  only  the  soil  from  which  he  draws  his 
nourishment  and  support;  —  to  the  inspired 
seeker  alone,  the  holy,  ever-creative  original 
energy  of  the  world,  which  generates  and  busily 
evolves  all  things  out  of  itself. 

The  proposition  would  indeed  have  a  high 
significance,  if  it  taught  Art  to  emulate  this 
creative  force ;  but  the  sense  in  which  it  was 
meant  can  scarcely  be  doubtful  to  one  acquaint- 
ed with  the  universal  condition  of  Science  at 
the  time  when  it  was  first  brought  forward. 
Singular  enough  that  the  very  persons  who  de- 
nied all  life  to  Nature,  should  set  it  up  for  imita- 
tion in  Art!  To  them  might  be  applied  the 
words  of  a  profound  writer:*  "  Your  lying  phi- 
losophy has  put  Nature  out  of  the  way ;  and 
why  do  you  call  upon  us  to  imitate  her?  Is  it 
that  you  may  renew  the  pleasure  by  perpetrat- 
ing the  same  violence  on  the  disciples  of 
Nature  ?" 

Nature  was  to  them  not  merely  a  dumb,  but  an 
altogether  lifeless  image,  in  whose  inmost  being 
even  no  living  word  dwelt ;  a  hollow  scaf- 
folding of  forms,  of  which  as  hollow  an  image 
was  to  be  transferred  to  the  canvass,  or  hewn 
out  in  stone. 


*  J.  G.  Hamann. 


SCHEL 


This  was  the  proper  doctrine  of  those  more 
ancient  and  savage  nations,  who,  as  they  saw 
in  Nature  nothing  divine,  fetched  idols  out  of 
her ;  whilst,  to  the  susceptive  Greeks,  who 
everywhere  felt  the  presence  of  a  vitally  effi- 
cient principle,  genuine  gods  arose  out  of  Nature. 

But  is,  then,  the  disciple  of  Nature  to  copy 
everything  in  Nature  without  distinction?  and  of 
everything,  every  part?  Only  beautiful  objects 
should  be  represented;  and,  even  in  these,  only 
the  Beautiful  and  Perfect. 

Thus  is  the  proposition  farther  determined; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  this  asserted,  that,  in  Na- 
ture, the  perfect  is  mingled  with  the  imperfect 
— the  beautiful  with  the  unbeautiful.  Now,  how 
should  he  who  stands  in  no  other  relation  to 
Nature  than  that  of  servile  imitation,  distinguish 
the  one  from  the  other  ?  It  is  the  way  of  imi- 
tators to  appropriate  the  faults  of  their  model 
sooner  and  easier  than  its  excellences,  since  the 
former  offer  handles  and  tokens  more  easily 
grasped ;  and  thus  we  see  that  imitators  of  Na- 
ture in  this  sense  have  imitated  oftener,  and 
even  more  affectionately,  the  ugly  than  the 
beautiful. 

If  we  regard  in  things,  not  their  principle,  but 
the  empty  abstract  form,  neither  will  they  say 
anything  to  our  soul ;  our  own  heart,  our  own 
spirit  we  must  put  to  it,  that  they  answer  us. 

But  what  is  the  perfection  of  a  thing?  No- 
thing else  than  the  creative  life  in  it,  its  power 
to  exist.  Never,  therefore,  will  he,  who  fancies 
that  Nature  is  altogether  dead,  be  successful  in 
that  profound  process  (analogous  to  the  chemi- 
cal) whence  proceeds,  purified  as  by  fire,  the 
pure  gold  of  Beauty  and  Truth. 

Nor  was  there  any  change  in  the  main  view 
of  the  relation  of  Art  to  Nature,  even  when  the 
unsatisfactoriness  of  the  principle  began  to  be 
more  generally  felt ;  no  change,  even  by  the 
new  views  and  new  knowledge  so  nobly  estab- 
lished by  John  Winkelmann.  He  indeed  re- 
stored to  the  soul  its  full  efficiency  in  Art,  and 
raised  it  from  its  unworthy  dependence  into  the 
realm  of  spiritual  freedom.  Powerfully  moved 
by  the  beauty  of  form  in  the  works  of  antiquity, 
he  taught  that  the  production  of  ideal  Nature, 
of  Nature  elevated  above  the  Actual,  together 
with  the  expression  of  spiritual  conceptions,  is 
the  highest  aim  of  Art. 

But  if  we  examine  in  what  sense  this  sur- 
passing of  the  Actual  by  Art  has  been  under- 
stood by  the  most,  it  turns  out  that,  with  this 
view  also,  the  notion  of  Nature  as  mere  product ; 
of  things  as  a  lifeless  result,  still  continued  ;  and 
the  idea  of  a  living  creative  Nature  was  in  no 
wise  awakened  by  it.  So  that  these  ideal  forms 
also  could  be  animated  by  no  positive  insight 
into  their  nature ;  and  if  the  forms  of  the 
Actual  were  dead  for  the  dead  beholder,  these 
were  not  less  so.  Was  no  independent  produc- 
tion of  the  Actual  possible,  neither  was  it  of 
the  Ideal.  The  object  of  the  imitation  was 
changed,  the  imitation  remained.  In  the  place 
of  Nature  were  substituted  the  sublime  works 


LING.  511 


of  Antiquity,  whose  outward  forms  the  pupils 
busied  themselves  in  taking  down,  but  without 
the  spirit  that  fills  them.  These,  however,  are 
as  unapproachable,  nay,  more  so,  than  the  works 
of  Nature ;  and  leave  us  yet  colder,  if  we 
bring  not  to  them  the  spiritual  eye  to  penetrate 
through  the  veil,  and  feel  the  stirring  energy 
within. 

On  the  other  hand,  artists,  since  that  time, 
have  indeed  received  a  certain  ideal  bias,  and 
notions  of  a  beauty  superior  to  matter  ;  but  these 
notions  were  like  fair  words,  to  which  the  deeds 
do  not  correspond.  While  the  previous  method 
in  Art  produced  bodies  without  soul,  this  view 
taught  only  the  secret  of  the  soul,  but  not  that 
of  the  body.  The  theory  had,  as  usual,  passed 
with  one  hasty  stride  to  the  opposite  extreme ; 
but  the  vital  mean  it  had  not  yet  found. 

Who  can  say  that  Winkelmann  had  not  an 
insight  into  the  highest  beauty?  But  with  him 
it  appeared  in  its  dissevered  elements  :  on  one 
side  as  beauty  in  idea,  and  flowing  out  from  the 
soul ;  on  the  other,  as  beauty  of  forms. 

But  what  is  the  efficient  link  that  connects 
the  two?  or  by  what  power  is  the  soul  cre- 
ated together  with  the  body,  at  once  and  as 
if  with  one  breath  ?  If  this  lies  not  within  the 
power  of  Art,  as  of  Nature,  then  it  can  create 
nothing  whatever.  This  vital  connecting  link, 
Winkelmann  did  not  determine;  he  did  not 
teach  how,  from  the  idea,  forms  can  be  pro- 
duced. Thus  Art  went  over  to  that  method 
which  we  would  call  the  retrograde,  since  it 
strives  from  the  form  to  come  at  the  essence. 
But  not  thus  is  the  Unlimited  reached  ;  it  is  not 
attainable  by  mere  enhancement  of  the  Limited. 
Hence,  such  works  as  have  had  their  beginning 
in  form,  with  all  elaborateness  on  that  side, 
show,  in  token  of  their  origin,  an  incurable  want 
at  the  very  point  where  we  expect  the  consum- 
mate, the  essential,  the  final.  The  miracle  by 
which  the  Limited  should  be  raised  to  the  Un- 
limited, the  human  become  divine,  is  wanting: 
the  magic  circle  is  drawn,  but  the  spirit  that 
it  should  enclose,  appears  not,  disobedient  to 
the  call  of  him  who  thought  a  creation  possible 
through  mere  form.         *  *         *  * 

******* 

Nature  meets  us  everywhere,  at  first  with 
reserve,  and  in  form  more  or  less  severe.  She 
is  like  that  quiet  and  serious  beauty,  that  excites 
not  attention  by  noisy  advertisement,  nor  attracts 
the  vulgar  gaze. 

How  can  we,  as  it  were,  spiritually  melt  this 
apparently  rigid  form,  so  that  the  pure  energy 
of  things  may  flow  together  with  the  force  of 
our  spirit,  aud  pour  forth  in  one  united  gush  ? 
We  must  transcend  Form,  in  order  to  gain  it 
again  as  intelligible,  living,  and  truly  felt.  Con- 
sider the  most  beautiful  forms:  what  remains 
behind  after  you  have  abstracted  from  them  the 
efficient  principle  within?  Nothing  but  mere 
unessential  qualities,  such  as  extension  and  the 
relations  of  space.  Does  the  fact  that  one  por- 
tion of  matter  exists  near  another,  and  distinct 


512 


SCHELLING. 


from  it,  contribute  anything  to  its  inner  essence? 
or  does  it  not  rather  contribute  nothing?  Evi- 
dently the  latter.  It  is  not  mere  contiguous 
existence,  but  the  manner  of  it,  that  makes 
form ;  and  this  can  be  determined  only  by  a 
positive  force,  which  is  even  opposed  to  sepa- 
rateness,  and  subordinates  the  rnanifoldness  of 
the  parts  to  the  unity  of  one  idea — from  the 
force  that  works  in  the  crystal,  to  that  which,  as 
a  gentle  magnetic  current,  gives  to  the  particles 
of  matter  in  the  human  form  a  position  and 
arrangement  among  themselves,  through  which 
the  idea,  the  essential  unity  and  beauty,  can 
become  visible. 

Not  only,  however,  as  active  principle,  but  as 
spirit  and  effective  science,  must  the  essence 
appear  to  us  in  the  form,  in  order  that  we  may 
truly  apprehend  it.  For  all  unity  must  be  spi- 
ritual in  nature  and  origin  :  and  what  is  the  aim 
of  all  investigation  of  Nature,  but  to  find  science 
therein  ?  For  that  wherein  there  were  no  Un- 
derstanding, could  not  be  the  object  of  Under- 
standing :  the  Unknowing  could  not  be  known. 
The  science  by  which  Nature  works  is  not,  in- 
deed, like  human  science,  connected  with  reflec- 
tion upon  itself:  in  it,  the  conception  is  not 
separate  from  the  act,  nor  the  design  from  the 
execution.  Thus,  rude  matter  strives,  as  it 
were,  blindly,  after  regular  shape,  and  unknow- 
ingly assumes  pure  stereometric  forms,  which 
belong,  nevertheless,  to  the  realm  of  ideas,  and 
are  something  spiritual  in  the  material. 

The  sublimest  arithmetic  and  geometry  are 
innate  in  the  stars,  and  unconsciously  displayed 
by  them  in  their  motions.  More  distinctly,  but 
still  beyond  their  grasp,  the  living  cognition  ap- 
pears in  animals  ;  and  thus  we  see  them,  though 
wandering  about  without  reflection,  bring  about 
innumerable  results  far  more  excellent  than 
themselves:  —  the  bird  that,  intoxicated  with 
music,  transcends  itself  in  soul-like  tones;  the 
little  artistic  creature,  that,  without  practice  or 
instruction,  accomplishes  light  works  of  archi- 
tecture ; — but  all  directed  by  an  overpowering 
spirit,  that  lightens  in  them  already  with  single 
flashes  of  knowledge,  but  as  yet  appears  no- 
where as  the  full  sun,  as  in  Man. 

This  formative  science  in  Nature  and  Art 
is  the  link  that  connects  idea  and  form,  body 
and  soul.  Before  everything  stands  an  eter- 
nal idea,  formed  in  the  Infinite  Understanding; 
but  by  what  means  does  this  idea  pass  into 
actuality  and  embodiment?  Only  through  the 
creative  science  that  is  as  necessarily  connected 
with  the  Infinite  Understanding,  as  in  the  artist 
the  principle  that  seizes  the  idea  of  unsensuous 
Beauty,  with  that  which  sets  it  forth  to  the 
senses. 

Is  the  artist  to  be  called  happy  and  praise- 
worthy before  all,  to  whom  the  gods  have  grant- 
ed this  spirit;  so  the  work  of  art  will  appear  in 
that  measure  excellent  in  which  it  shows  to  us, 
as  in  outline,  this  unadulterated  energy  of  crea- 
tion and  activity  in  Nature. 

It  was  long  ago  perceived  that,  in  Art,  not 


everything  is  performed  with  consciousness ; 
that,  with  the  conscious  activity,  an  unconscious 
action  must  combine ;  and  that  it  is  of  the  per- 
fect unity  and  mutual  interpenetration  of  the 
two  that  the  highest  in  Art  is  born. 

Works  that  want  this  seal  of  unconscious 
science,  are  recognised  by  the  evident  absence 
of  life  self-supported  and  independent  of  the 
producer:  as,  on  the  contrary,  where  this  acts, 
Art  imparts  to  its  work,  together  with  the  ut- 
most clearness  to  the  understanding,  that  unfa- 
thomable reality  wherein  it  resembles  a  work 
of  Nature. 

It  has  often  been  attempted  to  make  clear  the 
position  of  the  artist  in  regard  to  Nature,  by 
saying  that  Art,  in  order  to  be  such,  must  first 
withdraw  itself  from  Nature,  and  return  to  it 
only  in  the  last  completeness.  The  true  sense 
of  this  saying,  it  seems  to  us,  can  be  no  other 
than  this :  That  in  all  things  in  Nature,  the  liv- 
ing idea  shows  itself  only  blindly  active  :  were 
it  so  also  in  the  artist,  he  would  be  in  nothing 
distinct  from  Nature.  But,  should  he  attempt 
consciously  to  subordinate  himself  altogether  to 
the  Actual,  and  give  back  with  servile  fidelity 
the  already  existing,  he  would  produce  larvce, 
but  no  works  of  Art.  He  must  therefore  with- 
draw himself  from  the  product,  from  the  crea- 
ture; but  only  in  order  to  raise  himself  to  the 
creative  energy,  and  spiritually  to  seize  this. 
Thus  he  ascends  into  the  realm  of  pure  ideas; 
he  forsakes  the  creature,  to  regain  it  with  thou- 
sand-fold interest,  and  in  this  sense  certainly  to 
return  to  Nature.  This  spirit  of  Nature  working 
at  the  core  of  things,  and  speaking  through  form 
and  shape  as  by  symbols  only,  the  artist  must 
certainly  follow  with  emulation ;  and  only  so 
far  as  he  seizes  this  with  genial  imitation,  has 
he  himself  produced  anything  genuine.  For 
works  produced  by  aggregation,  even  of  forms 
beautiful  in  themselves,  would  still  be  destitute 
of  all  beauty,  since  that,  through  which  the 
work  on  the  whole  is  truly  beautiful,  cannot  be 
form.  It  is  above  form  —  it  is  Essence;  the 
Universal;  the  look  and  expression  of  the  in- 
dwelling spirit  of  Nature. 

Now  it  can  scarcely  be  doubtful  what  is  to 
be  thought  of  the  so-called  idealising  of  Nature 
in  Art,  so  universally  demanded.  This  demand 
seems  to  arise  from  a  way  of  thinking,  accord- 
ing to  which  not  Truth,  Beauty,  Goodness,  but 
the  contrary  of  all  these  is  the  Actual.  Were 
the  Actual  indeed  opposed  to  Truth  and  Beauty, 
it  would  be  necessary  for  the  artist,  not  to  ele- 
vate or  idealise  it,  but  to  get  rid  of  and  destroy 
it,  in  order  to  create  anything  true  and  beauti- 
ful. But  how  should  it  be  possible  for  anything 
to  be  actual  except  the  True ;  and  what  is  Beauty, 
if  not  full  complete  Being? 

What  higher  aim,  therefore,  could  Art  have, 
than  to  represent  that  which  in  Nature  truly  is? 
Or  how  should  it  undertake  to  excel  so-called 
actual  Nature,  since  it  must  always  fall  short 
of  it? 

For  does  Art  impart  to  its  works  actual  sen- 


SCHELLING. 


513 


suous  life?  This  statue  breathes  not,  is  stirred 
by  no  pulsation,  warmed  by  no  blood. 

But  both  the  pretended  excelling  and  the  ap- 
parent falling  short  show  themselves  as  the 
consequences  of  one  and  the  sairu?  principle,  so 
soon  as  we  place  the  aim  of  Art  in  the  exhibit- 
ing of  that  which  truly  is. 

Only  on  the  surface  have  its  works  the  ap- 
pearance of  life ;  in  Nature,  life  seems  to  reach 
deeper,  and  to  be  wedded  entirely  with  the 
material.  But  does  not  the  continual  mutation 
of  matter  and  the  universal  lot  of  final  dissolu- 
tion teach  us  the  unessential  character  of  this 
union,  and  that  it  is  no  intimate  combination? 
Art,  accordingly,  in  the  merely  superficial  anima- 
tion of  its  works,  represents  the  unessential  as 
not  existing. 

How  comes  it  that  to  every  tolerably  culti- 
vated taste,  imitations  of  the  so-called  Actual, 
even  though  carried  to  deception,  appear  in  the 
last  degree  untrue  ;  nay,  produce  the  impression 
of  spectres  ;  whilst  a  work  in  which  the  idea  is 
predominant  strikes  us  with  the  full  force  of 
truth,  and  alone  places  us  in  the  genuine  actual 
world?  Whence  comes  it,  if  not  from  the  more 
or  less  obscure  feeling  which  tells  us  that  the 
idea  alone  is  the  living  principle  in  things,  but 
all  else  unessential  and  vain  shadow  ? 

On  the  same  ground  may  be  explained  all 
the  opposite  cases,  which  are  brought  up  as  in- 
stances of  the  surpassing  of  Nature  by  Art.  In 
arresting  the  rapid  course  of  human  years ;  in 
uniting  the  energy  of  developed  manhood  with 
the  soft  charm  of  early  youth ;  or  exhibiting  a 
mother  of  grown-up  sons  and  daughters  in  the 
full  possession  of  vigorous  beauty,  what  does 
Art,  except  to  strike  out  what  is  unessential, 
Time? 

If,  according  to  the  remark  of  a  discerning 
critic,  every  growth  in  Nature  has  but  an  in- 
stant of  truly  complete  beauty,  we  may  also  say 
that  it  has  too  only  an  instant  of  full  existence. 
In  this  instant  it  is  what  it  is  in  all  eternity : 
beside  this,  it  has  only  a  coming  into  and  a 
passing  out  of  existence.  Art,  in  representing 
the  thing  at  that  instant,  removes  it  out  of  Time, 
and  sets  it  forth  in  its  pure  Being,  in  the  eternity 
of  its  life. 

After  everything  positive  and  essential  had 
once  been  abstracted  from  Form,  it  necessarily 
appeared  limiting,  and,  as  it  were,  hostile,  to 
the  Essence ;  and  the  same  theory  that  had 
called  up  the  false  and  powerless  Ideal,  neces- 
sarily tended  to  the  formless  in  Art.  Form 
would  indeed  be  a  limitation  to  the  Essence  if 
it  existed  independent  of  it.  But  if  it  exists 
with  and  by  means  of  the  Essence,  how  could 
this  feel  itself  limited  by  that  which  it  has 
itself  created  ?  Violence  would  indeed  be  done 
it  by  a  form  forced  upon  it,  but  never  by  one 
proceeding  from  itself.  In  this,  on  the  contrary, 
it  must  rest  contented,  and  feel  its  own  exist- 
ence to  be  self-sustained  and  complete  in  it- 
self. 

Determinateness  of  form  is  in  Nature  never  a 
3p 


negation,  but  ever  an  affirmation.  Commonly, 
indeed,  the  shape  of  a  body  seems  a  confine- 
ment; but  could  we  behold  the  creative  energy, 
it  would  reveal  itself  as  the  measure  that  this 
energy  imposes  upon  itself,  and  in  which  it 
shows  itself  a  truly  intelligent  force;  for  in 
everything  is  the  power  of  self-rule  allowed  to 
be  an  excellence,  and  one  of  the  highest. 

In  like  manner  most  persons  consider  the 
particular  in  a  negative  manner;  viz.  as  that 
which  is  not  the  whole  or  all.  But  no  particular 
exists  by  means  of  its  limitation,  but  through 
the  indwelling  force  with  which  it  maintains 
itself  as  a  particular  Whole,  in  distinction  from 
the  Universe. 

This  force  of  particularity,  and  thus  also  of 
individuality,  showing  itself  as  vital  character, 
the  negative  conception  of  it  is  necessarily  fol- 
lowed by  an  unsatisfying  and  false  view  of  the 
characteristic  in  Art.  Lifeless  and  of  intolera- 
ble hardness  would  be  the  Art  that  should  aim 
to  exhibit  the  empty  shell  or  limitation  of  the 
Individual.  Certainly  we  desire  to  see  not 
merely  the  individual,  but  more  than  this,  its 
vital  Idea.  But  if  the  artist  have  seized  the 
inward  creative  spirit  and  essence  of  the  Idea, 
and  sets  this  forth,  he  makes  the  individual  a 
world  in  itself,  a  class,  an  eternal  prototype  : 
and  he  who  has  grasped  the  essential  character 
needs  not  to  fear  hardness  and  severity,  for 
these  are  the  conditions  of  life.  Nature,  who 
in  her  completeness  appears  as  the  utmost  be- 
nignity, we  see  in  each  particular  aiming  even 
primarily  and  principally  at  severity,  seclusion 
and  reserve.  As  the  whole  creation  is  the  work 
of  the  utmost  externisation  and  renunciation 
[Ent'dusserung],  so  the  artist  must  first  deny 
himself  and  descend  into  the  Particular,  with- 
out shunning  isolation,  nor  the  pain,  the  an- 
guish of  Form. 

Nature,  from  her  first  works,  is  throughout 
characteristic ;  the  energy  of  fire,  the  splendor 
of  light  she  shuts  up  in  hard  stone :  the  tender 
soul  of  melody  in  severe  metal:  —  even  on  the 
threshold  of  Life,  and  already  meditating  organic 
shape,  she  sinks  back  overpowered  by  the  might 
of  Form,  into  petrifaction. 

The  life  of  the  plant  consists  in  still  recep- 
tivity, but  in  what  exact  and  severe  outline  is 
this  passive  life  enclosed !  In  the  animal  king- 
dom the  strife  between  Life  and  Form  seems 
first  properly  to  begin:  her  first  works  Nature 
hides  in  hard  shells,  and  where  these  are  laid 
aside,  the  animated  world  attaches  itself  again 
through  its  constructive  impulse  to  the  realm 
of  crystallization.  Finally  she  comes  forward 
more  boldly  and  freely,  and  vital,  important 
characteristics  show  themselves,  and  are  the 
same  through  whole  classes.  Art,  indeed,  can- 
not begin  so  far  down  as  Nature.  Though 
Beauty  is  spread  everywhere,  yet  there  are 
various  grades  in  the  appearance  and  unfolding 
of  the  Essence,  and  thus  of  Beauty.  But  Art 
demands  a  certain  fulness,  and  desires  not  to 
strike  a  single  note  or  tone,  nor  even  a  detach- 


514  SCHELLING. 


ed  accord,  but  at  once  the  full  symphony  of 
Beauty. 

Art,  therefore,  prefers  to  grasp  immediately 
at  the  highest  and  most  developed,  the  human 
form.  For  since  it  is  not  given  it  to  embrace 
the  immeasurable  whole,  and  as  in  all  other 
creatures  only  single  figurations,  in  Man  alone 
full  entire  Being  appear  without  abatement, 
Art  is  not  only  permitted  but  required  to 
see  the  sum  of  Nature  in  Man  alone.  But 
precisely  on  this  account, — that  she  here  as- 
sembles all  in  one  point,  Nature  repeats  her 
whole  multiformity,  and  pursues  again  in  a 
narrower  compass  the  same  course  that  she 
had  gone  through  in  her  wide  circuit. 

Here,  therefore,  arises  the  demand  upon  the 
artist  first  to  be  true  and  faithful  in  detail,  in 
order  to  come  forth  complete  and  beautiful  in 
the  whole.  Here  he  must  wrestle  with  the 
creative  spirit  of  Nature  ; — [which  in  the  moral 
world  also  deals  out  character  and  stamp  in 
endless  variety,]— not  in  weak  and  effeminate, 
but  stout  and  courageous  conflict. 

Persevering  exercise  in  the  study  of  that 
by  virtue  of  which  the  characteristic  in  things 
is  a  positive  principle,  must  preserve  him  from 
emptiness,  weakness,  inward  inanity,  before  he 
can  venture  to  aim  by  ever  higher  combination 
and  final  melting  together  of  manifold  forms, 
to  reach  the  extremest  beauty  in  works  unit- 
ing the  highest  simplicity  with  infinite  mean- 
ing. 

Only  through  the  perfection  of  form  can 
Form  be  made  to  disappear;  and  this  is  cer- 
tainly the  final  aim  of  Art  in  the  Characteristic. 
But  as  the  apparent  harmony  that  is  even  more 
easily  reached  by  tbe  empty  and  frivolous  than 
by  others,  is  yet  inwardly  vain;  so  in  Art  the 
quickly  attained  harmony  of  the  exterior  with- 
out inward  fulness.  And  if  it  is  the  part  of 
theory  and  instruction  to  oppose  the  spiritless 
copying  of  beautiful  forms,  especially  must  they 
oppose  the  tendency  toward  an  effeminate 
characterless  Art,  which  gives  itself  indeed 
higher  names,  but  therewith  only  seeks  to  hide 
its  incapacity  to  fulfil  the  fundamental  condi- 
tions. 

That  lofty  Beauty  in  which  the  fulness  of 
form  causes  Form  itself  to  disappear,  was 
adopted  by  the  modern  theory  of  Art  after 
Winkelmann,  not  only  as  the  highest,  but  as  the 
only  standard.  But  as  the  deep  foundation  upon 
which  it  rests  was  overlooked,  it  resulted  that 
a  negative  conception  was  formed  of  that  which 
is  the  sum  of  all  affirmation. 

Winkelmann  compares  Beauty  with  water 
drawn  from  the  bosom  of  the  spring,  which  the 
less  taste  it  has,  the  wholesomer  it  is  esteemed. 
It  is  true  that  the  highest  Beauty  is  character- 
less, but  it  is  so  as  we  say  of  the  Universe  that 
it  has  no  determinate  dimension,  neither  length, 
breadth  nor  deptb,  since  it  has  all  in  equal  in- 
finity :  or  that  the  Art  of  creative  Nature  is 
formless,  because  she  herself  is  subjected  to  no 
form. 


In  this  and  in  no  other  sense  can  we  say  that 
Grecian  art  in  its  highest  cultivation  rises  into 
the  characterless.  But  it  did  not  aim  imme- 
diately at  this.  It  was  from  the  bonds  of  Na- 
ture that  it  struggled  upwards  to  divine  free- 
dom. From  no  lightly  scattered  seed,  but  only 
from  a  deeply  enfolded  kernel,  could  this  heroic 
growth  spring  up.  Only  mighty  emotions,  only 
a  deep  stirring  of  the  fancy  through  the  impres- 
sion of  all-enlivening,  all-commanding  energies 
of  Nature,  could  stamp  upon  Art  that  invincible 
vigor  with  which  from  the  rigid,  secluded  ear- 
nestness of  earlier  productions  up  to  the  period 
of  works  overflowing  with  sensuous  grace,  it 
ever  remained  faithful  to  truth,  and  produced 
the  highest  spiritual  Reality  which  it  is  given  to 
mortals  to  behold. 

In  like  manner  as  their  Tragedy  commences 
with  the  grandest  character! sticness  in  morals, 
so  the  beginning  of  their  Plastic  Art  was  the 
earnestness  of  Nature,  and  the  stern  goddess 
of  Athens  its  first  and  only  Muse. 

This  epoch  is  marked  by  that  style  which 
Winkelmann  describes  as  the  still  harsh  and 
severe,  from  which  the  next  or  lofty  style  was 
able  to  develop  itself  by  the  mere  enhance- 
ment of  the  Characteristic  into  the  Sublime  and 
the  Simple. 

For  in  the  statues  of  the  most  perfect  or 
divine  natures,  not  only  all  the  complexity  of 
form  of  which  human  nature  is  capable  had  to 
be  united,  but  moreover  the  union  must  be  such 
as  may  be  conceived  to  exist  in  the  system  of 
the  Universe  itself:  viz.  the  lower  forms,  or 
those  relating  to  inferior  attributes,  being  com- 
prehended under  higher,  and  all  at  last  under 
one  supreme  form,  in  which  they  indeed  extin- 
guish each  other  as  separately  existing,  but  still 
continue  in  Essence  and  efficiency. 

Thus,  though  we  cannot  call  this  high  and 
self-sufficing  Beauty  characteristic,  so  far  as 
herewith  is  connected  the  notion  of  limitation 
or  conditionally  in  the  manifestation,  yet  still 
the  characteristic  continues  efficient,  though  indis- 
tinguishable, within:  as  in  the  crystal,  although 
transparent,  the  texture  nevertheless  remains. 

Each  characteristic  element  has  its  weight, 
however  slight,  and  helps  to  bring  about  the 
sublime  equipoise  of  Beauty. 

The  outer  side  or  basis  of  all  Beauty  is  beauty 
of  form.  But  as  Form  cannot  exist  without 
Essence,  wherever  Form  is,  there  also  is  Cha- 
racter ;  whether  in  visible  presence  or  only 
perceptible  in  its  effects.  Characteristic  Beauty, 
therefore,  is  Beauty  in  the  root,  from  which 
alone  Beauty  can  arise  as  the  fruit.  Essence 
may,  indeed,  outgrow  Form,  but  even  then 
the  Characteristic  remains  as  the  still  efficient 
ground-work  of  the  Beautiful. 

A  most  excellent  critic,*  to  whom  the  Gods 
have  given  sway  over  Nature  as  well  as  Art, 
compares  the  Characteristic  in  its  relation  to 


♦  Goethe.  Werke  (1840)  xxx.  352.  Mr.  Ward's  translation 
of  Goethe's  "  Essays  on  Art,"  p.  76. 


SCHELLING.  515 


Beauty,  with  the  skeleton  in  its  relation  to  the 
living  form.  Were  we  to  interpret  this  striking 
simile  in  our  sense,  we  should  say  that  the 
skeleton,  in  Nature,  is  not  as  in  our  thought 
detached  from  the  living  whole :  that  the  firm 
and  the  yielding,  the  determining  and  the  de- 
termined, mutually  presuppose  each  other,  and 
can  exist  only  together  :  thus  that  the  vitally 
Characteristic  is  already  the  whole  form,  the 
result  of  the  action  and  reaction  of  bone  and 
flesh,  of  Active  and  Passive.  And  although 
Art,  like  Nature,  in  its  higher  developments, 
thrusts  inward  the  previously  visible  skeleton, 
yet  this  latter  can  never  be  opposed  to  Shape 
and  Beauty,  since  it  has  always  a  determining 
share  in  the  production  of  the  one  as  well  as 
of  the  other. 

But  whether  that  high  and  independent  Beauty 
should  be  the  only  standard  in  Art,  as  it  is  the 
highest,  seems  to  depend  on  the  degree  of  ful- 
ness and  extent  that  belongs  to  the  particular 
Art. 

Nature,  in  her  wide  circumference,  ever  ex- 
hibits the  higher  with  the  lower :  creating  in 
Man  the  godlike,  she  elaborates  in  all  her  other 
productions  only  its  material  and  foundation, 
which  must  exist  in  order  that  in  contrast  with 
it  the  Essence  as  such  may  appear.  And  even 
in  the  higher  world  of  Man  the  great  mass 
serves  again  as  the  basis  upon  which  the  god- 
like that  is  preserved  pure  in  the  few,  mani- 
fests itself  in  legislation,  government,  and  the 
establishment  of  Religion.  So  that  wherever 
Art  works  with  more  of  the  complexity  of  Na- 
ture, it  may  and  must  display  together  with  the 
highest  measure  of  Beauty,  also  its  ground- 
work and  raw  material  as  it  were,  in  distinct 
appropriate  forms. 

Here  first  prominently  unfolds  itself  the  dif- 
ference in  Nature  of  the  forms  of  Art. 

Plastic  Art,  in  the  more  exact  sense  of  the 
term,  disdains  to  give  Space  outwardly  to  the 
object,  but  bears  it  within  itself.  This,  however, 
narrows  its  field  ;  it  is  compelled,  indeed,  to 
display  the  beauty  of  the  Universe  almost  in  a 
single  point.  It  must  therefore  aim  imme- 
diately at  the  highest,  and  can  attain  complexity 
only  separately  and  in  the  strictest  exclusion  of 
all  conflicting  elements.  By  isolating  the  purely 
animal  in  human  nature  it  succeeds  in  forming 
inferior  creations  too,  harmonious  and  even 
beautiful,  as  we  are  taught  by  the  beauty  of 
numerous  Fauns  preserved  from  Antiquity:  it 
can,  indeed,  parodying  itself  like  the  merry 
spirit  of  Nature,  reverse  its  own  Ideal,  and  for 
instance,  in  the  extravagance  of  the  Silenic 
figures,  by  light  and  sportive  treatment,  appear 
freed  again  from  the  pressure  of  matter. 

But  in  all  cases  it  is  compelled  strictly  to  iso- 
late the  work,  in  order  to  make  it  self-consistent 
and  a  world  in  itself ;  since  for  this  form  of  Art 
there  is  no  higher  unity,  in  which  the  dissonance 
of  particulars  should  be  melted  into  harmony. 

Painting,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  very  extent 
of  its  sphere,  can  better  measure  itself  with  the 


Universe,  and  create  with  epic  profusion.  In 
an  Iliad  there  is  room  even  for  aThersites,  and 
what  does  not  find  a  place  in  the  great  epic  of 
Nature  and  History ! 

Here  the  Particular  scarcely  counts  anything 
by  itself ;  the  Universe  takes  its  place,  and  that, 
which  by  itself  would  not  be  beautiful,  becomes 
so  in  the  harmony  of  the  whole.  If  in  an  ex- 
tensive painting,  uniting  forms  by  the  allotted 
space,  by  light,  by  shade,  by  reflection,  the 
highest  measure  of  Beauty  were  everywhere 
employed,  the  result  would  be  the  most  unna- 
tural monotony ;  for,  as  Winkelmann  says,  the 
highest  idea  of  Beauty  is  everywhere  one  and 
the  same,  and  scarce  admits  of  variation.  The 
detail  would  be  preferred  to  the  whole,  where, 
as  in  every  case  in  which  the  whole  is  formed 
by  multiplicity,  the  detail  must  be  subordinate 
to  it. 

In  such  a  work,  therefore,  a  gradation  of 
Beauty  must  be  observed,  by  which  alone  the 
full  Beauty  concentrated  in  the  focus  becomes 
visible ;  and  from  an  exaggeration  of  particu- 
lars proceeds  an  equipoise  of  the  whole.  Here, 
then,  the  limited  and  characteristic  finds  its 
place ;  and  theory  at  least  should  direct  the 
painter,  not  so  much  to  the  narrow  space  in 
which  the  entire  Beauty  is  concentrically  col- 
lected, as  to  the  characteristic  complexity  of 
Nature,  through  which  alone  he  can  impart  to 
an  extensive  work  the  full  measure  of  living 
significance. 

Thus  thought,  among  the  founders  of  modern 
art,  the  noble  Leonardo ;  thus  Raphael,  the 
master  of  high  Beauty,  who  shunned  not  to  ex- 
hibit it  in  smaller  measure,  rather  than  to  appear 
monotonous,  lifeless,  and  unreal  —  though  he 
understood  not  only  how  to  produce  it,  but  also 
how  to  break  up  uniformity  by  variety  of  ex- 
pression. 

For,  although  Character  can  show  itself  also 
in  rest  and  equilibrium  of  form,  yet  it  is  only 
in  action  that  it  becomes  truly  alive. 

By  Character  we  understand  a  unity  of  several 
forces,  operating  constantly  to  produce  among 
them  a  certain  equipoise  and  determinate  pro- 
portion, to  which,  if  undisturbed,  a  like  equi- 
poise in  the  symmetry  of  the  forms  corresponds. 
But  if  this  vital  Unity  is  to  display  itself  in  act 
and  operation,  this  can  only  be  when  the  forces, 
excited  by  some  cause  to  rebellion,  forsake  their 
equilibrium.  Every  one  sees  that  this  is  the 
case  in  the  Passions. 

But  here  we  are  met  by  the  well-known 
maxim  of  the  theorists,  which  demands  that 
Passion  should  be  moderated  as  far  as  possible, 
in  its  actual  outburst,  that  beauty  of  Form  may 
not  be  injured.  But  we  think  this  maxim  should 
rather  be  reversed,  and  read  thus : — that  Pas- 
sion should  be  moderated  by  Beauty  itself.  For 
it  is  much  to  be  feared  that  this  desired  mode- 
ration too  may  be  taken  in  a  negative  sense — 
whereas,  what  is  really  requisite  is,  to  oppose 
to  Passion  a  positive  force.  For  as  Virtue  con- 
sists, not  in  the  absence  of  passions,  but  in  the 


516  SCHELLING. 


mastery  of  the  spirit  over  them,  so  Beauty  is 
preserved,  not  by  their  removal  or  abatement, 
but  by  the  mastery  of  Beauty  over  them. 

The  forces  of  Passion  must  actually  show 
themselves — it  must  be  seen  that  they  are  pre- 
pared to  rise  in  mutiny,  but  are  kept  down  by 
the  power  of  Character,  and  break  against  the 
forms  of  firmly-founded  Beauty,  as  the  waves 
of  a  stream  that  just  fills,  but  cannot  overflow 
its  banks.  Otherwise,  this  striving  after  mode- 
ration would  resemble  only  those  shallow  mo- 
ralists, who,  the  more  readily  to  dispose  of  Man, 
prefer  to  mutilate  his  nature;  and  who  have  so 
entirely  removed  every  positive  element  from 
actions,  that  the  people  gloat  over  the  spectacle 
of  great  crimes,  in  order  to  refresh  themselves 
at  last  with  the  view  of  something  positive. 

In  Nature  and  Art  the  Essence  strives  first 
after  actualization,  or  exhibition  of  itself  in  the 
Particular.  Thus  in  each  the  utmost  severity 
is  manifested  at  the  commencement;  for  without 
bound,  the  boundless  could  not  appear;  without 
severity,  gentleness  could  not  exist:  and  if  unity 
is  to  be  perceptible,  it  can  only  be  through  par- 
ticularity, detachment,  and  opposition.  In  the 
beginning,  therefore,  the  creative  spirit  shows 
itself  entirely  lost  in  its  form,  inaccessibly  shut 
up,  and  even  in  its  grandeur  still  harsh.  But 
the  more  it  succeeds  in  uniting  its  entire  fullness 
in  one  product,  the  more  it  gradually  relaxes 
from  its  severity;  and  where  it  has  fully  deve- 
loped the  form,  so  as  to  rest  contented  and  self- 
collected  in  it,  it  seems  to  become  cheerful,  and 
begins  to  move  in  gentle  lines.  This  is  the 
period  of  its  fairest  maturity  and  blossom,  in 
which  the  pure  vessel  has  arrived  at  perfection; 
the  spirit  of  Nature  becomes  free  from  its  bonds, 
and  feels  its  relationship  to  the  soul.  As  by  a 
gentle  morning  blush  stealing  over  the  whole 
form,  the  coming  soul  announces  itself:  it  is  not 
yet  present,  but  everything  prepares  for  its  recep- 
tion, by  the  delicate  play  of  gentle  movements; 
the  rigid  outlines  melt  and  temper  themselves 
into  flexibility ;  a  lovely  essence,  neither  sen- 
suous nor  spiritual,  but  which  cannot  be  grasped, 
diffuses  itself  over  the  form,  and  entwines  it- 
self with  every  outline,  every  vibration  of  the 
frame. 

This  essence,  not  to  be  seized,  as  we  have 
already  remarked,  but  yet  perceptible  to  all,  is 
what  the  language  of  the  Greeks  designated  by 
the  name  Charis,  ours  as  Grace. 

Wherever,  in  a  fully  developed  form,  Grace 
appears,  the  work  is  complete  on  the  side  of 
Nature ;  nothing  more  is  wanting ;  all  demands 
are  satisfied.  Here,  already,  soul  and  body  are 
in  complete  harmony;  Body  is  Form,  Grace  is 
Soul,  although  not  Soul  in  itself,  but  the  Soul  of 
Form,  or  the  Soul  of  Nature. 

Art  may  linger,  and  remain  stationary  at  this 
point ;  for,  already,  on  one  side  at  least  its  whole 
task  is  finished.  The  pure  image  of  Beauty 
arrested  at  this  point  is  the  Goddess  of  Love. 

But  the  beauty  of  the  Soul  in  itself,  joined  to 


sensuous  Grace,  is  the  highest  apotheosis  of 
Nature. 

The  spirit  of  Nature  is  only  in  appearance 
opposed  to  the  Soul ;  essentially,  it  is  the  instru- 
ment of  its  revelation;  it  brings  about  indeed 
the  antagonism  that  exists  in  all  things,  but  only 
that  the  one  essence  may  come  forth,  as  the 
utmost  benignity,  and  the  reconciliation  of  all 
the  forces. 

All  other  creatures  are  driven  by  the  mere 
force  of  Nature,  and  through  it  maintain  their 
individuality ;  in  Man  alone,  as  the  central  point, 
arises  the  soul,  without  which  the  world  would 
be  like  the  natural  universe  without  the  sun. 

The  Soul  in  Man,  therefore,  is  not  the  prin- 
ciple of  individuality,  but  that  whereby  he 
raises  himself  above  all  egoism,  whereby  he 
becomes  capable  of  self-sacrifice,  and  of  disin- 
terested love,  and  (which  is  the  highest,)  of  the 
contemplation  and  knowledge  of  the  Essence 
of  things  ;  and  thus  of  Art. 

In  him  it  is  no  longer  employed  about  Matter, 
nor  has  to  do  with  it  immediately,  but  only 
with  the  spirit,  (as  the  life)  of  things.  Even 
while  appearing-  in  the  body,  it  is  yet  free  from 
the  body,  the  consciousness  of  which  hovers  in 
the  soul  in  the  most  beauteous  shapes  only  as  a 
light,  undisturbing  dream.  It  is  no  quality,  no 
faculty,  nor  anything  special  of  the  sort ;  it  knows 
not,  but  is  Science  ;  it  is  not  good,  but  Goodness; 
it  is  not  beautiful,  as  body  even  may  be,  but 
Beauty  itself. 

Most  readily,  or  most  immediately,  indeed,  in 
a  work  of  art,  the  soul  of  the  artist  is  seen  as 
invention,  in  the  detail,  and  in  the  total  result, 
as  the  unity  that  hovers  over  it  in  serene  still- 
ness. But  the  Soul  must  be  visible  in  objec- 
tive representation,  as  the  primoeval  energy  of 
thought,  in  portraitures  of  human  beings,  alto- 
gether filled  by  an  idea,  by  a  noble  contempla- 
tion; or  as  indwelling  essential  Goodness. 

Each  of  these  finds  its  distinct  expression 
even  in  the  completest  repose,  but  a  more  living 
one  where  the  Soul  can  reveal  itself  in  activity 
and  antagonism  ;  and  since  it  is  by  the  passions 
mainly  that  the  force  of  life  is  interrupted,  it  is 
the  generally  received  opinion,  that  the  beauty 
of  the  Soul  shows  itself  especially  in  its  quiet 
supremacy  amid  the  storm  of  the  passions. 

But  here  an  important  distinction  is  to  be 
made.  For  the  Soul  must  not  be  called  upon 
to  moderate  those  passions  which  are  only  an 
outbreak  of  the  lower  spirits  of  Nature,  nor  can 
it  be  displayed  in  antithesis  with  these ;  for 
where  calm  considerateness  is  still  in  contention 
with  them,  the  Soul  has  not  yet  appeared  :  they 
must  be  moderated  by  unassisted  Nature  in 
Man,  by  the  might  of  the  Spirit.  But  there  are 
cases  of  a  higher  sort,  in  which,  not  a  single 
force  alone,  but  the  intelligent  Spirit  itself 
breaks  down  all  barriers:  cases,  indeed,  where 
the  Soul  is  subjected  by  the  bond  that  connects 
it  with  sensuous  existence,  to  pain,  which  should 
be  foreign  to  its  divine  nature:  where  Man  feels 


SCHELLING.  517 


himself  invaded  and  attacked  in  the  root  of  his 
existence,  not  by  mere  powers  of  Nature,  but 
by  moral  forces:  "where  innocent  error  hurries 
him  into  crime,  and  thus  into  misery:  where 
deep-felt  injustice  excites  to  rebellion  the  holiest 
feelings  of  humanity. 

This  is  the  case  in  all  situations,  truly,  and  in 
a  high  sense,  tragical,  such  as  the  Tragedy  of 
the  ancients  brings  before  our  eyes.  Where 
blindly  passionate  forces  are  aroused,  the  col- 
lected Spirit  is  present  as  the  guardian  of  Beauty ; 
but  if  the  Spirit  itself  be  hurried  away,  as  by 
an  irresistible  might,  what  power  shall  watch 
over  and  protect  sacred  Beauty?  Or,  if  the 
soul  participate  in  the  struggle,  how  shall  it 
save  itself  from  pain  and  from  desecration  1 

Arbitrarily  to  limit  the  power  of  pain,  of  ex- 
cited feeling,  would  be  to  sin  against  the  very 
meaning  and  aim  of  Art,  and  would  betray  a 
want  of  feeling  and  soul  in  the  artist  himself. 

Already  therein,  that  Beauty,  based  on  grand 
and  firmly-established  forms  has  become  Cha- 
racter, Art  has  provided  the  means  of  display- 
ing without  injury  to  symmetry  the  whole  in- 
tensity of  Feeling.  For  where  Beauty  rests  on 
mighty  forms,  as  upon  immoveable  pillars,  a 
slight  change  in  its  relations,  scarcely  touching 
the  form,  causes  us  to  infer  the  great  force  that 
was  necessary  in  order  to  effect  it.  Still  more 
does  Grace  sanctify  pain.  It  is  the  essential 
nature  of  Grace  that  it  does  not  know  itself ; 
but  not  being  wilfully  acquired,  it  also  can- 
not be  wilfully  lost.  When  intolerable  an- 
guish, when  even  madness,  sent  by  avenging 
Gods,  takes  away  consciousness  and  reflection, 
Grace  stands  as  a  protecting  daemon  by  the  suf- 
fering form,  and  prevents  it  from  manifesting 
anything  unseemly,  anything  discordant  to  Hu- 
manity ;  but  if  it  fall,  to  fall  at  least  a  pure  and 
unspotted  victim. 

Not  yet  the  Soul  itself,  but  the  prophecy  of  it; 
Grace  accomplishes  by  natural  means,  what  the 
Soul  does  by  a  divine  power,  in  transforming 
pain,  torpor,  even  death  itself,  into  Beauty. 

Yet  Grace  thus  preserved  amid  the  extremest 
discordance  would  be  dead,  without  a  transfigu- 
ration by  the  soul.  But  what  expression  can 
belong  to  the  soul  in  this  situation  ?  It  delivers 
itself  from  pain,  and  comes  forth  conquering, 
not  conquered,  by  relinquishing  its  connection 
with  sensuous  existence. 

It  is  for  the  natural  Spirit  to  exert  its  energies 
for  the  preservation  of  sensuous  existence,  the 
Soul  enters  not  into  this  contest;  but  its  presence 
moderates  even  the  storms  of  painfully-strug- 
gling life.  Outward  force  can  take  away  only 
outward  goods,  but  not  reach  the  Soul :  it  can 
tear  asunder  a  temporal  bond,  not  dissolve  the 
eternal  one  of  a  truly  divine  love.  Not  hard 
and  unfeeling,  nor  wanting  in  love  itself,  the 
Soul  on  the  contrary  displays  in  pain  this  alone, 
as  the  sentiment  that  outlasts  sensuous  existence, 
and  thus  raises  itself  above  the  ruins  of  outward 
life  or  fortune  in  divine  glory. 

It  is  this  expression  of  the  Soul  that  the  creator 


of  the  Niobe  has  shown  us  in  this  statue.  All 
the  means  by  which  Art  tempers  even  the  Ter- 
rible, are  here  made  use  of.  Mightiness  of 
form,  sensuous  Grace,  nay,  even  the  nature  of 
the  subject-matter  itself  softens  the  expression, 
since  pain,  transcending  all  expression,  annihi- 
lates itself,  and  Beauty,  which  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  preserve  from  destruction,  is  pro- 
tected from  injury  by  the  commencing  torpor. 

But  what  would  it  all  be  without  the  Soul; 
and  how  shall  this  manifest  itself? 

We  see  on  the  countenance  of  the  mother, 
not  grief  alone  for  the  already  prostrated  flower 
of  her  children;  not  alone  deadly  anxiety  for 
the  preservation  of  those  yet  remaining,  and  of 
the  youngest  daughter,  who  has  fled  for  safety 
to  her  bosom  ;  nor  resentment  against  the  cruel 
deities;  least  of  all,  as  is  pretended,  cool  defi- 
ance :  all  these  we  see,  indeed,  but  not  these 
alone;  for,  through  grief,  anxiety,  and  resent- 
ment streams,  like  a  divine  light,  eternal  love, 
as  that  which  alone  remains :  and  in  this  is 
preserved  the  mother,  as  one  who  was  not,  but 
now  is  a  mother,  and  who  remains  united  with 
the  beloved  ones  by  an  eternal  bond. 

Every  one  acknowledges  that  greatness,  pu- 
rity, and  goodness  of  soul  have  also  their  sen- 
suous expressions.  But  how  is  this  conceivable, 
unless  the  principle  that  acts  in  Matter  be  itself 
cognate  and  similar  to  Soul  ? 

For  the  representation  of  the  Soul  there  are 
again  gradations  in  Art,  according  as  it  is  joined 
with  the  merely  Characteristic,  or  in  visible 
union  with  the  Charming  and  Graceful. 

Who  perceives  not,  in  the  tragedies  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  that  lofty  morality  already  predominant, 
which  is  at  home  in  the  works  of  Sophocles  ? 
But  in  the  former  it  is  enveloped  in  a  bitter  rind, 
and  passes  less  into  the  whole  work,  since  the 
bond  of  sensuous  Grace  is  yet  wanting.  But 
out  of  this  severity,  and  the  still  terrible  charms 
of  earlier  Art,  could  yet  proceed  the  grace  of 
Sophocles,  and  with  it  the  complete  fusion  of 
the  two  elements,  which  leaves  us  doubtful 
whether  it  is  more  moral  or  sensuous  Grace 
that  enchants  us  in  the  works  of  this  poet. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  plastic  productions 
of  the  early  and  severe  style,  in  comparison 
with  the  gentleness  of  the  later. 

If  Grace,  besides  being  the  transfiguration  of 
the  spirit  of  Nature,  is  also  the  medium  of  con- 
nection between  moral  Goodness  and  sensuous 
Appearance,  it  is  evident  how  Art  must  tend 
from  all  points  towards  it  as  its  centre.  This 
Beauty,  which  results  from  the  perfect  inter- 
penetration  of  moral  Goodness  and  sensuous 
Grace,  seizes  and  enchants  us  when  we  meet 
it,  with  the  force  of  a  miracle.  For,  whilst  the 
spirit  of  Nature  shows  itself  everywhere  else 
independent  of  the  Soul,  and,  indeed,  in  a  mea- 
sure opposed  to  it,  here,  it  seems,  as  if  by  volun- 
tary accord,  and  the  inward  fire  of  divine  love, 
to  melt  into  union  with  it:  the  remembrance  of 
the  fundamental  unity  of  the  essence  of  Nature 
and  the  essence  of  the  Soul,  comes  over  the 
44 


518 


SCHELLING. 


beholder  with  sudden  clearness:  the  conviction 
that  all  antagonism  is  only  apparent;  that  Love 
is  the  bond  of  all  things,  and  pure  Goodness  the 
foundation  and  substance  of  the  whole  Creation. 

Here  Art  as  it  were  transcends  itself,  and 
becomes  means  only.  On  this  summit  sensuous 
Grace  becomes  in  turn  only  the  husk  and  body 
of  a  higher  life :  what  was  before  a  whole  is 
treated  as  a  part,  and  the  highest  relation  of  Art 
and  Nature  is  reached  in  this,  that  it  makes 
Nature  the  medium  of  manifesting  the  soul 
which  it  contains. 

But  though  in  this  blossoming  of  Art,  as  in 
the  blossoming  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  all 
the  previous  stages  are  repeated,  yet  on  the 
other  hand  we  may  see  in  what  various  direc- 
tions Art  can  proceed  from  this  centre.  Espe- 
cially the  difference  in  nature  of  the  two  forms 
of  plastic  Art  here  shows  itself  most  strongly. 
For  Sculpture,  representing  its  ideas  by  corpo- 
real things,  seem  to  reach  its  highest  point  in 
the  complete  equilibrium  of  Soul  and  Matter — 
if  it  give  a  preponderance  to  the  latter,  it  sinks 
below  its  own  idea — but  it  seems  altogether 
impossible  for  it  to  elevate  the  soul  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Matter,  since  it  must  thereby  transcend 
itself.  The  perfect  sculptor  indeed,  as  Winkel- 
mann  remarks  on  occasion  of  the  Belvidere 
Apollo,  will  use  no  more  material  than  is  need- 
ful to  accomplish  his  spiritual  purpose:  but  also 
on  the  other  hand  he  will  put  into  the  soul  no 
more  energy  than  is  at  the  same  time  expressed 
in  the  material :  for  precisely  upon  this,  fully 
to  embody  the  spiritual,  depends  his  art.  Sculp- 
ture, therefore,  can  reach  its  true  summit  only 
in  the  representation  of  those  natures  in  whose 
constitution  it  is  implied  that  they  actually  em- 
body all  that  is  contained  in  their  Idea  or  soul ; 
thus  only  in  divine  natures.  So  that  Sculpture, 
even  if  no  Mythology  had  preceded  it,  would 
of  itself  have  come  upon  Gods,  and  have  in- 
vented such  if  it  found  none. 

Moreover  as  the  Spirit,  on  this  lower  platform, 
has  again  the  same  relation  to  Matter  that  we 
have  ascribed  to  the  Soul,  (being  the  principle 
of  activity  and  motion,  as  Matter  is  that  of  rest 
and  inaction,)  the  law  that  regulates  Expression 
and  Passion,  must  be  a  fundamental  principle 
of  its  nature. 

But  this  law  must  be  applicable  not  only  to 
the  lower  passions,  but  also  equally  to  those 
higher  and  godlike  passions,  if  it  is  permitted 
so  to  call  them,  by  which  the  Soul  is  affected 
in  rapture,  in  devotion,  in  adoration.  Hence, 
since  from  these  passions  the  Gods  alone  are 
exempt,  Sculpture  is  inclined  from  this  side  also 
to  the  imaging  of  divine  natures. 

The  nature  of  Painting  however  seems  to 
differ  entirely  from  that  of  Sculpture.  For  the 
former  represents  objects  not  like  the  latter,  by 
corporeal  things,  but  by  light  and  color;  through 
a  medium  therefore  itself  incorporeal,  and  in  a 
measure  spiritual.  And  Painting  moreover 
gives  out  its  productions  nowise  as  the  things 
themselves,  but  expressly  as  pictures.  From 


its  very  nature  therefore  it  does  not  lay  as  much 
stress  on  the  material  as  Sculpture,  and  seems 
indeed  from  this  reason,  when  it  exalts  the  ma- 
terial above  the  spirit,  to  degrade  itself  more 
than  Sculpture  in  a  like  case  :  and  on  the  other 
hand  to  be  yet  more  justified  in  giving  a  clear 
preponderance  to  the  soul. 

Where  it  aims  at  the  highest  it  will  indeed 
ennoble  the  passions  by  Character,  or  moderate 
them  by  Grace,  or  manifest  in  them  the  power 
of  the  Soul :  but  on  the  other  hand  it  is  precisely 
those  higher  passions,  depending  on  the  rela- 
tionship of  the  soul  with  a  Supreme  Being,  that 
are  entirely  suited  to  the  nature  of  Painting. 
Indeed  while  Sculpture  maintains  an  exact  ba- 
lance between  the  force  whereby  a  thing  exists 
outwardly  and  acts  in  Nature,  and  that  by  virtue 
of  which  it  lives  inwardly  and  as  soul,  and  ex- 
cludes mere  passivity  even  from  Matter  ;  Paint- 
ing on  the  contrary  may  soften  in  favor  of  the 
soul  the  characteristicness  of  the  force  and  acti- 
vity in  Matter,  and  transform  it  into  resignation 
and  endurance,  by  which  Man  seems  to  become 
more  generally  susceptible  to  the  inspirations 
of  the  soul,  and  to  higher  influences. 

This  diametrical  difference  explains  of  itself 
not  only  the  necessary  predominance  of  Sculp- 
ture in  the  ancient,  and  of  Painting  in  the  mo- 
dern world,  (since  in  the  former  the  tone  of 
mind  was  thoroughly  plastic,  whereas  the  latter 
makes  even  the  soul  the  passive  instrument  of 
higher  revelations):  but  this  also  is  evident;  that 
it  is  not  enough  to  strive  after  the  Plastic  in 
form  and  manner  of  representation,  but  that  it 
is  requisite  before  all  to  think  and  to  feel  plas- 
tically, that  is,  antiquely. 

And  as  the  deviation  of  Sculpture  into  the 
picturesque  is  destructive  to  Art,  so  the  narrow- 
ing down  of  Painting  to  the  conditions  and 
forms  belonging  to  Sculpture,  is  an  arbitrarily 
imposed  limitation.  For  while  Sculpture,  like 
Gravitation,  acts  towards  one  point,  it  i^  per- 
mitted to  Painting,  as  to  Light,  to  fill  all  space 
with  its  creative  energy. 

This  unlimited  universality  of  Painting  is 
demonstrated  by  History  itself,  and  by  the  ex- 
amples of  the  greatest  masters,  who,  without 
injury  to  the  essential  character  of  their  art, 
have  developed  to  perfection  each  particular 
stage  by  itself:  so  that  we  can  find  also  in  the 
history  of  Art  the  same  sequence  that  may  be 
pointed  out  in  its  nature.  Not  indeed  in  exact 
order  of  time,  but  yet  substantially.  For  thus 
is  represented  in  Michael  Angelo  the  oldest  and 
mightiest  epoch  of  liberated  Art;  that  in  which 
it  displays  its  yet  uncontrolled  strength  in  gi- 
gantic progeny:  as  in  the  fables  of  the  symbolic 
Fore-world,  the  Earth,  after  the  embrace  of 
Uranus,  brought  forth  at  first  Titans  and  hea- 
ven-storming giants,  before  the  mild  reign  of 
the  serene  Gods  began. 

Thus  the  painting  of  the  Last  Judgment,  with 
which,  as  the  sum  of  his  art,  that  giant  spirit 
filled  the  Sistine  Chapel,  seems  to  remind  us 
more  of  the  first  ages  of  the  Earth  and  its  pro- 


519 


ducts,  than  of  its  last.  Attracted  towards  the 
most  hidden  abysses  of  organic,  particularly  of 
the  human  form,  he  shuns  not  the  Terrible; 
nay,  he  seeks  it  purposely,  and  startles  it  from  its 
repose  in  the  dark  workshops  of  Nature.  Want 
of  delicacy,  grace,  pleasingness,  he  balances  by 
the  extremest  energy ;  and  if  he  excites  horror 
by  his  representations,  it  is  the  terror  that,  ac- 
cording to  fable,  the  ancient  god  Pan  spreads 
around  him  when  he  suddenly  appears  in  the 
assemblies  of  men. 

It  is  the  method  of  Nature  to  produce  the  ex- 
traordinary by  isolation  and  the  exclusion  of  op- 
posed qualities.  Thus,  it  was  necessary  that, 
in  Michael  Angelo,  earnestness  and  the  deep 
significant  energy  of  Nature  should  prevail, 
rather  than  a  sense  for  the  grace  and  sensibility 
that  belong  to  the  Soul,  in  order  to  display  the 
extreme  of  pure  plastic  force  in  the  painting  of 
modern  times. 

After  the  earlier  violence  and  the  vehement 
impulse  of  birth  is  assuaged,  the  spirit  of  Nature 
is  transfigured  into  Soul,  and  Grace  is  born. 
This  point  Art  reached,  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
in  Correggio,  in  whose  works  the  sensuous  Soul 
is  the  active  principle  of  Beauty. 

******* 

As  the  modern  fable  of  Psyche  closes  the 
circle  of  the  old  mythology ;  so  Painting,  by 
giving  a  preponderance  to  the  Soul,  attained  a 
new,  though  not  a  higher  step  of  Art. 

This  Guido  Reni  strove  after,  and  became  the 
proper  painter  of  the  soul.  Such  seems  to  us 
to  be  the  necessary  interpretation  of  his  whole 
endeavor,  often  uncertain,  and,  in  many  of  his 
works,  losing  itself  in  the  vague. 

This  is  shown,  as,  perhaps,  in  few  of  his 
other  pictures,  in  the  masterpiece  that  is  offered 
to  the  admiration  of  all  in  the  great  collection 
of  our  king. 

In  the  figure  of  the  heavenwards  ascending 
virgin,  all  harshness  and  sternness  is  effaced 
even  to  the  last  trace  :  and,  indeed,  does  not 
Painting  itself  seem  in  it  to  soar  upwards,  trans- 
figured on  its  own  pinions,  as  the  liberated 
Psyche  delivered  from  the  severity  of  Form? 

Here  nothing  outward  remains,  with  separate 
natural  force ;  everything  expresses  receptivity 
and  still  endurance,  even  the  perishable  flesh, 
the  character  of  which  the  Italian  language  de- 
signates by  the  term  morbidezza,  altogether  un- 
like that  with  which  Raphael  invests  the  de- 
scending Queen  of  Heaven,  as  she  appears  to 
the  adoring  pope  and  a  saint. 

Though  the  remark  be  well-founded,  that  the 
original  of  Guido's  female  heads  is  the  Niobe 
of  antiquity,  yet  the  ground  of  this  similarity  is 
surely  no  mere  intentional  imitation  ;  perhaps  a 
like  aim  led  to  like  means. 

As  the  Florentine  Niobe  is  an  extreme  in 
Sculpture,  and  the  representation  in  it  of  the 
Soul;  so  this  well-known  picture  is  an  extreme 
in  Painting,  which  here  ventures  to  lay  aside 
even  the  requisite  of  shade  and  the  obscure,  and 
to  work  almost  with  pure  Light. 


Even  though  it  might  be  permitted  to  Paint- 
ing, from  its  peculiar  nature,  to  give  a  distinct 
preponderance  to  the  Soul,  yet  theory  and  in- 
struction will  do  best  constantly  to  aim  at  that 
original  Centre,  whence  alone  Art  may  be  pro- 
duced ever  anew ;  whereas,  at  the  stage  last 
mentioned,  it  must  necessarily  stand  still,  or 
degenerate  into  cramped  mannerism.  For  even 
that  higher  passivity  is  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
fully  energetic  Being,  whose  image  and  reflex 
Art  is  called  upon  to  display. 

A  right  perception  will  ever  enjoy  seeing  a 
thing  worthily,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  independ- 
ently developed,  even  on  this  side  of  its  indi- 
viduality :  yea,  the  Deity  would  look  down  with 
pleasure  on  a  creature  that,  gifted  with  a  pure 
soul,  should  stoutly  assert  the  dignity  of  its  na- 
ture outwardly  also,  and  by  its  energetic  sensuous 
existence. 

We  have  seen  how  the  work  of  Art,  springing 
up  out  of  the  depths  of  Nature,  begins  with  de- 
terminateness  and  limitation,  unfolds  its  inward 
plenitude  and  infinity,  is  finally  transfigured  in 
Grace,  and  at  last  attains  to  Soul.  But  we  can 
conceive  only  in  detail  what,  in  the  creative  act 
of  mature  Art,  is  but  one  operation.  No  theory 
and  no  rules  can  give  this  spiritual  creative 
power.  It  is  the  pure  gift  of  Nature,  which 
here,  for  the  second  time,  makes  a  close  ;  for, 
having  fully  actualized  herself,  she  invests  the 
creature  with  her  creative  energy.  But  as,  in 
the  grand  progress  of  Art,  these  different  stages 
appeared  successively,  until,  at  the  highest,  all 
joined  in  one  ;  so  also,  in  particulars,  sound  cul- 
ture can  spring  up  only  where  it  has  unfolded 
itself  regularly  from  the  germ  and  root  to  the 
blossom. 

The  requirement  that  Art,  like  everything 
living,  should  commence  from  the  first  rudi- 
ments, and,  to  renew  its  youth,  constantly  return 
to  them,  may  seem  a  hard  doctrine  to  an  age 
that  has  so  often  been  assured  that  it  has  only 
to  take  from  works  of  Art  already  in  existence 
the  most  consummate  Beauty,  and  thus  as  at  a 
step  to  reach  the  final  goal.  Have  we  not  al- 
ready the  Excellent,  the  Perfect?  How  then 
should  we  return  to  the  rudimentary  and  un- 
formed ? 

Had  the  great  founders  of  modern  Art  thought 
thus,  we  should  never  have  seen  their  miracles. 
Before  them  also  stood  the  creations  of  the  an- 
cients, round  statues  and  works  in  relief,  which 
they  might  have  transferred  immediately  to  their 
canvas.  But  such  an  appropriation  of  a  Beauty 
not  self-won,  and  therefore  unintelligible,  would 
not  satisfy  an  artistic  instinct  that  aimed  through- 
out at  the  fundamental,  and  from  which  the 
Beautiful  was  again  to  create  itself  with  free 
original  energy.  They  were  not  afraid,  there- 
fore, to  appear  simple,  artless,  dry,  beside  those 
exalted  ancients ;  nor  to  cherish  Art  for  a  long 
time  in  the  undistinguished  bud,  until  the  period 
of  Grace  had  arrived. 

Whence  comes  it  that  we  still  look  upon  these 
works  of  the  older  masters,  from  Giotto  to  the 


520 


SCHELLING. 


teacher  of  Raphael,  with  a  sort  of  reverence, 
indeed  with  a  certain  predilection,  if  not  that 
the  faithfulness  of  their  endeavor,  and  the  grand 
earnestness  of  their  serene  voluntary  limitation, 
compels  our  respect  and  admiration. 

The  same  relation  that  they  held  to  the  an- 
cients, the  present  generation  holds  to  them. 
Their  time  and  ours  are  joined  by  no  living 
transmission,  no  link  of  continuous  organic 
growth  ;  we  must  reproduce  Art  in  the  way 
they  did,  but  with  energy  of  our  own,  in  order 
to  be  like  them. 

Even  that  Indian-summer  of  Art,  at  the  end 
of  the  sixteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth centuries,  could  call  forth  only  a  few  new 
blossoms  on  the  old  stem,  but  no  productive 
germs,  still  less  plant  a  new  tree  of  Art.  But  to 
set  aside  the  works  of  perfected  Art,  and  to  seek 
out  its  scanty  and  simple  beginnings,  as  some 
have  desired,  would  be  a  new  and  perhaps 
greater  mistake ;  it  would  be  no  real  return  to 
the  fundamental :  simplicity  would  be  affecta- 
tion, and  grow  into  hypocritical  show. 

But  what  prospect  does  the  present  time  offer 
for  an  Art  springing  from  a  vigorous  germ,  and 
growing  up  from  the  root?  For  it  is  in  a  great 
measure  dependant  on  the  character  of  its  time  ; 
and  who  would  promise  the  approbation  of  the 
present  time  to  such  earnest  beginnings,  when 
Art,  on  the  one  hand,  scarcely  obtains  equal 
consideration  with  other  instruments  of  prodigal 
luxury  ;  and,  on  the  other,  artists  and  amateurs, 
with  entire  want  of  ability  to  grasp  Nature, 
praise  and  demand  the  Ideal? 

Art  springs  only  from  that  powerful  striving 
of  the  inmost  powers  of  the  heart  and  the  spirit, 
which  we  call  Inspiration.  Everything  that 
from  difficult  or  small  beginnings  has  grown  up 
to  great  power  and  height,  owes  its  growth  to 
Inspiration.  Thus  empires  and  states,  thus  arts 
and  sciences.  But  it  is  not  the  power  of  the 
individual  that  accomplishes  this,  but  the  Spirit 
alone,  that  diffuses  itself  over  all.  For  Art 
especially  is  dependant  on  the  tone  of  the  public 
mind,  as  the  more  delicate  plants  on  atmosphere 
and  weather  :  it  needs  a  general  enthusiasm  for 
Sublimity  and  Beauty,  like  that  which,  in  the 
time  of  the  Medici,  as  a  warm  breath  of  spring, 
called  forth  at  once  and  together  all  those  great 
spirits.  ******* 

It  is  only  when  the  public  life  is  actuated  by 
the  same  forces  through  whose  energy  Art  is 
elevated,  that  the  latter  can  derive  any  advan- 
tage from  it  j  for  Art  cannot,  without  giving  up 


the  nobility  of  its  nature,  aim  at  anything  out- 
ward. 

Art  and  Science  can  move  only  on  their  own 
axes  ;  the  artist,  like  every  spiritual  laborer,  can 
follow  only  the  law  that  God  and  Nature  have 
written  in  his  heart.  None  can  help  him — he 
must  help  himself;  nor  can  he  be  outwardly  re- 
warded, since  anything  that  he  should  produce 
for  the  sake  of  aught  out  of  itself,  would  thereby 
become  a  nullity.  Hence,  too,  no  one  can  direct 
him,  nor  prescribe  the  path  he  is  to  tread.  Is 
he  to  be  pitied  if  he  have  to  contend  against  his 
time,  he  is  deserving  of  contempt  if  he  truckle 
to  it.  But  how  should  it  be  even  possible  for 
him  to  do  this?  Without  great  general  enthu- 
siasm there  are  only  sects,  no  public  opinion : 
not  an  established  taste,  not  the  great  ideas  of  a 
whole  people,  but  the  voices  of  a  few  arbitrarily 
appointed  judges,  determine  as  to  merit;  and 
Art,  which  in  its  elevation  is  self-sufficing,  courts 
favor,  and  serves  where  it  should  rule. 

To  different  ages  are  given  different  inspira- 
tions. Can  we  expect  none  for  this  age,  since 
the  new  world  now  forming  itself,  as  it  exists 
in  part  already  outwardly,  in  part  inwardly  and 
in  the  hearts  of  men,  can  no  longer  be  measured 
by  any  standard  of  previous  opinion;  and  since 
everything,  on  the  contrary,  loudly  demands 
higher  standards  and  an  entire  renovation  ? 

Should  not  the  sense  to  which  Nature  and 
History  have  more  livingly  unfolded  themselves, 
restore  to  Art  also  its  great  arguments?  The 
attempt  to  draw  sparks  from  the  ashes  of  the 
Past,  and  fan  them  again  into  a  universal  flame, 
is  a  vain  endeavor.  Only  a  revolution  in  the 
ideas  themselves  is  able  to  raise  Art  from  its 
exhaustion :  only  new  Knowledge,  new  Faith 
can  inspire  it  for  the  work,  by  which  it  can  dis- 
play, in  a  renewed  life,  a  splendor  like  the  past. 

An  Art  in  all  respects  the  same  as  that  of 
foregoing  centuries,  will  never  return;  for  Na- 
ture never  repeats  herself.  Such  a  Raphael 
will  never  be  again,  but  another,  who  shall  have 
reached  in  an  equally  original  manner  the  sum- 
mit of  Art.  Only  let  the  fundamental  condi- 
tions be  fulfilled,  and  renewed  Art  will  show, 
like  that  which  preceded  it,  in  its  first  works, 
its  aim  and  intent.  In  the  production  of  the 
distinctly  characteristic,  if  it  proceed  from  a 
fresh  original  energy,  Grace  is  already  present, 
even  though  hidden,  and  in  both  the  advent  of 
the  soul  already  determined,  Works  produced, 
in  this  manner,  even  in  their  rudimentary  im- 
perfection, are  necessary  and  eternal.    *  *  * 


ERNST  THEODOR  AMADEUS  HOFFMANN. 


Bom  1776.  Died  1822. 


Hoffman  is  celebrated  chiefly  for  his  suc- 
cessful use  of  the  magic  and  demonic  element 
in  fiction.  In  this  particular  he  stands  first 
among  the  story-tellers  of  his  time,  and  has  had 
many  imitators  both  in  Germany  and  in  France. 
But  Hoffman  does  not  revel  in  horrors  for  their 
own  sake ;  he  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  such 
writers  as  Maturin,  and  Lewis,  and  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe,  among  English  novelists.  He  does  not 
seek  to  make  the  flesh  creep  and  the  hair  bris- 
tle, but  aims  rather  at  the  diaphragm.  He 
views  all  these  infernalia  on  the  humorous 
side,  and  if  any  one  trait  is  particularly  promi- 
nent in  his  writings  it  is  irony.  In  him  Ho- 
garth and  Hell-Breughel  unite.  Then,  he  was 
a  great  musician,  and  had  speculated,  perhaps 
as  profoundly  as  any  man,  on  the  philosophy  of 
music,  with  which  speculations  his  compositions 
are  often  occupied  and  everywhere  tinged. 

Hoffman  was  a  native  of  Konigsberg,  where 
he  received  his  education,  and  devoted  himself 
to  the  study  of  the  Law.  After  completing  his 
course,  he  received  an  appointment  to  an  office 
connected  with  his  vocation,  at  Grosslogau,  and 
afterwards  at  Berlin.  In  1800,  he  was  made 
assessor  in  the  government  of  Posen ;  in  1802, 
he  removed  to  Plozk,  where  he  held  the  office 
of  counsellor;  and  in  1803,  to  Warsaw.  At 
the  invasion  of  this  city  by  the  French,  in  1806, 
he  was  forced  to  lay  down  his  office,  and  to 
have  recourse  to  music  for  a  support.  In  1808, 
he  was  appointed  director  of  music  at  the  new 
theatre  in  Bamberg,  and  thence  went  to  Leip- 
zig, and  afterward  to  Dresden,  in  the  same 
capacity.  In  1816,  he  was  reinstated  as  coun- 
sellor in  the  court  of  judicature,  at  Berlin, 
where  he  died,  July  24th,  1822. 

Hoffman  had  much  that  was  noble  in  his 
character,  but  likewise  much  that  was  morbid 
and  vicious.  With  a  recklessness  not  unfre- 
quently  found  in  connection  with  fine  artistic, 
and  especially  musical  talent,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  sensual  excess,  and  wasted  body  and  soul 
with  riotous  living. 

His  principal  works  are  Fantasiestucke  in 
Callous  manier,  and  the  Serapiansbruder. 
3q  • 


Besides  these  he  published  several  volumes  of 
tales  and  works  of  fiction,  some  of  which,  as 
the  Meister  Floh  and  the  Lebensansichten  des 
Kater  Murr,  are  satirical. 

The  following  is  Menzel's  judgment  con- 
cerning him : 

*'  With  Hoffman  the  sentimentality  of  Kleist 
and  the  humor  of  Chamisso*  appear  to  be  fused 
together.  He  became  the  head  of  the  new  de- 
monic school,  and  the  poetic  Pluto  who  ruled 
the  dark  realm  in  its  widest  extent.  Or  rather, 
was  he  not  himself  ruled  by  it  ]  It  is  the  poetry 
of  fear  that  gives  all  his  works  such  a  peculiar 
stamp.  Hence  the  sense  of  hearing,  which  is 
so  closely  connected  with  the  feeling  of  terror, 
was  with  him  so  highly  developed.  Therefore 
his  ear  detected  everywhere  the  mysterious 
tones  of  nature  as  well  as  of  art.  *  *  * 
And  yet  we  can  accuse  him  of  no  exaggerated 
softness  or  effeminate  unmanliness;  for  his 
principal  works  employ  themselves  with  a  pain, 
with  a  despair,  with  a  daring  and  an  agony  of 
the  thoughts,  of  which  only  man  is  capable,  not 
woman.  It  is  disease,  extravagance,  delirium, 
but  still  always  manly. 

"  From  the  devil  down  to  a  wry-faced  child's- 
doll,  from  the  dissonance  of  life  which  rends  the 
soul,  down  to  a  dissonance  in  music  which  only 
rends  the  ear,  the  immeasurable  kingdom  of  the 
ugly,  the  repulsive,  the  annoying,  was  gathered 
around  him,  and  his  descriptions  paint  alter- 
nately these  tormenting  objects  and  the  tor- 
ments which  they  prepare  for  a  beautiful  soul, 
with  inimitable  vividness  and  truth.  He  him- 
self is  that  mad  musician  Kreisler,  who,  with 
his  delicate  sense  for  the  purest  and  holiest 
tones,  is  driven  to  despair  by  the  dissonances 
which  everywhere  assail  him  maliciously,  as 
from  hell.  But  he  retained  this  delicate  sense 
not  in  music  alone.  In  all  the  spheres  of  life 
he  finds,  corresponding  with  musical  disso- 
nances, those  ugly,  hostile  grimaces  and  demo- 
nic Powers  by  which  precisely  the  noblest 
souls  are  most  painfully  stretched  upon  the 
rack.  ******* 

*  Author  of  Peter  Sclemihl. 

44  *  (521) 


( 


522 


HOFFMANN. 


"  Hoffman's  innermost  being  was  music,  and 
the  prayer  of  St.  Anthony  is  never  wanting  to 
his  hellish  caricatures,  nor  the  Christmas  bell 
to  the  witches'  Sabbath,  nor  to  the  concert  of 
devils  the  pure  and  piercing  tone  with  which 
the  virgin  soul  takes  leave  of  a  shattered  and 
priceless  instrument.  It  is  true  he  paints  to  us 
the  soul  only  in  its  shattered  state;  but  the 
soul  was  ever  noble,  and  carried  heaven  with 
its  harmony. 

"  Hoffman  shares  with  Jean  Paul  his  delicate 
sensibility  to  painful  impressions.  *  *  * 
Posterity  will  say  that  the  dissonance  which 


pervades  our  time  was  seized  by  no  poet  so 
poetically  as  by  Hoffman ;  and  perhaps  the 
poetic  spell  consists  precisely  in  this,  that  he 
did  not,  like  so  many  other  poets,  seek  a  politi- 
cal solution  of  the  dissonance,  and  appeal  to  the 
future,  but  held  fast  the  illusion  of  a  black, 
overshadowed  fantasy,  of  a  dream  without 
waking." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that  the  tale 
from  which  the  following  extracts  are  given, 
is  intended  to  allegorize  the  conflict  between 
the  poetic  and  the  prosaic  in  human  life. 


THE  GOLDEN  POT. 

FIRST  VIGIL. 

The  Mishaps  of  the  Student  Anselmus.   Conrector  Paulmann's 
Tobacco-box,  and  the  Gold-green  Snakes. 

Ox  Ascension-day,  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  there  came  a  young  man  running 
through  the  Schwarzthor,  or  Black  Gate,  out  of 
Dresden,  and  right  into  a  basket  of  apples  and 
cakes,  which  an  old  and  very  ugly  woman  was 
there  exposing  to  sale.  The  crash  was  prodi- 
gious; all  that  escaped  being  squelched  to 
pieces,  was  scattered  away,  and  the  street-ur- 
chins joyfully  divided  the  booty  which  this 
quick  gentleman  had  thrown  them.  At  the 
murder-shriek  which  the  crone  set  up,  her  gos- 
sips, leaving  their  cake  and  brandy-tables,  en- 
circled the  young  man,  and  with  plebeian  vio- 
lence stormfully  scolded  him:  so  that,  for  shame 
and  vexation,  he  uttered  no  word,  but  merely 
held  out  his  small,  and  by  no  means  particularly 
well -filled  purse,  which  the  crone  eagerly 
clutched,  and  stuck  into  her  pocket.  The  firm 
ring  now  opened  ;  but  as  the  young  man  started 
olf,  the  crone  called  after  him:  "Ay,  run,  run 
thy  ways,  thou  Devil's  bird  !  To  the  Crystal 
run  !  to  the  Crystal!"  The  squealing,  creaking 
voice  of  the  woman  had  something  unearthly 
in  it:  so  that  the  promenaders  paused  in  amaze- 
ment, and  the  laugh,  which  at  first  had  been 
universal,  instantly  died  away.  The  Student 
Anselmus,  for  the  young  man  was  no  other,  felt 
himself,  though  he  did  not  in  the  least  under- 
stand these  singular  phrases,  nevertheless  seized 
with  a  certain  involuntary  horror  ;  and  he  quick- 
ened his  steps  still  more,  to  escape  the  curious 
looks  of  the  multitude,  which  were  all  turned 
towards  him.  As  he  worked  his  way  through 
the  crowd  of  well-dressed  people,  he  heard  them 
murmuring  on  all  sides:  "Poor  young  fellow ! 
Ha  !  what  a  cursed  beldam  it  is !"  The  mys- 
terious words  of  the  crone  had  oddly  enough 
given  this  ludicrous  adventure  a  sort  of  tragic 
turn ;  and  the  youth,  before  unobserved,  was 
now  looked  after  with  a  certain  sympathy.  The 
ladies,  for  his  fine  shape  and  handsome  face-, 


which  the  glow  of  inward  anger  was  rendering 
still  more  expressive,  forgave  him  this  awkward 
step,  as  well  as  the  dress  he  wore,  though  it 
was  utterly  at  variance  with  all  mode.  His 
pike-gray  frock  was  shaped  as  if  the  tailor  had 
known  the  modern  form  only  by  hearsay  5  and 
his  well-kept  black  satin  lower  habiliments  gave 
the  whole  a  certain  pedagogic  air,  to  which  the 
gait  and  gesture  of  the  wearer  did  not  at  all 
correspond. 

The  Student  had  almost  reached  the  end  of 
the  alley  which  leads  out  to  the  Linke  Bath ; 
but  his  breath  could  stand  such  a  rate  no  longer. 
From  running,  he  took  to  walking;  but  scarcely 
did  he  yet  dare  to  lift  an  eye  from  the  ground ; 
for  he  still  saw  apples  and  cakes  dancing  round 
him ;  and  every  kind  look  from  this  or  that  fair 
damsel  was  to  him  but  the  reflex  of  the  mock- 
ing laughter  at  the  Schwarzthor.  In  this  mood, 
he  had  got  to  the  entrance  of  the  Bath  :  one 
group  of  holiday  people  after  the  other  were 
moving  in.  Music  of  wind-instruments  re- 
sounded from  the  place,  and  the  din  of  merry 
guests  was  growing  louder  and  louder.  The 
poor  Student  Anselmus  was  almost  on  the  point 
of  weeping;  for  he  too  had  expected,  Ascen- 
sion-day having  always  been  a  family-festival 
with  him,  to  participate  in  the  felicities  of  the 
Linkean  paradise ;  nay,  he  had  purposed  even 
to  go  the  length  of  a  half  portion  of  coffee  with 
rum,  and  a  whole  bottle  of  double  beer ;  and 
that  he  might  carouse  at  his  ease,  had  put  more 
money  in  his  purse  than  was  entirely  conve- 
nient or  advisable.  And  now,  by  this  fatal  step 
into  the  apple-basket,  all  that  he  had  about  him 
had  been  swept  away.  Of  coffee,  of  double  or 
single  beer,  of  music,  of  looking  at  the  bright 
damsels;  in  a  word,  of  all  his  fancied  enjoy 
ments,  there  was  now  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
He  glided  slowly  past;  and  at  last  turned  down 
the  Elbe  road,  which  at  that  time  happened  to 
be  quite  solitary. 

Beneath  an  elder-tree,  which  had  grown  out 
through  the  wall,  he  found  a  kind  green  resting- 
place  :  here  he  sat  down,  and  filled  a  pipe  from 
the  Sanitatsknaster,  or  Health-tobacco-box,  of 


HOFFMANN. 


G23 


which  his  friend  the  Conrector  Paulmann  had 
lately  made  him  a  present.  Close  before  him, 
rolled  and  chafed  the  gold-dyed  waves  of  the 
fair  Elbe-stream:  behind  him  rose  lordly  Dres- 
den, stretching,  bold  and  proud,  its  light  towers 
into  the  airy  sky;  which  again,  farther  off,  bent 
itself  down  towards  flowery  meads  and  fresh 
springing  woods ;  and  in  the  dim  distance,  a 
range  of  azure  peaks  gave  notice  of  remote  Bo- 
hemia. But,  heedless  of  this,  the  Student  An- 
selmus,  looking  gloomily  before  him,  blew  forth 
his  smoky  clouds  into  the  air.  His  chagrin  at 
length  became  audible,  and  he  said :  "  Of  a 
truth,  I  am  born  to  losses  and  crosses  for  my 
life  long!  That  in  boyhood,  at  Odds  or  Evens, 
1  could  never  once  guess  the  right  way;  that 
my  bread  and  butter  always  fell  on  the  but- 
tered side  ;  of  all  these  sorrows  I  will  not  speak  : 
but  is  it  not  a  frightful  destiny,  that  now,  when, 
in  spite  of  Satan,  I  have  become  a  student,  I 
must  still  be  a  jolthead  as  before  ?  Do  I  ever 
put  a  new  coat  on,  without  the  first  day  smear- 
ing it  with  tallow,  or  on  some  ill-fastened  nail 
or  other,  tearing  a  cursed  hole  in  it?  Do  I  ever 
bow  to  any  Councillor  or  any  lady,  without 
pitching  the  hat  out  of  my  hands,  or  even  slid- 
ing away  on  the  smooth  pavement,  and  shame- 
fully oversetting?  Had  I  not,  every  market- 
day,  while  in  Halle,  a  regular  sum  of  from  three 
to  four  groschen  to  pay  for  broken  pottery,  the 
Devil  putting  it  into  my  head  to  walk  straight 
forward,  like  a  leming-rat?  Have  I  ever  once 
got  to  my  college,  or  any  place  I  was  appointed 
to,  at  the  right  time  ?  What  availed  it  that  I 
set  out  half  an  hour  before,  and  planted  myself 
at  the  door,  with  the  knocker  in  my  hand  ? 
Just  as  the  clock  is  going  to  strike,  souse!  some 
Devil  pours  a  wash-basin  down  on  me,  or  I 
bolt  against  some  fellow  coming  out,  and  get 
myself  engaged  in  endless  quarrels  till  the  time 
is  clean  gone. 

"  Ah !  well-a-day !  whither  are  ye  fled,  ye 
blissful  dreams  of  coming  fortune,  when  I  proud- 
ly thought  that  here  I  might  even  reach  the 
height  of  Privy  Secretary?  And  has  not  my 
evil  star  estranged  from  me  my  best  patrons? 
I  learn,  for  instance,  that  the  Councillor,  to  whom 
I  have  a  letter,  cannot  surfer  cropt  hair ;  with 
immensity  of  trouble,  the  barber  fastens  me  a 
little  cue  to  my  hindhead ;  but  at  the  first  bow, 
his  unblessed  knot  gives  way,  and  a  little  shock, 
running  snuffing  about  me,  frisks  off  to  the  Privy 
Councillor  with  the  cue  in  his  mouth.  I  spring 
after  it  in  terror ;  and  stumble  against  the  table, 
where  he  has  been  working  while  at  breakfast; 
and  cups,  plates,  ink-glass,  sand-box,  rush  jing- 
ling to  the  floor,  and  a  flood  of  chocolate  and  ink 
overflows  the  Relation  he  has  just  been  writing. 
'Is  the  Devil  in  the  man?'  bellows  the  furious 
Privy  Councillor,  and  shoves  me  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  avails  it  that  Conrector  Paulmann 
gave  me  hopes  of  a  writership  :  will  my  malig- 
nant fate  allow  it,  which  everywhere  pursues 
me?  To-day  even!  Do  but  think  of  it !  I  was 
purposing  to  hold  my  good  old  Ascension-day 


with  right  cheerfulness  of  soul :  I  would  stretch 
a  point  for  once ;  I  might  have  gone,  as  well  as 
any  other  guest,  into  Linke's  Bath,  and  called 
out  proudly:  'Marqueur!  a  bottle  of  double- 
beer;  best  sort,  if  you  please!'  I  might  have 
sat  till  far  in  the  evening;  and,  moreover,  close 
by  this  or  that  fine  party  of  well-dressed  ladies. 
I  know  it,  I  feel  it!  heart  would  have  come  into 
me,  I  should  have  been  quite  another  man  ;  nay, 
I  might  have  carried  it  so  far,  that  when  one  or 
other  of  them  asked  :  'What  o'clock  may  it  be?' 
or  4  What  is  it  they  are  playing?'  I  should  have 
started  up  with  light  grace,  and  without  over- 
turning my  glass,  or  stumbling  over  the  bench, 
but  in  a  curved  posture,  moving  one  step  and  a 
half  forward,  I  should  have  answered  :  1  Give 
me  leave,  mademoiselle !  it  is  the  overture  of 
the  Donanweibchen  ;'  or,  1  It  is  just  going  to  strike 
six.'  Could  any  mortal  in  the  world  have  taken 
it  ill  of  me?  No!  I  say;  the  girls  would  have 
looked  over,  smiling  so  roguishly;  as  they  al- 
ways do  when  I  pluck  up  heart  to  show  them 
that  I  too  understand  the  light  tone  of  society, 
and  know  how  ladies  should  be  spoken  to.  And 
now  the  Devil  himself  leads  me  into  that  cursed 
apple -basket,  and  now  must  I  sit  moping  in 

solitude,  with  nothing  but  a  poor  pipe  of  " 

Here  the  Student  Ansel mus  was  interrupted  in 
his  soliloquy  by  a  strange  rustling  and  whisking, 
which  rose  close  by  him  in  the  grass,  but  soon 
glided  up  into  the  twigs  and  leaves  of  the  elder- 
tree  that  stretched  out  over  his  head.  It  was 
as  if  the  evening  wind  were  shaking  the  leaves  ; 
as  if  little  birds  were  twittering  among  the 
branches,  moving  their  little  wings  in  capricious 
flutter  to  and  fro.  Then  he  heard  a  whispering 
and  lisping;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  blossoms 
were  sounding  like  little  crystal  bells.  Ansel- 
mus  listened  and  listened.  Ere  long,  the  whis- 
pering, and  lisping1,  and  tinkling,  he  himself 
knew  not  how,  grew  to  faint  and  half-scattered 
words : 

"  'Twixtthis  way,  'twixt  that;  'twixt branches, 
'twixt  blossoms,  come  shoot,  come  twist  and 
twirl  we  !  Sisterkin,  sisterkin !  up  to  the  shine  ; 
up,  down,  through  and  through,  quick!  Sun- 
rays  yellow;  evening-wind  whispering;  dew- 
drops  pattering;  blossoms  all  singing:  sing  we 
with  branches  and  blossoms  !  Stars  soon  glitter  ; 
must  down:  'twixt  this  way,  'twixt  that,  come 
shoot,  come  twist,  come  twirl  we,  sisterkin  !" 

And  so  it  went  along,  in  confused  and  con- 
fusing speech.  The  Student  Anselmus  thought : 
«  Well,  it  is  but  the  evening-wind,  which  to-night 
truly  is  whispering  distinctly  enough."  But  at 
that  moment  there  sounded  over  his  head,  as  it 
were,  a  triple  harmony  of  clear  crystal  bells: 
he  looked  up,  and  perceived  three  little  Snakes, 
glittering  with  green  and  gold,  twisted  round 
the  branches,  and  stretching  out  their  heads  to 
the  evening  sun.  Then,  again,  began  a  whis- 
pering and  twittering  in  the  same  words  as  be- 
fore, and  the  little  Snakes  went  gliding  and 
caressing  up  and  down  through  the  twigs ;  and 
while  they  moved  so  rapidly,  it  was  as  if  the 


524 


HOFFMANN. 


elder-bush  were  scattering  a  thousand  glittering 
emeralds  through  the  dark  leaves. 

"It  is  the  evening  sun  which  sports  so  in  the 
elder-bush,"  thought  the  Student  Anselmus  ;  but 
the  bells  sounded  again;  and  Anselmus  ob- 
served that  one  Snake  held  out  its  little  head  to 
him.  Through  all  his  limbs  there  went  a  shock 
like  electricity;  he  quivered  in  his  inmost  heart; 
he  kept  gazing  up,  and  a  pair  of  glorious  dark- 
blue  eyes  were  looking  at  him  with  unspeakable 
longing;  and  an  unknown  feeling  of  highest 
blessedness  and  deepest  sorrow  was  like  to  rend 
his  heart  asunder.  And  as  he  looked,  and  still 
looked,  full  of  warm  desire,  into  these  kind  eyes, 
the  crystal  bells  sounded  louder  in  harmonious 
accord,  and  the  glittering  emeralds  fell  down 
and  encircled  him,  flickering  round  him  in  thou- 
sand sparkles,  and  sporting  in  resplendent 
threads  of  gold.  The  Elder-bush  moved  and 
spoke  :  "  Thou  layest  in  my  shadow  ;  my  per- 
fume flowed  round  thee,  but  thou  understoodst 
it  not.  The  perfume  is  my  speech,  when  Love 
kindles  it."  The  Evening- Wind  came  gliding 
past,  and  said :  "  I  played  round  thy  temples, 
but  thou  understoodst  me  not.  That  breath  is 
my  speech,  when  Love  kindles  it."  The  Sun- 
beam broke  through  the  clouds,  and  the  sheen 
of  it  burnt,  as  in  words :  "  I  overflowed  thee 
with  glowing  gold,  but  thou  understoodst  me 
not :  That  glow  is  my  speech,  when  Love  kin- 
dles it." 

And,  still  deeper  and  deeper  sunk  in  the 
view  of  these  glorious  eyes,  his  longing  grew 
keener,  his  desire  more  warm.  And  all  rose 
and  moved  around  him,  as  if  awakening  to  glad 
life.  Flowers  and  blossoms  shed  their  odors 
round  him  ;  and  their  odor  was  like  the  lordly 
singing  of  a  thousand  softest  voices  ;  and  what 
they  sung  was  borne,  like  an  echo,  on  the  golden 
evening  clouds,  as  they  flitted  away,  into  far-off 
lands.  But  as  the  last  sun-beam  abruptly  sank 
behind  the  hills,  and  the  twilight  threw  its  veil 
over  the  scene,  there  came  a  hoarse  deep  voice, 
as  from  a  great  distance  : 

"  Hey  !  hey  !  what  chattering  and  jingling  is 
that  up  there?  Hey!  hey!  who  catches  me 
the  ray  behind  the  hills  ?  Sunned  enough,  sung 
enough.  Hey !  hey !  through  bush  and  grass, 
through  grass  and  stream.  Hey  !  hey  !  Come 
dow-w-n,  dow-w-w-n !" 

So  faded  the  voice  away,  as  in  murmurs  of  a 
distant  thunder ;  but  the  crystal  bells  broke  off 
in  sharp  discords.  All  became  mute;  and  the 
Student  Anselmus  observed  how  the  three 
Snakes,  glittering  and  sparkling,  glided  through 
the  grass  towards  the  river;  rustling  and  hus- 
tling, they  rushed  into  the  Elbe ;  and  over  the 
waves  where  they  vanished,  there  crackled  up 
a  green  flame,  which,  gleaming  forward  ob- 
liquely, vanished  in  the  direction  of  the  city. 

SECOND  VIGIL. 

How  the  Student  Anselmus  was  looked  upon  as  drunk  and  mad. 
The  crossing  of  the  Elbe.  Bandmaster  Graun's  Bravura.  Con- 
radi's  Stomachic  Liqueur,  and  the  bronzed  Apple-woman. 

"  The  gentleman  is  ailing  some  way !"  said  a 


decent  burgher's  wife,  who,  returning  from  a 
walk  with  her  family,  had  paused  here,  and, 
with  crossed  arms,  was  looking  at  the  mad 
pranks  of  the  Student  Anselmus.  Anselmus 
had  clasped  the  trunk  of  the  elder-tree,  and 
was  calling  incessantly  up  to  the  branches  and 
leaves  :  "  0  glitter  and  shine  once  more,  ye  dear 
gold  Snakes ;  let  me  hear  your  little  bell-voices 
once  more !  Look  on  me  once  more,  ye  kind 
eyes ;  0  once,  or  I  must  die  in  pain  and  warm 
longing !"  And  with  this,  he  was  sighing  and 
sobbing  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  most  piti- 
fully; and  in  his  eagerness  and  impatience, 
shaking  the  elder-tree  to  and  fro ;  which,  how- 
ever, instead  of  any  reply,  rustled  quite  stupidly 
and  unintelligibly  with  its  leaves;  and  so  rather 
seemed,  as  it  were,  to  make  sport  of  the  Stu- 
dent Anselmus  and  his  sorrows. 

"The  gentleman  is  ailing  some  way!"  said 
the  burgher's  wife;  and  Anselmus  felt  as  if  you 
had  shaken  him  out  of  a  deep  dream,  or  poured 
ice-cold  water  on  him,  that  he  might  awaken 
without  loss  of  time.  He  now  first  saw  clearly 
where  he  was;  and  recollected  what  a  strange 
apparition  had  assaulted  him,  nay,  so  beguiled 
his  senses,  as  to  make  him  break  forth  into  loud 
talk  with  himself.  In  astonishment,  he  gazed 
at  the  woman;  and  at  last  snatching  up  his  hat, 
which  had  fallen  to  the  ground  in  his  transport, 
was  for  making  off  in  all  speed.  The  burgher 
himself  had  come  forward  in  the  meanwhile; 
and,  setting  down  the  child  from  his  arm  on  the 
grass,  had  been  leaning  on  his  staff,  and  with 
amazement  listening  and  looking  at  the  Stu- 
dent. He  now  picked  up  the  pipe  and  tobacco- 
box  which  the  Student  had  let  fall,  and,  hold- 
ing them  out  to  him,  said:  "Don't  take  on  so 
dreadfully,  my  worthy  sir,  or  alarm  people  in 
the  dark,  when  nothing  is  the  matter,  after  all, 
but  a  drop  or  two  of  christian  liquor :  go  home, 
like  a  pretty  man,  and  take  a  nap  of  sleep  on  it." 

The  Student  Anselmus  felt  exceedingly 
ashamed ;  he  uttered  nothing  but  a  most  la- 
mentable Ah ! 

"  Pooh !  Pooh  !"  said  the  burgher,  "  never 
mind  it  a  jot;  such  a  thing  will  happen  to  the 
best;  on  good  old  Ascension-day  a  man  may 
readily  enough  forget  himself  in  his  joy,  and 
gulp  down  a  thought  too  much.  A  clergyman 
himself  is  no  worse  for  it :  I  presume,  my 
worthy  sir,  you  are  a  Candidatus. — But,  with 
your  leave,  sir,  I  shall  fill  my  pipe  with  your 
tobacco ;  mine  went  done  a  little  while  ago." 

This  last  sentence  the  burgher  uttered  while 
the  Student  Anselmus  was  about  putting  up  his 
pipe  and  box;  and  now  the  burgher  slowly  mid 
deliberately  cleaned  his  pipe,  and  began  as 
slowly  to  fill  it.  Several  burgher  girls  had 
come  up :  these  were  speaking  secretly  with 
the  woman  and  each  other,  and  tittering  as  they 
looked  at  Anselmus.  The  Student  felt  as  if  he 
were  standing  on  prickly  thorns,  and  burning 
needles.  No  sooner  had  he  got  back  his  pipe 
and  tobacco-box,  than  he  darted  off  at  the  height 
of  his  speed. 


HOFFMANN.  525 


All  the  strange  things  he  had  seen  were  clean 
gone  from  his  memory:  he  simply  recollected 
having  babbled  all  manner  of  foolish  stuff  be- 
neath the  elder-tree.  This  was  the  more  fright- 
ful to  him,  as  he  entertained  from  of  old  an  in- 
ward horror  against  all  soliloquists.  It  is  Satan 
that  chatters  out  of  them,  said  his  Rector ;  and 
Anselmus  had  honestly  believed  him.  But  to 
be  regarded  as  a  Candidatus  Theologice,  over- 
taken with  drink  on  Ascension-day !  The  thought 
was  intolerable. 

Running  on  with  these  mad  vexations,  he 
was  just  about  turning  up  the  Poplar  Alley,  by 
the  Kosel  garden,  when  a  voice  behind  him 
called  out:  "  Herr  Anselmus  !  Herr  Anselmus  ! 
for  the  love  of  Heaven,  whither  are  you  run- 
ning in  such  haste1?"  The  Student  paused,  as 
if  rooted  to  the  ground ;  for  he  was  convinced 
that  now  some  new  mischance  would  befall 
him.  The  voice  rose  again  :  "  Herr  Anselmus, 
come  back,  then :  we  are  waiting  for  you  here 
at  the  water !"  And  now  the  Student  perceived 
that  it  was  his  friend  Conrector  Paulmann's 
voice :  he  went  back  to  the  Elbe ;  and  found 
the  Conrector,  with  his  two  daughters,  as  well 
as  Registrator  Heerbrand,  all  on  the  point  of 
stepping  into  their  gondola.  Conrector  Paul- 
mann  invited  the  Student  to  go  with  them 
across  the  Elbe,  and  then  to  pass  the  evening 
at  his  house  in  the  Pirna  suburb.  The  Student 
Anselmus  very  gladly  accepted  this  proposal ; 
thinking  thereby  to  escape  the  malignant  des- 
tiny, which  had  ruled  over  him  all  day. 

Now,  as  they  were  crossing  the  river,  it 
chanced  that,  on  the  farther  bank,  in  the  Anton 
garden,  a  firework  was  just  going  off.  Sputter- 
ing and  hissing,  the  rockets  went  aloft,  and  their 
blazing  stars  flew  to  pieces  in  the  air,  scattering 
a  thousand  vague  shoots  and  flashes  round 
them.  The  Student  Anselmus  was  sitting  by 
the  steersman,  sunk  in  deep  thought ;  but  when 
he  noticed  in  the  water  the  reflection  of  these 
darting  and  wavering  sparks  and  flames,  he 
felt  as  if  it  was  the  little  golden  Snakes  that 
were  sporting  in  the  flood.  All  the  wonders 
that  he  had  seen  at  the  elder-tree  again  started 
forth  into  his  heart  and  thoughts  ;  and  again 
that  unspeakable  longing,  that  glowing  desire, 
laid  hold  of  him  here,  which  had  before  agi- 
tated his  bosom  in  painful  spasms  of  rapture. 

"  Ah !  is  it  you  again,  my  little  golden 
Snakes?  Sing  now,  O  sing!  In  your  song  let 
the  kind,  dear,  dark-blue  eyes,  again  appear  to 
me — Ah?  are  ye  under  the  waves,  then?'1 

So  cried  the  Student  Anselmus,  and  at  the 
same  time  made  a  violent  movement,  as  if  he 
were  for  plunging  from  the  gondola  into  the 
river. 

"  Is  the  Devil  in  you,  sir  ?"  exclaimed  the 
steersman,  and  clutched  him  by  the  coat-breast. 
The  girls,  who  were  sitting  by  him,  shrieked  in 
terror,  and  fled  to  the  other  side  of  the  gondola. 
Registrator  Heerbrand  whispered  something  in 
Conrector  Paulmann's  ear,  to  which  the  latter 
answered  at  considerable  length,  but  in  so  low 


a  tone,  that  Anselmus  could  distinguish  nothing 
but  the  words  :  "  Such  attacks  more  than  once  ? 
— Never  heard  of  it."  Directly  after  this,  Con- 
rector Paulmann  also  rose;  and  then  sat  down, 
with  a  certain  earnest,  grave,  official  mien, 
beside  the  Student  Anselmus,  taking  his  hand, 
and  saying:  "How  are  you,  Herr  Anselmus?" 
The  Student  Anselmus  was  like  to  lose  his  wits, 
for  in  his  mind  there  was  a  mad  contradiction, 
which  he  strove  in  vain  to  reconcile.  He  now 
saw  plainly  that  what  he  had  taken  for  the 
gleaming  of  the  golden  Snakes  was  nothing  but 
the  image  of  the  fireworks  in  Anton's  garden: 
but  a  feeling  unexperienced  till  now,  he  him- 
self knew  not  whether  it  was  rapture  or  pain, 
cramped  his  breast  together ;  and  when  the 
steersman  struck  through  the  water  with  his 
helm,  so  that  the  waves,  curling  as  in  anger, 
gurgled  and  chafed,  he  heard  in  their  din  a  soft 
whispering:  "Anselmus!  Anselmus!  seest  thou 
not  how  we  still  skim  along  before  thee  ?  Sis- 
terkin  looks  at  thee  again :  believe,  believe, 
believe  in  us!"  And  he  thought  he  saw  in  the 
reflected  light  three  green-glowing  streaks :  but 
then,  when  he  gazed,  full  of  fond  sadness,  into 
the  water,  to  see  whether  these  gentle  eyes 
would  not  again  look  up  to  him,  he  perceived 
too  well  that  the  shine  proceeded  only  from  the 
windows  in  the  neighbouring  houses.  He  was 
sitting  mute  in  his  place,  and  inwardly  battling 
with  himself,  when  Conrector  Paulmann  re- 
peated, with  still  greater  emphasis:  "How  are 
you,  Herr  Anselmus  ?" 

With  the  most  rueful  tone,  Anselmus  replied: 
"Ah!  Herr  Conrector,  if  you  knew  what  strange 
things  I  have  been  dreaming,  quite  awake,  with 
open  eyes,  just  now,  under  an  elder-tree  at  the 
wall  of  Linke's  garden,  you  would  not  take  it 
amiss  of  me  that  I  am  a  little  absent,  or  so." 

"Ey,  ey,  Herr  Anselmus!"  interrupted  Con- 
rector Paulmann,  "I  have  always  taken  you  for 
a  solid  young  man :  but  to  dream,  to  dream 
with  your  eyes  wide  open,  and  then,  all  at 
once,  to  start  up  for  leaping  into  the  water ! 
This,  begging  your  pardon,  is  what  only  fools 
or  madmen  could  do." 

The  Student  Anselmus  was  deeply  affected 
at  his  friend's  hard  saying ;  then  Veronica, 
Paulmann's  eldest  daughter,  a  most  pretty 
blooming  girl  of  sixteen,  addressed  her  father  : 
"But,  dear  father,  something  singular  must  have 
befallen  Herr  Auselmus ;  and  perhaps  he  only 
thinks  he  was  awake,  while  he  may  have  really 
been  asleep:  and  so  all  manner  of  wild  stuff 
has  come  into  his  head,  and  is  still  lying  in  his 
thoughts." 

"And,  dearest  Mademoiselle!  Worthy  Con- 
rector!" cried  Registrator  Heerbrand,  "  may  one 
not,  even  when  awake,  sometimes  sink  into  a 
sort  of  dreaming  state?  I  myself  have  had 
such  fits.  One  afternoon,  for  instance,  during 
coffee,  in  a  sort  of  brown  study  like  this,  in  the 
special  season  of  corporeal  and  spiritual  diges- 
tion, the  place  where  a  lost  Act  was  lying  oc- 
curred to  me,  as  if  by  inspiration;  and  last 


52C 


HOFFMANN. 


night,  no  farther  gone,  there  came  a  glorious 
large  Latin  paper  tripping  out  before  my  open 
eyes,  in  the  very  same  way." 

"  Ah  !  most  honoured  Registrator,"  answered 
Conrector  Paulmann  j  "you  have  always  had  a 
tendency  to  the  Poelica ;  and  thus  one  falls  into 
fantasies  and  romantic  humors." 

The  Student  Anselmus,  however,  was  par- 
ticularly gratified  that  in  this  most  troublous 
situation,  while  in  danger  of  being  considered 
drunk  or  crazy,  any  one  should  take  his  part; 
and  though  it  was  already  pretty  dark,  he 
thought  he  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  Ve- 
ronica had  really  very  fine  dark-blue  eyes,  and 
this  too  without  remembering  the  strange  pair 
which  he  had  looked  at  in  the  elder-bush.  On 
the  whole,  the  adventure  under  the  elder-bush 
had  once  more  entirely  vanished  from  the 
thoughts  of  the  Student  Anselmus;  he  felt  him- 
self at  ease  and  light  of  heart;  nay,  in  the 
capriciousness  of  joy,  he  carried  it  so  far,  that 
he  offered  a  helping  hand  to  his  fair  advocate, 
Veronica,  as  she  was  stepping  from  the  gon- 
dola; and  without  more  ado,  as  she  put  her 
arm  in  his,  escorted  her  home  with  so  much 
dexterity  and  good  luck,  that  he  only  missed  his 
footing  once,  and  this  being  the  only  wet  spot 
in  the  whole  road,  only  spattered  Veronica's 
white  gown  a  very  little  by  the  incident. 

Conrector  Paulmann  failed  not  to  observe  this 
happy  change  in  the  Student  Anselmus;  he  re- 
sumed his  liking  for  him,  and  begged  forgive- 
ness for  the  hard  words  which  he  had  let  fall 
before.  "  Yes,"  added  he,  "  we  have  many  ex- 
amples to  show  that  certain  phantasms  may  rise 
before  a  man,  and  pester  and  plague  him  not  a 
little ;  but  this  is  bodily  disease,  and  leeches  are 
good  for  it,  if  applied  to  the  right  part,  as  a  coi 
tain  learned  physician,  now  deceased,  has  di- 
rected." The  Student  Anselmus  knew  not 
whether  he  had  been  drunk,  crazy,  or  sick ;  but 
at  all  events  the  leeches  seemed  entirely  super- 
fluous, as  these  supposed  phantasms  had  utterly 
vanished,  and  the  Student  himself  was  growing 
happier  and  happier,  the  more  he  prospered  in 
serving  the  pretty  Veronica  with  all  sorts  of 
dainty  attentions.  , 

As  usual,  after  the  frugal  meal,  came  music; 
the  Student  Anselmus  had  to  take  his  seat  be- 
fore the  harpsichord,  and  Veronica  accompanied 
his  playing  with  her  pure  clear  voice :  "  Dear 
Mademoiselle,"  said  Registrator  Heerbrand, 
"  you  have  a  voice  like  a  crystal  bell !" 

"That  she  has  not!"  ejaculated  the  Student 
Anselmus,  he  scarcely  knew  how.  "  Crystal 
bells  in  elder-trees  sound  strangely  !  strangely !" 
continued  the  Student  Anselmus,  murmuring 
half  aloud. 

Veronica  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
asked:  "What  are  you  saying  now,  Herr  An- 
selmus ?" 

Instantly  Anselmus  recovered  his  cheerful- 
ness, and  began  playing.  Conrector  Paulmann 
gave  a  grim  look  at  him ;  but  Registrator  Heer- 
brand laid  a  music-leaf  on  the  frame,  and  sang 


with  ravishing  grace  one  of  Bandmaster  Graun's 
bravura  airs.  The  Student  Anselmus  accompa- 
nied this,  and  much  more;  and  a  fantasy  duet, 
which  Veronica  and  he  now  fingered,  and  Con- 
rector Paulmann  had  himself  composed,  again 
brought  all  into  the  gayest  humor. 

It  was  now  pretty  late,  and  Registrator  Heer- 
brand was  taking  up  his  hat  and  stick,  when 
Conrector  Paulmann  went  up  to  him  with  a 
mysterious  air,  and  said:  "Hem! — Would  not 
you,  honored  Registrator,  mention  to  the  good 
Herr  Anselmus  himself — Hem!  what  we  were 
speaking  of  before  V 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  nature,"  said  Re- 
gistrator Heerbrand,  and  having  placed  himself 
in  the  circle,  began,  without  farther  preamble, 
as  follows : 

"In  this  city  is  a  strange  remarkable  man, 
people  say  he  follows  all  manner  of  secret  sci- 
ences ;  but  as  there  are  no  such  sciences,  I  rather 
take  him  for  an  antiquary,  and  along  with  this, 
for  an  experimental  chemist.  I  mean  no  other 
than  our  Privy  Archivarius  Lindhorst.  He  lives, 
as  you  know,  by  himself,  in  his  old  sequestered 
house ;  and  when  disengaged  from  his  office, 
he  is  to  be  found  in  his  library,  or  in  his  chemi- 
cal laboratory,  to  which,  however,  he  admits  no 
stranger.  Besides  many  curious  books,  he  pos- 
sesses a  number  of  manuscripts,  partly  Arabic, 
Coptic,  and  some  of  them  in  strange  characters, 
which  belong  not  to  any  known  tongue.  These 
he  wishes  to  have  copied  properly ;  and  for  this 
purpose  he  requires  a  man  who  can  draw  with 
the  pen,  and  so  transfer  these  marks  to  parch- 
ment, in  Indian  ink,  with  the  highest  strictness 
and  fidelity.  The  work  is  carried  on  in  a  sepa- 
rate chamber  of  his  house,  under  his  own  over- 
«'tfht;  and  besides  free  board  during  the  time 
of  business,  he  pays  his  man  a  speziesthaler,  or 
specie-dollar,  daily,  and  promises  a  handsome 
present  when  the  copying  is  rightly  finished. 
The  hours  of  work  are  from  twelve  to  six. 
From  three  to  four,  you  take  rest  and  dinner. 

"  Herr  Archivarius  Lindhorst  having  in  vain 
tried  one  or  two  young  people  for  copying  these 
manuscripts,  has  at  last  applied  to  me  to  find 
him  an  expert  drawer ;  and  so  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you,  dear  Herr  Anselmus,  for  I  know 
that  you  both  write  very  neatly,  and  likewise 
draw  with  the  pen  to  great  perfection.  Now, 
if  in  these  bad  times,  and  till  your  future  esta- 
blishment, you  could  like  to  earn  a  speziesthaler 
in  the  day,  and  this  present  over  and  above, 
you  can  go  to-morrow  precisely  at  noon,  and 
call  upon  the  Archivarius,  whose  house  no  doubt 
you  know.  But  be  on  your  guard  against  any 
blot !  If  such  a  thing  falls  on  your  copy,  you 
must  begin  it  again ;  if  it  falls  on  the  original, 
the  Archivarius  will  think  nothing  to  throw  you 
over  the  window,  for  he  is  a  hot-tempered  gen- 
tleman." 

The  student  Anselmus  was  filled  with  joy  at 
Registrator  Heerbrand's  proposal ;  for  not  only 
could  the  Student  write  well  and  draw  well 
with  the  pen,  but  this  copying  with  laborious 


HOFFMANN.  527 


calligraphic  pains  was  a  thing  he  delighted  in 
beyond  aught  else.  So  he  thanked  his  patron 
in  the  most  grateful  terms,  and  promised  not  to 
fail  at  noon  to-morrow. 

All  night  the  Student  Anselmus  saw  nothing 
but  clear  speziesthalers,  and  heard  nothing  but 
their  lovely  clink.  Who  could  blame  the  poor 
youth,  cheated  of  so  many  hopes  by  capricious 
destiny,  obliged  to  take  counsel  about  every 
farthing,  and  to  forego  so  many  joys  which  a 
young  heart  requires!  Early  in  the  morning 
he  brought  out  his  black-lead  pencils,  his  crow- 
quills,  his  Indian  ink ;  for  better  materials, 
thought  he,  the  Archivarius  can  find  nowhere. 
Above  all,  he  mustered  and  arranged  his  calli- 
graphic masterpieces  and  his  drawings,  to  show 
them  to  the  Archivarius,  in  proof  of  his  ability 
to  do  what  he  wished.  All  prospered  with  the 
Student;  a  peculiar  happy  star  seemed  to  be 
presiding  over  him ;  his  neckcloth  sat  right  at 
the  very  first  trial ;  no  tack  burst ;  no  loop  gave 
way  in  his  black  silk  stockings ;  his  hat  did  not 
once  fall  to  the  dust  after  he  had  trimmed  it. 
In  a  word,  precisely  at  half-past  eleven,  the 
Student  Anselmus,  in  his  pike-grey  frock,  and 
black  satin  lower  habiliments,  with  a  roll  of 
calligraphics  and  pen-drawings  in  his  pocket, 
was  standing  in  the  Schlossgasse,  or  Castle- 
gate,  in  Conradi's  shop,  and  drinking  one — two 
glasses  of  the  best  stomachic  liqueur  ;  for  here, 
thought  he,  slapping  on  the  still  empty  pocket, 
for  here  speziesthalers  will  be  chinking  soon. 

Notwithstanding  the  distance  of  the  solitary 
street  where  the  Archivarius  Lindhorst's  an- 
tique residence  lay,  the  Student  Anselmus  was 
at  the  front-door  before  the  stroke  of  twelve. 
He  stood  here,  and  was  looking  at  the  large  fine 
bronze  knocker ;  but  now  when,  as  the  last 
stroke  tingled  through  the  air  with  loud  clang 
from  the  steeple-clock  of  the  Kreuzkirche,  or 
Cross-church,  he  lifted  his  hand  to  grasp  this 
same  knocker,  the  metal  visage  twisted  itself, 
with  horrid  rolling  of  its  blue-gleaming  eyes, 
into  a  grinning  smile.  Alas,  it  was  the  Apple- 
woman  of  the  Schwarzthor  !  The  pointed  teeth 
gnashed  together  in  the  loose  jaws,  and  in  their 
chattering  through  the  skinny  lips,  there  was  a 
growl  of:  "Thou  fool,  fool,  fool! — Wait,  wait! 
— Why  didst  run ! — Fool !"  Horror-struck,  the 
Student  Anselmus  flew  back;  he  clutched  at 
the  door-post,  but  his  hand  caught  the  bell-rope, 
and  pulled  it,  and  in  piercing  discords  it  rung 
stronger  and  stronger,  and  through  the  whole 
empty  house  the  echo  repeated,  as  in  mockery: 
"  To  the  crystal,  fall !"  An  unearthly  terror 
seized  the  Student  Anselmus,  and  quivered 
through  all  his  limbs.  The  bell-rope  lengthened 
downwards,  and  became  a  white  transparent 
gigantic  serpent,  which  encircled  and  crushed 
him,  and  girded  him  straiter  and  straiter  in  its 
coils,  till  his  brittle  paralysed  limb3  went  crash- 
ing in  pieces,  and  the  blood  spouted  from  his 
veins,  penetrating  into  the  transparent  body  of 
the  serpeut,  and  dyeing  it  red.  "Kill  me!  Kill 
me !"  he  would  have  cried,  in  his  horrible 


agony;  but  the  cry  was  only  a  stifled  gurgle  in 
his  throat.  The  serpent  lifted  its  head,  and  laid 
its  long  peaked  tongue  of  glowing  brass  on  the 
breast  of  Anselmus  ;  then  a  fierce  pang  suddenly 
cut  asunder  the  artery  of  life,  and  thought  lied 
away  from  him.  On  returning  to  his  senses, 
he  was  lying  on  his  own  poor  truckle-bed  ;  Con- 
rector  Paulmann  was  standing  before  him,  and 
saying:  "For  Heaven's  sake,  what  mad  stuff  is 
this,  dear  Herr  Anselmus?" 

SIXTH  VIGIL. 

Archivarius  Lindhorst's  Garden,  with  some  Mock-birds.  The 
Golden  Pot.  English  current-hand.  Pot-hooks.  The  Prince 
of  the  Spirits. 

"  It  may  be,  after  all,"  said  the  Student  An- 
selmus to  himself,  "that  the  superfine  strong 
stomachic  liqueur,  which  I  took  somewhat  freely 
in  Monsieur  Conradi's,  might  really  be  the  cause 
of  all  these  shocking  phantasms,  which  so  tor- 
tured me  at  Archivarius  Lindhorst's  door. 
Therefore,  I  will  go  quite  sober  to-day ;  and  so 
bid  defiance  to  whatever  farther  mischief  may 
assail  me."  On  this  occasion,  as  before  when 
equipping  himself  for  his  first  call  on  Archiva- 
rius Lindhorst,  the  Student  Anselmus  put  his 
pen-drawings,  and  calligraphic  masterpieces, 
his  bars  of  Indian  ink,  and  his  well-pointed 
crow-pens,  into  his  pockets;  and  was  just  turn- 
ing to  go  out,  when  his  eye  lighted  on  the  vial 
with  the  yellow  liquor,  which  he  had  received 
from  Archivarius  Lindhorst.  All  the  strange 
adventures  he  had  met  with  again  rose  on  his 
mind  in  glowing  colours ;  and  a  nameless  emo- 
tion of  rapture  and  pain  thrilled  through  his 
breast.  Involuntarily  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
most  piteous  voice :  "Ah,  am  not  I  going  to  the 
Archivarius  solely  for  a  sight  of  thee,  thou  gentle 
lovely  Serpentina!"  At  that  moment,  he  felt 
as  if  Serpentina's  love  might  be  the  prize  of 
some  laborious  perilous  task  which  he  had  to 
undertake ;  and  as  if  this  task  were  no  other 
than  the  copying  of  the  Lindhorst  manuscripts. 
That  at  his  very  entrance  into  the  house,  or 
more  properly,  before  his  entrance,  all  manner 
of  mysterious  things  might  happen,  as  of  late, 
was  no  more  than  he  anticipated.  He  thought 
no  more  of  Conradi's  strong  water ;  but  hastily 
put  the  vial  of  liquor  in  his  waistcoat-pocket, 
that  he  might  act  strictly  by  the  Archivarius' 
directions,  should  the  bronzed  Apple-woman 
again  take  it  upon  her  to  make  faces  at  him. 

And  did  not  the  hawk-nose  actually  peak  it- 
self, did  not  the  cat-eyes  actually  glare  from  the 
knocker,  as  he  raised  his  hand  to  it,  at  the  stroke 
of  twelve  !  But  now,  without  farther  ceremony, 
he  dribbled  his  liquor  into  the  pestilent  visage  ; 
and  it  folded  and  moulded  itself,  that  instant, 
down  to  a  glittering  bowl-round  knocker.  The 
door  went  up:  the  bells  sounded  beautifully 
over  all  the  house:  "  Klingling,  youngling,  in, 
in,  spring,  spring,  klingling."  In  good  heart  he 
mounted  the  fine  broad  stair ;  and  feasted  on 
the  odors  of  some  strange  perfumery,  that  was 
floating  through  the  house.  In  doubt,  he  paused 


528 


HOFFMANN. 


on  the  lobby  ;  for  he  knew  not  at  which  of  these 
many  fine  doors  he  was  to  knock.  But  Archi- 
varius  Lindhorst,  in  a  white  damask  night-gown, 
stept  forth  to  him,  and  said  :  "  Well,  it  is  a  real 
pleasure  to  me,  Herr  Anselmus,  that  you  have 
kept  your  word  at  last.  Come  this  way,  if  you 
please ;  I  must  take  you  straight  into  the  Labo- 
ratory.1' And  with  this  he  stept  rapidly  through 
the  lobby,  and  opened  a  little  side-door,  which 
led  into  a  long  passage.  Anselmus  walked  on 
in  high  spirits,  behind  the  Archivarius ;  they 
passed  from  this  corridor  into  a  hall,  or  rather 
into  a  lordly  green-house :  for  on  both  sides,  up 
to  the  ceiling,  stood  all  manner  of  rare  won- 
drous flowers,  nay,  great  trees  with  strangely- 
formed  leaves  and  blossoms.  A  magic  dazzling 
light  shone  over  the  whole,  though  you  could 
not  discover  whence  it  came,  for  no  window 
whatever  was  to  be  seen.  As  the  Student  An- 
selmus looked  in  through  the  bushes  and  trees, 
long  avenues  appeared  to  open  in  remote  dis- 
tance. In  the  deep  shade  of  thick  cypress 
groves,  lay  glittering  marble  fountains,  out  of 
which  rose  wondrous  figures,  spouting  crystal 
jets  that  fell  with  pattering  spray  into  the  gleam- 
ing lily-cups ;  strange  voices  cooed  and  rustled 
through  the  wood  of  curious  trees  ;  and  sweetest 
perfumes  streamed  up  and  down. 

The  Archivarius  had  vanished :  and  Ansel- 
mus saw  nothing  but  a  huge  bush  of  glowing 
fire -lilies  before  him.  Intoxicated  with  the 
sight  and  the  fine  odors  of  this  fairy-garden, 
Anselmus  stood  fixed  to  the  spot.  Then  began 
on  all  sides  of  him  a  giggling  and  laughing;  and 
light  little  voices  railed  and  mocked  him  :  "Herr 
Studiosus!  Herr  Studiosus!  how  came  you 
hither?  Why  have  you  dressed  so  bravely, 
Herr  Anselmus  ?  Will  you  chat  with  us  for  a 
minute,  how  grandmammy  sat  squelching  down 
upon  the  egg,  and  young  master  got  a  stain  on 
his  Sunday  waistcoat? — Can  you  play  the  new 
tune,  now,  which  you  learned  from  Daddy 
Cockadoodle,  Herr  Anselmus  ? — You  look  very 
fine  in  your  glass  periwig,  and  post-paper  boots." 
So  cried  and  chattered  and  sniggered  the  little 
voices,  out  of  every  corner,  nay,  close  by  the 
Student  himself,  who  now  observed  that  all 
sorts  of  party-colored  birds  were  fluttering 
above  him,  and  jeering  him  in  hearty  laughter. 
At  that  moment,  the  bush  of  fire-lilies  advanced 
towards  him ;  and  he  perceived  that  it  was 
Archivarius  Lindhorst,  whose  flowered  night- 
gown, glittering  in  red  and  yellow,  had  so  far 
deceived  his  eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  worthy  Herr  Anselmus," 
said  the  Archivarius,  "for  leaving  you  alone:  I 
wished,  in  passing,  to  take  a  peep  at  my  fine 
cactus,  which  is  to  blossom  to-night.  But  how 
like  you  my  little  house-garden?" 

"Ah,  Heaven!  Immeasurably  pretty  it  is, 
most  valued  Herr  Archivarius,"  replied  the  Stu- 
dent ;  "  but  those  party-colored  birds  have  been 
bantering  me  a  little." 

"  What  chattering  is  this  ?"  cried  the  Archi- 
varius angrily  into  the  bushes.    Then  a  huge 


grey  Parrot  came  fluttering  out,  and  perched 
itself  beside  the  Archivarius  on  a  myrtle-bough; 
and  looking  at  him  with  an  uncommon  earnest- 
ness and  gravity  through  a  pair  of  spectacles 
that  stuck  on  his  hooked  bill,  it  creaked  out: 
"  Don't  take  it  amiss,  Herr  Archivarius ;  my 
wild  boys  have  been  a  little  free  or  so ;  but  the 
Herr  Studiosus  has  himself  to  blame  in  the 
matter,  for  " 

"Hush!  hush!"  interrupted  Archivarius  Lind- 
horst; "  I  know  the  varlets  ;  but  thou  must  keep 
them  in  better  discipline,  my  friend  !— -Now, 
come  along,  Herr  Anselmus." 

And  the  Archivarius  again  stept  forth,  through 
many  a  strangely-decorated  chamber ;  so  that 
the  Student  Anselmus,  in  following  him,  could 
scarcely  give  a  glance  at  all  the  glittering  won- 
drous furniture,  and  other  unknown  things,  with 
which  the  whole  of  them  were  filled.  At  last 
they  entered  a  large  apartment ;  where  the  Ar- 
chivarius, casting  his  eyes  aloft,  stood  still ;  and 
Anselmus  got  time  to  feast  himself  on  the  glo- 
rious sight,  which  the  simple  decoration  of  this 
hall  afforded.  Jutting  from  the  azure-colored 
walls,  rose  gold-bronze  trunks  of  high  palm- 
trees,  which  wove  their  colossal  leaves,  glitter- 
ing like  bright  emeralds,  into  a  ceiling  far  up: 
in  the  middle  of  the  chamber,  and  resting  on 
three  Egyptian  lions,  cast  out  of  dark  bronze, 
lay  a  porphyry  plate  ;  and  on  this  stood  a  simple 
Golden  Pot,  from  which,  so  soon  as  he  beheld 
it,  Anselmus  could  not  turn  away  an  eye.  It 
was  as  if,  in  a  thousand  gleaming  reflexes,  all 
sorts  of  shapes  were  sporting  on  the  bright  po- 
lished gold :  often  he  perceived  his  own  form, 
with  arms  stretched  out  in  longing — ah!  be- 
neath the  elder-bush,  —  and  Serpentina  was 
winding  and  shooting  up  and  down,  and  again 
looking  at  him  with  her  kind  eyes.  Anselmus 
was  beside  himself  with  frantic  rapture. 

"Serpentina!  Serpentina!"  cried  he  aloud; 
and  Archivarius  Lindhorst  whirled  round  ab- 
ruptly, and  said :  "  How  now,  worthy  Herr 
Anselmus  ?  If  I  mistake  not,  you  were  pleased 
to  call  for  my  daughter ;  she  is  quite  in  the 
other  side  of  the  house  at  present,  and  indeed 
just  taking  her  lesson  on  the  harpsichord.  Let 
us  go  along." 

Anselmus,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did, 
followed  his  conductor ;  he  saw  or  heard  no- 
thing more,  till  Archivarius  Lindhorst  suddenly 
grasped  his  hand,  and  said :  "  Here  is  the 
place !"  Anselmus  awoke  as  from  a  dream, 
and  now  perceived  that  he  was  in  a  high  room, 
all  lined  on  every  side  with  book-shelves,  and 
nowise  differing  from  a  common  library  and 
study.  In  the  middle  stood  a  large  writing- 
table,  with  a  stuffed  arm-chair  before  it.  "  This," 
said  Archivarius  Lindhorst,  "is  your  work-room 
for  the  present :  whether  you  may  work,  some 
other  time,  in  the  blue  library,  where  you  so 
suddenly  called  out  my  daughter's  name,  I  yet 
know  not.  But  now  I  could  wish  to  convince 
myself  of  your  ability  to  execute  this  task  ap- 
pointed you,  in  the  way  I  wish  it  and  need  it." 


HOFFMANN.  529 


The  Student  here  gathered  full  courage ;  and 
not  without  internal  self-complacence  in  the 
certainty  of  highly  gratifying  Archivarius  Lind- 
horst,  pulled  out  his  drawings  and  specimens 
of  penmanship  from  his  pocket.  But  no  sooner 
had  the  Archivarius  cast  his  eye  on  the  first 
leaf,  a  piece  of  writing  in  the  finest  English 
style,  than  he  smiled  very  oddly,  and  shook  his 
head.  These  motions  he  repeated  at  every  fol- 
lowing leaf,  so  that  the  Student  Anselmus  felt 
the  blood  mounting  to  his  face ;  and  at  last, 
when  the  smile  became  quite  sarcastic  and 
contemptuous,  he  broke  out  in  downright  vexa- 
tion:  "The  Herr  Archivarius  does  not  seem 
contented  with  my  poor  talents." 

"  Dear  Herr  Anselmus,"  said  Archivarius 
Lindhorst,  "you  have  indeed  fine  capacities  for 
the  art  of  calligraphy;  but,  in  the  meanwhile, 
it  is  clear  enough,  I  must  reckon  more  on  your 
diligence  and  good-will,  than  on  your  attain- 
ments in  the  business." 

The  Student  Anselmus  spoke  largely  of  his 
often-acknowledged  perfection  in  this  art,  of  his 
fine  Chinese  ink,  and  most  select  crow-quills. 
But  Archivarius  Lindhorst  handed  him  the 
English  sheet,  and  said :  "  Be  judge  yourself!" 
Anselmus  felt  as  if  struck  by  a  thunderbolt,  to 
see  his  hand-writing  look  so:  it  was  miserable, 
beyond  measure.  There  was  no  rounding  in 
the  turns,  no  hair-stroke  where  it  should  be ;  no 
proportion  between  the  capital  and  single  let- 
ters ;  nay,  villainous  school-boy  pot-hooks  often 
spoiled  the  best  lines.  "And  then,"  continued 
Archivarius  Lindhorst,  "your  ink  will  not 
stand."  He  dipt  his  finger  in  a  glass  of  water, 
and  as  he  just  skimmed  it  over  the  lines,  they 
vanished  without  vestige.  The  Student  Ansel- 
mus felt  as  if  some  monster  were  throttling  him  : 
he  could  not  utter  a  word.  There  stood  he, 
with  the  unlucky  sheet  in  his  hand ;  but  Archi- 
varius Lindhorst  laughed  aloud,  and  said: 
"Never  mind  it,  dearest  Herr  Anselmus;  what 
you  could  not  perfect  before,  will  perhaps  do 
better  here.  At  any  rate,  you  shall  have  better 
materials  than  you  have  been  accustomed  to. 
Begin,  in  Heaven's  name !" 

From  a  locked  press,  Archivarius  Lindhorst 
now  brought  out  a  black  fluid  substance,  which 
diffused  a  most  peculiar  odor  ;  also  pens,  sharply 
pointed  and  of  strange  color,  together  with  a 
sheet  of  especial  whiteness  and  smoothness; 
then  at  last  an  Arabic  manuscript :  and  as  An- 
selmus sat  down  to  work,  the  Archivarius  left 
the  room.  The  Student  Anselmus  had  often 
copied  Arabic  manuscripts  already ;  the  first 
problem,  therefore,  seemed  to  him  not  so  very 
difficult  to  solve.  "  How  these  pot-hooks  came 
into  my  fine  English  current-hand,  Heaven,  and 
Archivarius  Lindhorst,  know  best,"  said  he ; 
"but  that  they  are  not  from  my  hand,  I  will 
testify  to  the  death !"  At  every  new  word  that 
stood  fair  and  perfect  on  the  parchment,  his 
courage  increased,  and  with  it  his  adroitness. 
In  truth,  these  pens  wrote  exquisitely  well ;  and 
the  mysterious  ink  flowed  pliantly,  and  black 
3  R 


as  jet,  on  the  bright  white  parchment.  And  as 
he  worked  along  so  diligently,  and  with  such 
strained  attention,  he  began  to  feel  more  and 
more  at  home  in  the  solitary  room;  and  already 
he  had  quite  fitted  himself  into  his  task,  which 
he  now  hoped  to  finish  well,  when  at  the  stroke 
of  three  the  Archivarius  called  him  into  the 
side -room  to  a  savory  dinner.  At  table,  Ar- 
chivarius Lindhorst  was  in  special  gaiety  of 
heart:  he  inquired  about  the  Student  Anselmus' 
friends,  Conrector  Paulmann,  and  Registrator 
Heerbrand,  and  of  the  latter  especially  he  had 
store  of  merry  anecdotes  to  tell.  The  good  old 
Rhenish  was  particularly  grateful  to  the  Student 
Anselmus,  and  made  him  more  talkative  than 
he  was  wont  to  be.  At  the  stroke  of  four,  he 
rose  to  resume  his  labor  ;  and  this  punctuality 
appeared  to  please  the  Archivarius. 

If  the  copying  of  these  Arabic  manuscripts 
had  prospered  in  his  hands,  before  dinner,  the 
task  now  went  forward  much  better ;  nay,  he 
could  not  himself  comprehend  the  rapidity  and 
ease,  with  which  he  succeeded  in  transcribing 
the  twisted  strokes  of  this  foreign  character. 
But  it  was  as  if,  in  his  inmost  sou],  a  voice  were 
whispering  in  audible  words:  "Ah!  couldst 
thou  accomplish  it,  wert  thou  not  thinking  of 
her,  didst  thou  not  believe  in  her  and  in  her 
love  ?"  Then  there  floated  whispers,  as  in  low, 
low,  waving  crystal  tones,  through  the  room : 
"  I  am  near,  near,  near !  I  help  thee :  be  bold, 
be  steadfast,  dear  Anselmus !  I  toil  with  thee, 
that  thou  mayest  be  mine  !"  And  as,  in  the 
fulness  of  secret  rapture,  he  caught  these  sounds, 
the  unknown  characters  grew  clearer  and  clearer 
to  him  ;  he  scarcely  required  to  look  on  the  ori- 
ginal at  all ;  nay,  it  was  as  if  the  letters  were 
already  standing  in  pale  ink  on  the  parchment, 
and  he  had  nothing  more  to  do  but  mark  them 
black.  So  did  he  labor  on,  encompassed  with 
dear  inspiring  tones  as  with  soft  sweet  breath, 
till  the  clock  struck  six,  and  Archivarius  Lind- 
horst entered  the  apartment.  He  came  forward 
to  the  table,  with  a  singular  smile;  Anselmus 
rose  in  silence :  the  Archivarius  still  looked  at 
him,  with  that  mocking  smile :  but  no  sooner 
had  he  glanced  over  the  copy,  than  the  smile 
passed  into  deep  solemn  earnestness,  which 
every  feature  of  his  face  adapted  itself  to  ex- 
press. He  seemed  no  longer  the  same.  His 
eyes,  which  usually  gleamed  with  sparkling 
fire,  now  looked  with  unutterable  mildness  at 
Anselmus;  a  soft  red  tinted  the  pale  cheeks; 
and  instead  of  the  irony  which  at  other  times 
compressed  the  mouth,  the  softly-curved  grace- 
ful lips  now  seemed  to  be  opening  for  wise  and 
soul-persuading  speech.  The  whole  form  was 
higher,  statelier ;  the  wide  night-gown  spread 
itself  like  a  royal  mantle  in  broad  folds  over  his 
breast  and  shoulders ;  and  through  the  white 
locks,  which  lay  on  his  high  open  brow,  there 
winded  a  thin  band  of  gold. 

"Young  man,"  began  the  Archivarius  in  so- 
lemn tone,  "before  thou  thoughtest  of  it,  I  knew 
thee,  and  all  the  secret  relations  which  bind 
45 


530 


HOFFMANN. 


thee  to  the  dearest  and  holiest  of  my  interests! 
Serpentina  loves  thee  ;  a  singular  destiny,  whose 
fateful  threads  were  spun  hy  enemies,  is  ful- 
filled, should  she  he  thine,  and  thou  obtain,  as 
an  essential  dowry,  the  Golden  Pot,  which  of 
right  belongs  to  her.  But  only  from  effort  and 
contest  can  thy  happiness  in  the  higher  life 
arise ;  hostile  Principles  assail  thee  ;  and  only 
the  interior  force  with  which  thou  shalt  with- 
stand these  contradictions  can  save  thee  from 
disgrace  and  ruin.  Whilst  laboring  here,  thou 
art  passing  the  season  of  instruction  :  Belief  and 
full  knowledge  will  lead  thee  to  the  near  goal, 
if  thou  but  hold  fast,  what  thou  hast  well  begun. 
Bear  her  always  and  truly  in  thy  thoughts,  her 
who  loves  thee ;  then  shalt  thou  see  the  mar- 
vels of  the  Golden  Pot,  and  be  happy  for  ever 
more.  Fare  thee  well !  Archivarius  Lindhorst 
expects  thee  to-morrow  at  noon  in  thy  cabinet. 
Fare  thee  well !"  With  these  words  Archiva- 
rius Lindhorst  softly  pushed  the  Student  Ansel- 
mus  out  of  the  door,  which  he  then  locked  ;  and 
Anselmus  found  himself  in  the  chamber  where 
he  had  dined,  the  single  door  of  which  led  out 
to  the  lobby. 

Altogether  stupified  with  these  strange  phe- 
nomena, the  Student  Anselmus  stood  lingering 
at  the  street-door  5  he  heard  a  window  open 
above  him,  and  looked  up  :  it  was  Archivarius 
Lindhorst,  quite  the  old  man  again,  in  his  light- 
grey  gown,  as  he  usually  appeared.  The  Ar- 
chivarius called  to  him  :  "  Hey,  worthy  Herr 
Anselmus,  what  are  you  studying  over  there? 
Tush,  the  Arabic  is  still  in  your  head.  My 
compliments  to  Herr  Conrector  Paulmann,  if  you 
see  him  ;  and  come  to-morrow  precisely  at  noon. 
The  fee  for  this  day  is  lying  in  your  right  waist- 
coat-pocket." The  Student  Anselmus  actually 
found  the  clear  speziesthaler  in  the  pocket  indi- 
cated ;  but  he  took  no  joy  in  it.  "  What  is  to 
come  of  all  this,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  know 
not:  "but  if  it  be  some  mad  delusion  and  con- 
juring work  that  has  laid  hold  of  me,  the  dear 
Serpentina  still  lives  and  moves  in  my  inward 
heart;  and  before  I  leave  her,  I  will  die  alto- 
gether; for  I  know  that  the  thought  in  me  is 
eternal,  and  no  hostile  Principle  can  take  it  from 
me :  and  what  else  is  this  thought  but  Serpen- 
tina's  love  ?" 

EIGHTH  VIGIL. 

The  Library  of  the  Palm-trees.  Fortunes  of  an  unhappy  Sala- 
mander. How  the  Black  Quill  caressed  a  Parsnip,  and  Regis- 
trator Heerbrand  was  much  overtaken  with  Liquor. 

The  Student  Anselmus  had  now  worked 
several  days  with  Archivarius  Lindhorst;  these 
working  hours  were  for  him  the  happiest  of  his 
life  ;  still  encircled  with  lovely  tones,  with  Ser- 
pentina's  encouraging  voice,  he  was  filled  and 
overflowed  with  a  pure  delight,  which  often 
rose  to  highest  rapture.  Every  strait,  every 
little  care  of  his  needy  existence,  had  vanished 
from  his  thoughts ;  and  in  the  new  life,  which 
had  risen  on  him  as  in  serene  sunny  splendor, 
he  comprehended  all  the  wonders  of  a  higher 


world,  which  before  had  filled  him  with  aston- 
ishment, nay,  with  dread.  His  copying  pro- 
ceeded rapidly  and  lightly;  for  he  felt  more 
and  more  as  if  he  were  writing  characters  long 
known  to  him ;  and  he  scarcely  needed  to  cast 
his  eye  upon  the  manuscript,  while  copying  it 
all  with  the  greatest  exactness. 

Except  at  the  hour  of  dinner,  Archivarius 
Lindhorst  seldom  made  his  appearance ;  and 
this  always  precisely  at  the  moment  when  An- 
selmus had  finished  the  last  letter  of  some  ma- 
nuscript: then  the  Archivarius  would  hand  him 
another,  and  directly  after,  leave  him,  without 
uttering  a  word ;  having  first  stirred  the  ink 
with  a  little  black  rod,  and  changed  the  old 
pens  with  new  sharp-pointed  ones.  One  day, 
when  Anselmus,  at  the  stroke  of  twelve,  had 
as  usual  mounted  the  stair,  he  found  the  door 
through  which  he  commonly  entered,  standing 
locked ;  and  Archivarius  Lindhorst  came  for- 
ward from  the  other  side,  dressed  in  his  strange 
flower-figured  night-gown.  He  called  aloud : 
"  To-day  come  this  way,  good  Herr  Anselmus ; 
for  we  must  to  the  chamber  where  Bhogovotgi- 
ta's  masters  are  waiting  for  us." 

He  stept  along  the  corridor,  and  led  Anselmus 
through  the  same  chambers  and  halls,  as  at  the 
first  visit.  The  Student  Anselmus  again  felt 
astonished  at  the  marvellous  beauty  of  the  gar- 
den :  but  he  now  perceived  that  many  of  the 
strange  flowers,  hanging  on  the  dark  bushes 
were  in  truth  insects  glancing  with  lordly  colors, 
hovering  up  and  down  with  their  little  wings, 
as  they  danced  and  whirled  in  clusters,  caress- 
ing one  another  with  their  antennae.  On  the 
other  hand  again,  the  rose  and  azure-colored 
birds  were  odoriferous  flowers;  and  the  per- 
fume which  they  scattered,  mounted  from  their 
cups  in  low  lovely  tones,  which,  with  the  gur- 
gling of  distant  fountains,  and  the  sighing  of  the 
high  groves  and  trees,  mingled  themselves  into 
mysterious  accords  of  a  deep  unutterable  longing. 
The  mock-birds,  which  had  so  jeered  and  flouted 
him  before,  were  again  fluttering  to  and  fro 
over  his  head,  and  crying  incessantly  with  their 
sharp  small  voices :  "  Herr  Studiosus,  Herr  Stu- 
diosus,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry !  Don't  peep 
into  the  clouds  so !  They  may  fall  about  your 
ears — He  !  He !  Herr  Studiosus,  put  your  pow- 
der-mantle on ;  cousin  Screech-Owl  will  frizzle 
your  toupee."  And  so  it  went  along,  in  all 
manner  of  stupid  chatter,  till  Anselmus  left  the 
garden. 

Archivarius  Lindhorst  at  last  stept  into  the 
azure  chamber :  the  porphyry,  with  the  Golden 
Pot,  was  gone ;  instead  of  it,  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  stood  a  table  overhung  with  violet- 
colored  satin,  upon  which  lay  the  writing-ware 
already  known  to  Anselmus ;  and  a  stufled 
arm-chair,  covered  with  the  same  sort  of  cloth, 
was  placed  beside  it. 

"Dear  Herr  Anselmus,"  said  Archivarius 
Lindhorst,  "  you  have  now  copied  me  a  number 
of  manuscripts,  rapidly  and  correctly,  to  my  no 
small  contentment :  you  have  gained  my  confi- 


HOFFMANN.  531 


dence ;  but  the  hardest  is  yet  behind  ;  and  that 
is  the  transcribing  or  rather  painting  of  certain 
works,  written  in  a  peculiar  character ;  I  keep 
them  in  this  room,  and  they  can  only  be  copied 
on  the  spot.  You  will,  therefore,  in  future, 
work  here;  but  I  must  recommend  to  you  the 
greatest  foresight  and  attention  ;  a  false  stroke, 
or,  which  may  Heaven  forefend,  a  blot  let  fall 
on  the  original,  will  plunge  you  into  misfortune." 

Anselmus  observed  that  from  the  golden 
trunks  of  the  palm-trees,  little  emerald  leaves 
projected  :  one  of  these  leaves  the  Archivarius 
took  hold  of;  and  Anselmus  could  not  but  per- 
ceive that  the  leaf  was  in  truth  a  roll  of  parch- 
ment, which  the  Archivarius  unfolded,  and 
spread  out  before  the  Student  on  the  table.  An- 
selmus wondered  not  a  little  at  these  strangely 
intertwisted  characters ;  and  as  he  looked  over 
the  many  points,  strokes,  dashes,  and  twirls  in 
the  manuscript,  he  almost  lost  hope  of  ever 
copying  it.  He  fell  into  deep  thoughts  on  the 
subject 

"  Be  of  courage,  young  man !"  cried  the  Ar- 
chivarius ;  "  if  thou  hast  continuing  Belief  and 
true  Love,  Serpentina  will  help  thee." 

His  voice  sounded  like  ringing  metal ;  and  as 
Anselmus  looked  up  in  utter  terror,  Archivarius 
Lindhorst  was  standing  before  him  in  the  kingly 
form,  which,  during  the  first  visit,  he  had  as- 
sumed in  the  library.  Anselmus  felt  as  if  in 
his  deep  reverence  he  could  not  but  sink  on  his 
knee ;  but  the  Archivarius  stept  up  the  trunk 
of  a  palm-tree,  and  vanished  aloft  among  the 
emerald  leaves.  The  Student  Anselmus  per- 
ceived that  the  Prince  of  the  Spirits  had  been 
speaking  with  him,  and  was  now  gone  up  to  his 
study;  perhaps  intending,  by  the  beams  which 
some  of  the  Planets  had  dispatched  to  him  as 
envoys,  to  send  back  word  what  was  to  become 
of  Anselmus  and  Serpentina. 

"  It  may  be  too,"  thought  he  farther,  "  that  he 
is  expecting  news  from  the  Springs  of  the  Nile  ; 
or  that  some  magician  from  Lapland  is  paying 
him  a  visit:  me  it  behoves  to  set  diligently 
about  my  task."  And  with  this,  he  began 
studying  the  foreign  characters  in  the  roll  of 
parchment. 

The  strange  music  of  the  garden  sounded 
over  to  him,  and  encircled  him  with  sweet 
lovely  odors ;  the  mock-birds  too  he  still  heard 
giggling  and  twittering,  but  could  not  distinguish 
their  words,  a  thing  which  greatly  pleased  him. 
At  times  also  it  was  as  if  the  leaves  of  the 
palm-trees  were  rustling,  and  as  if  the  clear 
crystal  tones,  which  Anselmus  on  that  fateful 
Ascension-day  had  heard  under  the  elder-bush, 
were  beaming  and  flitting  through  the  room. 
Wonderfully  strengthened  by  this  shining  and 
tinkling,  the  Student  Anselmus  directed  his  eyes 
and  thoughts  more  and  more  intensely  on  the 
superscription  of  the  parchment  roll;  and  ere 
long  he  felt,  as  it  were  from  his  inmost  soul,  that 
the  characters  could  denote  nothing  else  than 
these  words  :  Of  the  marriage  of  the  Salamander 
with  the  green  Snake.    Then  resounded  a  louder 


triphony  of  clear  crystal  bells  :  «  Anselmus  !  dear 
Anselmus!"  floated  to  him  from  the  leaves; 
and,  O  wonder !  on  the  trunk  of  the  palm-tree 
the  green  Snake  came  winding  down. 

"Serpentina!  Serpentina!"  cried  Anselmus, 
in  the  madness  of  highest  rapture;  for  as  he 
gazed  more  earnestly,  it  was  in  truth  a  lovely 
glorious  maiden  that,  looking  at  him  with  those 
dark  blue  eyes,  full  of  inexpressible  longing,  as 
they  lived  in  his  heart,  was  hovering  down  to 
meet  him.  The  leaves  seemed  to  jut  out  and 
expand  ;  on  every  hand  were  prickles  sprouting 
from  the  trunk ;  but  Serpentina  twisted  and 
winded  herself  deftly  through  them ;  and  so 
drew  her  fluttering  robe,  glancing  as  if  in 
changeful  colors,  along  with  her,  that,  plying 
round  the  dainty  form,  it  nowhere  caught  on 
the  projecting  points  and  prickles  of  the  palm- 
tree.  She  sat  down  by  Anselmus  on  the  same 
chair,  clasping  him  with  her  arm,  and  pressing 
him  towards  her,  so  that  he  felt  the  breath  which 
came  from  her  lips,  and  the  electric  warmth  of 
her  frame. 

"Dear  Anselmus!"  began  Serpentina,  "thou 
shalt  now  soon  be  wholly  mine;  by  thy  Belief, 
by  thy  Love  thou  shalt  obtain  me,  and  I  will 
bring  thee  the  Golden  Pot,  which  shall  make  us 
both  happy  forevermore." 

"  0  thou  kind  lovely  Serpentina !"  said  Ansel- 
mus, "if  I  have  but  thee,  what  care  I  for  all 
else !  if  thou  art  but  mine,  I  will  joyfully  give 
in  to  all  the  wondrous  mysteries  that  have  beset 
me  ever  since  the  moment  when  I  first  saw 
thee." 

"  I  know,"  continued  Serpentina,  "  that  the 
strange  and  mysterious  things,  with  which  my 
father,  often  merely  in  the  sport  of  his  humor, 
has  surrounded  thee,  have  raised  distrust  and 
dread  in  thy  mind ;  but  now,  I  hope,  it  shall  be 
so  no  more ;  for  I  come  at  this  moment  to  tell 
thee,  dear  Anselmus,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  and  soul,  all  and  sundry  to  a  tittle  that 
thou  needest  to  know  for  understanding  my 
father,  and  so  for  seeing  clearly  what  thy  rela- 
tion to  him  and  to  me  really  is." 

Anselmus  felt  as  if  he  were  so  wholly  clasped 
and  encircled  by  the  gentle  lovely  form,  that 
only  with  her  could  he  move  and  live,  and  as 
it  were  but  the  beating  of  her  pulse  that  throbbed 
through  his  nerves  and  fibres ;  he  listened  to 
each  one  of  her  words  till  it  sounded  in  his  in- 
most heart,  and,  like  a  burning  ray,  kindled  in 
him  the  rapture  of  Heaven.  He  had  put  his 
arm  round  that  daintier  than  dainty  waist;  but 
the  changeful  glistering  cloth  of  her  robe  was 
so  smooth  and  slippery,  that  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  she  could  at  any  moment  wind  herself  from 
his  arms,  and  glide  away.  He  trembled  at  the 
thought. 

"Ah,  do  not  leave  me,  gentlest  Serpentina!" 
cried  he;  "thou  art  my  life." 

"  Not  now,"  said  Serpentina,  "  till  I  have  told 
thee  all  that  in  thy  love  of  me  thou  canst  com- 
prehend : 

"  Know  then,  dearest,  that  my  father  is  sprung 


532 


HOFFMANN. 


from  the  wondrous  race  of  the  Salamanders; 
and  that  I  owe  my  existence  to  his  love  for  the 
green  Snake.  In  primeval  times,  in  the  Fairy- 
land Atlantis,  the  potent  Spirit-prince  Phospho- 
rus bore  rule  ;  and  to  him  the  Salamanders,  and 
other  Spirits  of  the  Elements,  were  plighted. 
Once  on  a  time,  the  Salamander,  whom  he 
loved  before  all  others  (it  was  my  father), 
chanced  to  be  walking  in  the  stately  garden, 
which  Phosphorus'  mother  had  decked  in  the 
lordliest  fashion  with  her  best  gifts;  and  the 
Salamander  hoard  a  tall  Lily  singing  in  low 
tones :  '  Press  down  thy  little  eyelids,  till  my 
Lover,  the  Morning-wind,  awake  thee.'  He 
stept  towards  it :  touched  by  his  glowing  breath, 
the  Lily  opened  her  leaves ;  and  he  saw  the 
Lily's  daughter,  the  green  Snake,  lying  asleep 
in  the  hollow  of  the  flower.  Then  was  the 
Salamander  inflamed  with  warm  love  for  the 
fair  Snake  ;  and  he  carried  her  away  from  the 
Lily,  whose  perfumes  in  nameless  lamentation 
vainly  called  for  her  beloved  daughter  through- 
out all  the  garden.  For  the  Salamander  had 
borne  her  into  the  palace  of  Phosphorus,  and 
was  there  beseeching  him:  '  Wed  me  with  my 
beloved,  and  she  shall  be  mine  for  evermore.' — 
1  Madman,  what  askest  thou !'  said  the  Prince 
of  the  Spirits ;  '  Know  that  once  the  Lily  was 
my  mistress,  and  bore  rule  with  me;  but  the 
Spark,  which  I  cast  into  her,  threatened  to  an- 
nihilate the  fair  Lily  ;  and  only  my  victory  over 
the  black  Dragon,  whom  now  the  Spirits  of  the 
Earth  hold  in  fetters,  maintains  her,  that  her 
leaves  continue  strong  enough  to  enclose  this 
Spark,  and  preserve  it  within  them.  But  when 
thou  claspest  the  green  Snake,  thy  fire  will  con- 
sume her  frame ;  and  a  new  Being  rapidly 
arising  from  her  dust,  will  soar  away  and  leave 
thee.' 

"The  Salamander  heeded  not  the  warning  of 
the  Spirit-prince  :  full  of  longing  ardor  he  folded 
the  green  Snake  in  his  arms;  she  crumbled  into 
ashes ;  a  winged  Being,  born  from  her  dust, 
soared  away  through  the  sky.  Then  the  mad- 
ness of  desperation  caught  the  Salamander; 
and  he  ran  through  the  garden,  dashing  forth 
fire  and  flames ;  and  wasted  it  in  his  wild  fury, 
till  its  fairest  flowers  and  blossoms  hung  down, 
blackened  and  scathed  ;  and  their  lamentation 
filled  the  air.  The  indignant  Prince  of  the  Spi- 
rits, in  his  wrath,  laid  hold  of  the  Salamander, 
and  said :  'Thy  fire  has  burnt  out,  thy  flames  are 
extinguished,  thy  rays  darkened  :  sink  down  to 
the  Spirits  of  the  Earth;  let  these  mock  and  jeer 
thee,  and  keep  thee  captive,  till  the  Fire-ele- 
ment shall  again  kindle,  and  beam  up  with  thee 
as  with  a  new  being  from  the  Earth.'  The  poor 
Salamander  sank  down  extinguished  :  but  now 
the  testy  old  Earth-spirit,  who  was  Phosphorus' 
gardener,  came  forth  and  said :  '  Master !  who 
has  greater  cause  to  complain  of  the  Salamander 
than  I  ?  Had  not  all  the  fair  flowers,  which  he 
has  burnt,  been  decorated  with  my  gayest  me- 
tals; had  I  not  stoutly  nursed  and  tended  them, 
and  spent  many  a  fair  hue  on  their  leaves  ?  And 


yet  I  must  pity  the  poor  Salamander  ;  for  it  was 
but  love,  in  which  thou,  0  Master,  hast  full  often 
been  entangled,  that  drove  him  to  despair,  and 
made  him  desolate  the  garden.  Remit  him  the 
too  harsh  punishment !' — '  His  fire  is  for  the 
present  extinguished,'  said  the  Prince  of  the 
Spirits;  'but  in  the  hapless  time,  when  the 
Speech  of  Nature  shall  no  longer  be  intelligible 
to  degenerate  man ;  when  the  Spirits  of  the 
Elements,  banished  into  their  own  regions, 
shall  speak  to  him  only  from  afar,  in  faint, 
spent  echoes ;  when,  displaced  from  the  har- 
monious circle,  an  infinite  longing  alone  shall 
give  him  tidings  of  the  Land  of  Marvels,  which 
he  once  might  inhabit  while  Belief  and  Love 
still  dwelt  in  his  soul:  in  this  hapless  time,  the 
fire  of  the  Salamander  shall  again  kindle ;  but 
only  to  manhood  shall  he  be  permitted  to  rise, 
and  entering  wholly  into  man's  necessitous  ex- 
istence, he  shall  learn  to  endure  its  wants  and 
oppressions.  Yet  not  only  shall  the  remem- 
brance of  his  first  state  continue  with  him ;  but 
he  shall  again  rise  into  the  sacred  harmony  of 
all  Nature;  he  shall  understand  its  wonders, 
and  the  power  of  his  fellow-spirits  shall  stand 
at  his  behest.  Then,  too,  in  a  Lily-bush,  shall 
he  find  the  green  Snake  again:  and  the  fruit  of 
his  marriage  with  her  shall  be  three  daughters, 
which,  to  men,  shall  appear  in  the  form  of  their 
mother.  In  the  spring  season  these  shall  disport 
them  in  the  dark  Elder-bush,  and  sound  with 
their  lovely  crystal  voices.  And  then  if,  in  that 
needy  and  mean  age  of  inward  stuntedness, 
there  shall  be  found  a  youth  who  understands 
their  song;  nay,  if  one  of  the  little  Snakes  look 
at  him  with  her  kind  eyes ;  if  the  look  awaken 
in  him  forecasting^  of  the  distant  wondrous 
Land,  to  which,  having  cast  away  the  burden 
of  the  Common,  he  can  courageously  soar;  if, 
with  love  to  the  Snake,  there  rise  in  him  belief 
in  the  Wonders  of  Nature,  nay,  in  his  own  ex- 
istence amid  these  Wonders,  then  the  Snake 
shall  be  his.  But  not  till  three  youths  of  this 
sort  have  been  found  and  wedded  to  the  three 
daughters,  may  the  Salamander  cast  away  his 
heavy  burden,  and  return  to  his  brothers.'— 
'  Permit  me,  Master,'  said  the  Earth-spirit,  1  to 
make  these  three  daughters  a  present,  which 
may  glorify  their  life  with  the  husbands  they 
shall  find.  Let  each  of  them  receive  from  me 
a  Pot,  of  the  fairest  metal  which  I  have ;  I  will 
polish  it  with  beams  borrowed  from  the  dia- 
mond;  in  its  glitter  shall  our  Kingdom  of 
Wonders,  as  it  now  exists  in  the  Harmony  of 
universal  Nature,  be  imaged  back  in  glorious 
dazzling  reflection  ;  and  from  its  interior,  on  the 
day  of  marriage,  shall  spring  forth  a  Fire-lily, 
whose  eternal  blossoms  shall  encircle  the  youth 
that  is  found  worthy,  with  sweet  wafting  odors. 
Soon  too  shall  he  learn  its  speech,  and  under- 
stand the  wonders  of  our  kingdom,  and  dwell 
with  his  beloved  in  Atlantis  itself.' 

"  Thou  perceivest  well,  dear  Anselmus,  that 
the  Salamander  of  whom  I  speak  is  no  other 
than  my  father.    Spite  of  his  higher  nature,  he 


HOFFMANN. 


533 


was  forced  to  subject  himself  to  the  paltriest 
contradictions  of  common  life ;  and  hence,  in- 
deed, often  comes  the  wayward  humor  with 
which  he  vexes  many.  He  has  told  me  now 
and  then,  that,  for  the  inward  make  of  mind, 
which  the  Spirit-prince  Phosphorus  required  as 
a  condition  of  marriage  with  me  and  my  sisters, 
men  have  a  name  at  present,  which,  in  truth, 
they  frequently  enough  misapply:  they  call  it  a 
childlike  poetic  character.  This  character,  he 
says,  is  often  found  in  youths,  who,  by  reason 
of  their  high  simplicity  of  manners,  and  their 
total  want  of  what  is  called  knowledge  of  the 
world,  are  mocked  by  the  populace.  Ah,  dear 
Anselmus !  beneath  the  Elder-bush,  thou  under- 
stoodest  my  song,  my  look :  thou  lovest  the 
green  Snake,  thou  believest  in  me,  and  wilt  be 
mine  forevermore !  The  fair  Lily  will  bloom 
forth  from  the  Golden  Pot ;  and  we  shall  dwell, 
happy,  and  united,  and  blessed,  in  Atlantis  to- 
gether ! 

"  Yet  I  must  not  hide  from  thee  that  in  its 
deadly  battle  with  the  Salamanders  and  Spirits 
of  the  Earth,  the  black  Dragon  burst  from  their 
grasp,  and  hurried  off  through  the  air.  Phos- 
phorus, indeed,  again  holds  him  in  fetters;  but 
from  the  black  Quills,  which,  in  the  struggle, 
rained  down  on  the  ground,  there  sprung  up 
hostile  Spirits,  which  on  all  hands  set  them- 
selves against  the  Salamanders  and  Spirits  of 
the  Earth.  That  woman  who  so  hates  thee, 
dear  Anselmus,  and  who,  as  my  father  knows 
full  well,  is  striving  for  possession  of  the  Golden 
Pot ;  that  woman  owes  her  existence  to  the  love 
of  such  a  Quill  (plucked  in  battle  from  the  Dra- 
gon's wing)  for  a  certain  Parsnip  beside  which 
it  dropped.  She  knows  her  origin  and  her 
power ;  for,  in  the  moans  and  convulsions  of 
the  captive  Dragon,  the  secrets  of  many  a  mys- 
terious constellation  are  revealed  to  her ;  and 
she  uses  every  means  and  effort  to  work  from 
the  Outward  into  the  Inward  and  unseen ;  while 
my  father,  with  the  beams  which  shoot  forth 
from  the  spirit  of  the  Salamander,  withstands 
and  subdues  her.  All  the  baneful  principles 
which  lurk  in  deadly  herbs  and  poisonous 
beasts,  she  collects ;  and,  mixing  them  under 
favorable  constellations,  raises  therewith  many 
a  wicked  spell,  which  overwhelms  the  soul  of 
man  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  subjects  him 
to  the  power  of  those  Demons,  produced  from 
the  Dragon  when  it  yielded  in  battle.  Beware 
of  that  old  woman,  dear  Anselmus !  She  hates 
thee ;  because  thy  childlike  pious  character  has 
annihilated  many  of  her  wicked  charms.  Keep 
true,  true  to  me ;  soon  art  thou  at  the  goal !" 

"0  my  Serpentina!  my  own  Serpentina!" 
cried  the  Student  Anselmus,  "  how  could  I 
leave  thee,  how  should  I  not  love  thee  for- 
ever!" A  kiss  was  burning-  on  his  lips;  he 
awoke  as  from  a  deep  dream :  Serpentina  had 
vanished ;  six  o'clock  was  striking,  and  it  fell 
heavy  on  his  heart  that  to-day  he  had  not  copied 
a  single  stroke.  Full  of  anxiety,  and  dreading 
reproaches  from  the  Archivarius,  he  looked  into 


the  sheet;  and,  0  wonder!  the  copy  of  the 
mysterious  manuscript  was  fairly  concluded ; 
and  he  thought,  on  viewing  the  characters  more 
narrowly,  that  the  writing  was  nothing  else  but 
Serpentina's  story  of  her  father,  the  favorite  of 
the  Spirit-prince  Phosphorus,  in  Atlantis,  the 
Land  of  Marvels.  And  now  entered  Archiva- 
rius Lindhorst,  in  his  light-grey  surtout,  with 
hat  and  staff:  he  looked  into  the  parchment  on 
which  Anselmus  had  been  writing;  took  a  large 
pinch  of  snuff,  and  said  with  a  smile :  "  Just  as 
I  thought! — Well,  Herr  Anselmus,  here  is  your 
speziesthaler ;  we  will  now  to  the  Linke  Bath: 
do  but  follow  me !"  The  Archivarius  stept  ra- 
pidly through  the  garden,  in  which  there  was 
such  a  din  of  singing,  whistling,  talking,  that  the 
Student  Anselmus  was  quite  deafened  with  it, 
and  thanked  Heaven  when  he  found  himself  on 
the  street. 

Scarcely  had  they  walked  twenty  paces,  when 
they  met  Registrator  Heerbrand,  who  compan- 
ionably  joined  them.  At  the  Gate,  they  filled 
their  pipes,  which  they  had  about  them  :  Regis- 
trator Heerbrand  complained  that  he  had  left 
his  tinder-box  behind,  and  could  not  strike  fire. 
"Fire!"  cried  Archivarius  Lindhorst,  scornfully; 
"here  is  fire  enough,  and  to  spare!"  And  with 
this  he  snapped  his  fingers,  out  of  which  came 
streams  of  sparks,  and  directly  kindled  the 
pipes. — "Do  but  observe  the  chemical  knack 
of  some  men!"  said  Registrator  Heerbrand; 
but  the  Student  Anselmus  thought,  not  without 
internal  awe,  of  the  Salamander  and  his  history. 

In  the  Linke  Bath,  Registrator  Heerbrand 
drank  so  much  strong  double  beer,  that  at  last, 
though  usually  a  good-natured  quiet  man,  he 
began  singing  student  songs  in  squeaking  tenor ; 
he  asked  every  one  sharply,  Whether  he  was 
his  friend  or  not?  and  at  last  had  to  be  taken 
home  by  the  Student  Anselmus,  long  after  Ar- 
chivarius Lindhorst  had  gone  his  ways. 

NINTH  VIGIL. 

How  the  Student  Anselmus  attained  to  some  Sense.  The  Punch 
Party.  How  the  Student  Anselmus  took  Conrector  Paulmann 
for  a  Screech-Owl.  and  the  latter  felt  much  hurt  at  it.  The 
Ink-blot,  and  its  Consequences. 

The  strange  and  mysterious  things  which  day 
by  day  befell  the  Student  Anselmus,  had  entirely 
withdrawn  him  from  his  customary  life.  He 
no  longer  visited  any  of  his  friends,  and  waited 
every  morning  with  impatience,  for  the  hour  of 
noon,  which  was  to  unlock  his  paradise.  And 
yet  while  his  whole  soul  was  turned  to  the 
gentle  Serpentina,  and  the  wonders  of  Archiva- 
rius Lindhorst's  fairy  kingdom,  he  could  not  help 
now  and  then  thinking  of  Veronica ;  nay,  often 
it  seemed  as  if  she  came  before  him  and  con- 
fessed with  blushes  how  heartily  she  loved  him; 
how  much  she  longed  to  rescue  him  from  the 
phantoms,  which  were  mocking  and  befooling 
him.  At  times  he  felt  as  if  a  foreign  power, 
suddenly  breaking  in  on  his  mind,  were  draw- 
ing him  with  resistless  force  to  the  forgotten  Ve- 
ronica; as  if  he  must  needs  follow  her  whither 
45* 


534 


HOFFMANN. 


she  pleased  to  lead  him,  nay,  as  if  he  were 
bound  to  her  by  ties  that  would  not  break. 
That  very  night  after  Serpentina  had  first  ap- 
peared to  him  in  the  form  of  a  lovely  maiden; 
after  the  wondrous  secret  of  the  Salamander's 
nuptials  with  the  green  Snake  had  been  dis- 
closed, Veronica  came  before  him  more  vividly 
than  ever.  Nay,  not  till  he  awoke,  was  he 
clearly  aware  that  he  had  but  been  dreaming; 
for  he  had  felt  persuaded  that  Veronica  was 
actually  beside  him,  complaining  with  an  ex- 
pression of  keen  sorrow,  which  pierced  through 
his  inmost  soul,  that  he  should  sacrifice  her  deep 
true  love  to  fantastic  visions,  which  only  the 
distemper  of  his  mind  called  into  being,  and 
which,  moreover,  would  at  last  prove  his  ruin. 
Veronica  was  lovelier  than  he  had  ever  seen 
her;  he  could  not  drive  her  from  his  thoughts: 
and  in  this  perplexed  and  contradictory  mood 
he  hastened  out,  hoping  to  get  rid  of  it  by  a 
morning  walk. 

A  secret  magic  influence  led  him  on  to  the 
Pirna  gate :  he  was  just  turning  into  a  cross 
street,  when  Conrector  Paulmann,  coming  after 
him,  cried  out:  "Ey!  Ey! — Dear  Herr  Ansel- 
mus!  —  Amice!  Amice!  Where,  in  Heaven's 
name,  have  you  been  buried  so  long?  We 
never  see  you  at  all.  Do  yon  know,  Veronica 
is  longing  very  much  to  have  another  song  with 
you.  So  come  along;  you  were  just  on  the  road 
to  me,  at  any  rate." 

The  Student  Anselmus,  constrained  by  this 
friendly  violence,  went  along  with  the  Conrector. 
On  entering  the  house,  they  were  met  by  Ve- 
ronica, attired  with  such  neatness  and  attention, 
that  Conrector  Paulmann,  full  of  amazement, 
asked  her:  "  Why  so  decked,  Mamsell?  Were 
you  expecting  visitors?  Well,  here  I  bring  you 
Herr  Anselmus." 

The  Student  Anselmus,  in  daintily  and  ele- 
gantly kissing  Veronica's  hand,  felt  a  small  soft 
pressure  from  it,  which  shot  like  a  stream  of  fire 
over  all  his  frame.  Veronica  was  cheerfulness, 
was  grace  itself;  and  when  Paulmann  left  them 
for  his  study,  she  contrived,  by  all  manner  of 
rogueries  and  waggeries,  so  to  uplift  the  Student 
Anselmus,  that  he  at  last  quite  forgot  his  bash- 
fulness,  and  jigged  round  the  room  with  the 
light-headed  maiden.  But  here  again  the  De- 
mon of  Awkwardness  got  hold  of  him  :  he  jolted 
on  a  table,  and  Veronica's  pretty  little  work-box 
fell  to  the  floor.  Anselmus  lifted  it;  the  lid  had 
started  up ;  and  a  little  round  metallic  mirror 
was  glittering  on  him,  into  which  he  looked 
with  peculiar  delight.  Veronica  glided  softly 
up  to  him ;  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
pressing  close  to  him,  looked  over  his  shoulder 
into  the  mirror  also.  And  now  Anselmus  felt 
as  if  a  battle  were  beginning  in  his  soul : 
thoughts,  images  flashed  out — Archivarius  Lind- 
horst, —  Serpentina, — the  green  Snake — at  last 
the  tumult  abated,  and  all  this  chaos  arranged 
and  shaped  itself  into  distinct  consciousness. 
It  was  now  clear  to  him  that  he  had  always 
thought  of  Veronica  alone ;  nay,  that  the  form 


which  had  yesterday  appeared  to  him  in  the 
blue  chamber,  had  been  no  other  than  Veronica; 
and  that  the  wild  legend  of  the  Salamander's 
marriage  with  the  green  Snake,  had  merely 
been  written  down  by  him  from  the  manuscript, 
but  nowise  related  in  his  hearing.  He  wondered 
not  a  little  at  all  these  dreams;  and  ascribed 
them  solely  to  the  heated  state  of  mind  into 
which  Veronica's  love  had  brought  him,  as  well 
as  to  his  working  with  Archivarius  Lindhorst, 
in  whose  rooms  there  were,  besides,  so  many 
strangely  intoxicating  odors.  He  could  not  but 
laugh  heartily  at  the  mad  whim  of  falling  in 
love  with  a  little  green  Snake;  and  taking  a 
well-fed  Privy  Archivarius  for  a  Salamander : 
"  Yes,  yes !  It  is  Veronica !"  cried  he  aloud  ;  but 
on  turning  round  his  head,  he  looked  right  into 
Veronica's  blue  eyes,  from  which  warmest  love 
was  beaming.  A  faint  soft  Ah  !  escaped  her 
lips,  which  at  that  moment  were  burning  on  his. 

"0  happy  I!"  sighed  the  enraptured  Student: 
"What  I  yesternight  but  dreamed,  is  in  very 
deed  mine  to-day." 

"But  wilt  thou  really  wed  me,  then,  when 
thou  art  Hofrath?"  said  Veronica. 

"That  I  will,"  replied  the  Student  Anselmus; 
and  just  then  the  door  creaked,  and  Conrector 
Paulmann  entered  with  the  words : 

"Now,  dear  Herr  Anselmus,  I  will  not  let 
you  go  to-day.  You  will  put  up  with  a  bad 
dinner;  then  Veronica  will  make  us  delightful 
coffee,  which  we  shall  drink  with  Registrator 
Heerbrand,  for  he  promised  to  come  hither." 

"Ah,  best  Herr  Conrector!"  answered  the 
Student  Anselmus,  "are  you  not  aware  that  I 
must  go  to  Archivarius  Lindhorst's  and  copy?" 

"  Look  you,  Amice!"  said  Conrector  Paulmann, 
holding  up  his  watch,  which  pointed  to  half  past 
twelve. 

The  Student  Anselmus  saw  clearly  that  he 
was  much  too  late  for  Archivarius  Lindhorst; 
and  he  complied  with  the  Conrector's  wishes 
the  more  readily,  as  he  might  now  hope  to  look 
at  Veronica  the  whole  day  long,  to  obtain  many 
a  stolen  glance,  and  little  squeeze  of  the  hand, 
nay,  even  to  succeed  in  conquering  a  kiss.  So 
high  had  the  Student  Anselmus'  desires  now 
mounted  ;  he  felt  more  and  more  contented  in 
soul,  the  more  fully  he  convinced  himself  that 
he  should  be  delivered  from  all  the  fantastic 
imaginations,  which  really  might  have  made  a 
sheer  idiot  of  him. 

Registrator  Heerbrand  came,  as  he  had  pro- 
mised, after  dinner;  and  coffee  being  over,  and 
the  dusk  come  on,  the  Registrator,  puckering  his 
face  together,  and  gaily  rubbing  his  hands,  sig- 
nified that  he  had  something  about  him,  which, 
if  mingled  and  reduced  to  form,  as  it  were, 
paged  and  titled,  by  Veronica's  fair  hands,  might 
be  pleasant  to  them  all,  on  this  October  evening 

"  Come  out,  then,  with  this  mysterious  sub- 
stance which  you  carry  with  you,  most  valued 
Registrator,"  cried  Conrector  Paulmann.  Then 
Registrator  Heerbrand  shoved  his  hand  into  his 
deep  pocket,  and  at  three  journeys,  brought  out 


HOFFMANN. 


535 


a  bottle  of  arrack,  two  citrons,  and  a  quantity 
of  sugar.  Before  half  an  hour  had  passed,  a 
savory  bowl  of  punch  was  smoking  on  Paul- 
mann's  table.  Veronica  drank  their  health  in 
a  sip  of  the  liquor;  and  ere  long  there  was 
plenty  of  gay,  good-natured  chat  among  the 
friends.  But  the  Student  Anselmus,  as  the 
spirit  of  the  drink  mounted  into  his  head,  felt 
all  the  images  of  those  wondrous  things,  which 
for  some  time  he  had  experienced,  again  coming 
through  his  mind.  He  saw  the  Archivarius  in 
his  damask  night-gown,  which  glittered  like 
phosphorus ;  he  saw  the  azure  room,  the  golden 
palm-trees ;  nay,  it  now  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
must  still  believe  in  Serpentina:  there  was  a 
fermentation,  a  conflicting  tumult  in  his  soul. 
Veronica  handed  him  a  glass  of  punch  ;  and  in 
taking  it,  he  gently  touched  her  hand.  "  Ser- 
pentina! Veronica!"  sighed  he  to  himself.  He 
sank  into  deep  dreams ;  but  Registrator  Heer- 
brand  cried  quite  aloud :  "  A  strange  old  gen- 
tleman, whom  nobody  can  fathom,  he  is  and 
will  be,  this  Archivarius  Lindhorst.  Well,  long 
life  to  him!  Your  glass,  Herr  Anselmus!" 

Then  the  Student  Anselmus  awoke  from  his 
dreams,  and  said,  as  he  touched  glasses  with  Re- 
gistrator Heerbrand  :  "  That  proceeds,  respected 
Herr  Registrator,  from  the  circumstance,  that 
Archivarius  Lindhorst  is  in  reality  a  Salaman- 
der, who  wasted  in  his  fury  the  Spirit-prince 
Phosphorus'  garden,  because  the  green  Snake 
had  flown  away  from  him." 

"  How?  what?"  inquired  Conrector  Paulmann. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  Student  Anselmus; 
"  and  for  this  reason  he  is  now  forced  to  be  a 
Royal  Archivarius ;  and  to  keep  house  here  in 
Dresden  with  his  three  daughters,  who,  after  all, 
are  nothing  more  than  little  gold-green  Snakes, 
that  bask  in  elder-bushes,  and  traitorously  sing, 
and  seduce  away  young  people,  like  as  many 
syrens." 

"  Herr  Anselmus !  Herr  Anselmus !"  cried 
Conrector  Paulmann,  "  is  there  a  crack  in  your 
brain?  In  Heaven's  name,  what  monstrous  stuff 
is  this  you  are  babbling?" 

"He  is  right,"  interrupted  Registrator  Heer- 
brand: "that  fellow,  that  Archivarius,  is  a 
cursed  Salamander,  and  strikes  you  fiery  snips 
from  his  fingers,  which  burn  holes  in  your  sur- 
tout  like  red-hot  tinder.  Ay,  ay,  thou  art  in  the 
right,  brotherkin  Anselmus  ;  and  whoever  says 
No,  is  saying  No  to  me!"  And  at  these  words 
Registrator  Heerbrand  struck  the  table  with  his 
fist,  till  the  glasses  rung  again. 

"Registrator!  Are  you  frantic?"  cried  the 
wroth  Conrector.  "  Herr  Studiosus,  Herr  Stu- 
diosus!  what  is  this  you  are  about  again?" 

"Ah!"  said  the  Student,  "you  too  are  nothing 
but  a  bird,  a  screech-owl,  that  frizzles  toupees, 
Herr  Conrector  !" 

"  What ! — I  a  bird  ? — A  screech-owl,  a  friz- 
zier?" cried  the  Conrector,  full  of  indignation: 
"  Sir,  you  are  mad,  horn  mad  !" 

"  But  the  crone  will  get  a  clutch  of  him,'1  cried 
Registrator  Heerbrand. 


"Yes,  the  crone  is  potent,"  interrupted  the 
Student  Anselmus,  "though  she  is  but  of  mean 
descent ;  for  her  father  was  nothing  but  a  ragged 
wing-feather,  and  her  mother  a  dirty  parsnip: 
but  the  most  of  her  power  she  owes  to  all  sorts 
of  baneful  creatures,  poisonous  vermin  which 
she  keeps  about  her." 

"  That  is  a  horrid  calumny,"  cried  Veronica, 
with  eyes  all  glowing  in  anger :  "old  Liese  is  a 
wise  woman;  and  the  black  Cat  is  no  baneful 
creature,  but  a  polished  young  gentleman  of 
elegant  manners,  and  her  cousin  german." 

"Can  he  eat  Salamanders  without  singing  his 
whiskers,  and  dying  like  a  candle-snuff?"  cried 
Registrator  Heerbrand. 

"  No !  no !"  shouted  the  Student  Anselmus, 
"  that  he  never  can  in  this  world ;  and  the 
green  Snake  loves  me,  and  I  have  looked  into 
Serpentina's  eyes." 

"  The  Cat  will  scratch  them  out,"  cried  Ve- 
ronica. 

"  Salamander,  Salamander  beats  them  all, 
all,"  hollowed  Conrector  Paulmann,  in  the  high- 
est fury :  "  But  am  I  in  a  madhouse  ?  Am  I  mad 
myself?  What  unwise  stuff  am  I  chattering? 
Yes,  I  am  mad  too !  mad  too !"  And  with  this, 
Conrector  Paulmann  started  up  ;  tore  the  peruke 
from  his  head,  and  dashed  it  against  the  ceiling 
of  the  room;  till  the  battered  locks  whizzed, 
and,  tangled  into  utter  disorder,  rained  down 
the  powder  far  and  wide.  Then  the  Student 
Anselmus  and  Registrator  Heerbrand  seized  the 
punch-bowl  and  the  glasses  ;  and,  hallooing  and 
huzzaing,  pitched  them  against  the  ceiling  also, 
and  the  sherds  fell  jingling  and  tingling  about 
their  ears. 

"Vivat  the  Salamander! — Pereat,  pereat  the 
crone! — Break  the  metal  mirror! — Dig  the  cat's 
eyes  out ! — Bird,  li  ttle  Bird,  from  the  air — Eheu-— 
Eheu — Evoe — Evoe,  Salamander!"  So  shrieked, 
and  shouted,  and  bellowed  the  three,  like  utter 
maniacs.  With  loud  weeping,  Franzchen  ran 
out ;  but  Veronica  lay  whimpering  for  pain  and 
sorrow  on  the  sofa. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened :  all  was  in- 
stantly still ;  and  a  little  man,  in  a  small  grey 
cloak,  came  stepping  in.  His  countenance  had 
a  singular  air  of  gravity;  and  especially  the 
round  hooked  nose,  on  which  was  a  huge  pair 
of  spectacles,  distinguished  itself  from  all  the 
noses  ever  seen.  He  wore  a  strange  peruke 
too ;  more  like  a  feather-cap  than  a  wig. 

"Ey,  many  good  evenings!"  grated  and 
cackled  the  little  comical  mannikin.  "Is  the 
Student  Herr  Anselmus  among  you,  gentlemen? 
—  Best  compliments  from  Archivarius  Lind- 
horst; he  has  waited  to-day  in  vain  for  Herr 
Anselmus  ;  but  to-morrow  he  begs  most  respect- 
fully to  request  that  Herr  Anselmus  would  not 
forget  the  hour." 

And  with  this  he  went  out  again ;  and  all  of 
them  now  saw  clearly  that  the  grave  little 
mannikin  was  in  fact  a  grey  Parrot.  Conrector 
Paulmann  and  Registrator  Heerbrand  raised  a 
horse-laugh,  which  reverberated  through  the 


53G 


HOFFMANN. 


room  ;  and  in  the  intervals,  Veronica  was  moan- 
ing and  whimpering,  as  if  torn  by  nameless  sor- 
row ;  but,  as  to  the  Student  Anselmus,  the 
madness  of  inward  horror  was  darting  through 
him ;  and  unconsciously  he  ran  through  the  door, 
along  the  streets.  Instinctively  he  reached  his 
house,  his  garret.  Ere  long  Veronica  came  in 
to  him,  with  a  peaceful  and  friendly  look,  and 
asked  him  why,  in  the  festivity,  he  had  so  vexed 
her  ;  and  desired  him  to  be  on  his  guard  against 
imaginations,  while  working  at  Archivarius 
Lindhorst's.  "  Good  night,  good  night,  my  be- 
loved friend!"  whispered  Veronica,  scarce  au- 
dibly, and  breathed  a  kiss  on  his  lips.  He 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  clasp  her,  but  the 
dreamy  shape  had  vanished,  and  he  awoke 
cheerful  and  refreshed.  He  could  not  but  laugh 
heartily  at  the  effects  of  the  punch ;  but  in 
thinking  of  Veronica,  he  felt  pervaded  by  a 
most  delightful  feeling.  "To  her  alone,"  said 
he  within  himself,  "  do  I  owe  this  return  from 
my  insane  whims.  In  good  sooth,  I  was  little 
better  than  the  man  who  believed  himself  to  be 
of  glass ;  or  he  who  durst  not  leave  his  room 
for  fear  the  hens  should  eat  him,  as  he  was  a 
barleycorn.  But  so  soon  as  I  am  Hofrath,  I 
marry  Mademoiselle  Paulmann,  and  be  happy, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

At  noon,  as  he  walked  through  Archivarius 
Lindhorst's  garden,  he  could  not  help  wondering 
how  all  this  had  once  appeared  so  strange  and 
marvellous.  He  now  saw  nothing  past  com- 
mon; earthen  flowerpots,  quantities  of  gerani- 
ums, myrtles,  and  the  like.  Instead  of  the 
glittering  party-colored  birds  which  used  to  flout 
him,  there  were  nothing  but  a  few  sparrows, 
fluttering  hither  and  thither,  which  raised  an 
unpleasant  unintelligible  cry  at  sight  of  Ansel- 
mus. The  azure  room  also  had  quite  a  different 
look ;  and  he  could  not  understand  how  that 
glaring  blue,  and  those  unnatural  golden  trunks 
of  palm-trees,  with  their  shapeless  glistening 
leaves,  should  ever  have  pleased  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  Archivarius  looked  at  him  with  a 
most  peculiar  ironical  smile,  and  asked  :  :'Well, 
how  did  you  like  the  punch  last  night,  good 
Anselmus'?" 

"  Ah,  doubtless  you  have  heard  from  the  grey 
Parrot  how  "  answered  the  Student  Ansel- 
mus, quite  ashamed ;  but  he  stopt  short,  be- 
thinking him  that  this  appearance  of  the  Parrot 
was  all  a  piece  of  jugglery. 

"  I  was  there  myself,"  said  Archivarius  Lind- 
horst;  "did  you  not  see  me?  But,  among  the 
mad  pranks  you  were  playing,  I  had  nigh  got 
lamed :  for  I  was  sitting  in  the  punch-bowl,  at 
the  very  moment  when  Registrator  Heerbrand 
laid  hands  on  it,  to  dash  it  against  the  ceiling; 
and  I  had  to  make  a  quick  retreat  into  the  Con- 
rector's  pipe-head.  Now,  adieu,  Herr  Anselmus ! 
Be  diligent  at  your  task ;  for  the  lost  day  also 
you  shall  have  a  speziesthaler,  because  you 
worked  so  well  before." 

"  How  can  the  Archivarius  babble  such  mad 
stuff?"  thought  the  Student  Anselmus,  sitting 


down  at  the  table  to  begin  the  copying  of  the 
manuscript,  which  Archivarius  Lindhorst  had 
as  usual  spread  out  before  him.  But  on  the 
parchment  roll,  he  perceived  so  many  strange 
crabbed  strokes  and  twirls  all  twisted  together 
in  inexplicable  confusion,  offering  no  resting- 
point  for  the  eye,  that  it  seemed  to  him  well 
nigh  impossible  to  copy  all  this  exactly.  Nay, 
in  glancing  over  the  whole,  you  might  have 
thought  the  parchment  was  nothing  but  a  piece 
of  thickly  veined  marble,  or  a  stone  sprinkled 
over  with  lichens.  Nevertheless  he  determined 
to  do  his  utmost ;  and  boldly  dipt  in  his  pen : 
but  the  ink  would  not  run,  do  what  he  liked; 
impatiently  he  spirted  the  point  of  his  pen 
against  his  nail,  and — Heaven  and  Earth! — a 
huge  blot  fell  on  the  outspread  original !  Hissing 
and  foaming,  rose  a  blue  flash  from  the  blot; 
and  crackling  and  wavering,  shot  through  the 
room  to  the  ceiling.  Then  a  thick  vapor  rolled 
from  the  walls ;  the  leaves  began  to  rustle,  as 
if  shaken  by  a  tempest ;  and  down  out  of  them 
darted  glaring  basilisks  in  sparkling  fire  ;  these 
kindled  the  vapor,  and  the  bickering  masses  of 
flame  rolled  round  Anselmus.  The  golden 
trunks  of  the  palm-trees  became  gigantic  snakes, 
which  knocked  their  frightful  heads  together 
with  piercing  metallic  clang;  and  wound  their 
scaly  bodies  round  Anselmus. 

"Madman!  suffer  now  the  punishment  of 
what,  in  capricious  irreverence,  thou  hast 
done!"  So  cried  the  frightful  voice  of  the 
crowned  Salamander,  who  appeared  above  the 
snakes  like  a  glittering  beam  in  the  midst  of 
the  flame :  and  now  the  yawning  jaws  of  the 
snakes  poured  forth  cataracts  of  fire  on  Ansel- 
mus; and  it  was  as  if  the  fire-streams  were 
congealing  about  his  body,  and  changing  into  a 
firm  ice-cold  mass.  But  while  Anselmus'  limbs, 
more  and  more  pressed  together,  and  contracted, 
stiffened  into  powerlessness,  his  sense  passed 
away.  On  returning  to  himself,  he  could  not 
stir  a  joint:  he  was  as  if  surrounded  with  a 
glistening  brightness,  on  which  he  struck  if  he 
but  tried  to  lift  his  hand. — Alas  !  He  was  sitting 
in  a  well-corked  crystal  bottle,  on  a  shelf,  in  the 
library  of  Archivarius  Lindhorst. 

TENTH  VIGIL. 

Sorrows  of  the  Student  Anselmus  in  the  Glass  Bottle.  Happy- 
Life  of  the  Cross  Church  Scholars  and  Law  Clerks.  The  Bat- 
tle in  the  Library  of  Arcliivarius  Lindhorst.  Victory  of  the 
Salamander,  and  Deliverance  of  the  Student  Anselmus. 

Justly  may  I  doubt  whether  thou,  favorable 
reader,  wert  ever  sealed  up  in  a  glass  bottle ; 
or  even  that  any  vivid  tormenting  dream  ever 
oppressed  thee  with  such  necromatic  trouble. 
If  so  were  the  case,  thou  wilt  keenly  enough 
figure  out  the  poor  Student  Anselmus'  woe  :  but 
shouldst  thou  never  have  even  dreamed  such 
things,  then  will  thy  quick  fancy,  for  Anselmus' 
sake  and  mine,  be  obliging  enough  still  to  en- 
close itself  for  a  few  moments  in  the  crystal. 
Thou  art  drowned  in  dazzling  splendor;  all 
objects  about  thee  appear  illuminated  and  begirt 


HOFFMANN. 


537 


with  beaming  rainbow  hues:  all  quivers  and 
wavers,  and  clangs  and  drones,  in  the  sheen ; 
thou  art  swimming,  motionless  and  powerless 
as  in  a  firmly  congealed  ether,  which  so  presses 
thee  together  that  the  spirit  in  vain  gives  orders 
to  the  dead  and  stiffened  body.  Weightier  and 
weightier  the  mountain  burden  lies  on  thee; 
more  and  more  does  every  breath  exhaust  the 
little  handful  of  air,  that  still  played  up  and 
down  in  the  narrow  space;  thy  pulse  throbs 
madly;  and  cut  through  with  horrid  anguish, 
every  nerve  is  quivering  and  bleeding  in  this 
deadly  agony.  Have  pity,  favorable  reader,  on 
the  Student  Anselmus!  Him  this  inexpressible 
torture  laid  hold  of  in  his  glass  prison  :  but  he 
felt  too  well  that  death  could  not  relieve  him  ; 
for  did  he  not  awake  from  the  deep  swoon  into 
which  the  excess  of  pain  had  cast  him,  and  open 
his  eyes  to  new  wretchedness,  when  the  morn- 
ing sun  shone  clear  into  the  room  ?  He  could 
move  no  limb ;  but  his  thoughts  struck  against 
the  glass,  stupifying  him  with  discordant  clang; 
and  instead  of  the  words,  which  the  spirit  used 
to  speak  from  within  him,  he  now  heard  only 
the  stifled  din  of  madness.  Then  he  exclaimed 
in  his  despair:  "0  Serpentina!  Serpentina! 
save  me  from  this  agony  of  Hell!"  And  it  was 
as  if  faint  sighs  breathed  around  him,  which 
spread  like  green  transparent  elder-leaves  over 
the  glass;  the  clanging  ceased;  the  dazzling 
perplexing  glitter  was  gone,  and  he  breathed 
more  freely. 

"  Have  not  I  myself  solely  to  blame  for  my 
misery?  Ah!  Have  not  I  sinned  against  thee, 
thou  kind,  beloved  Serpentina?  Have  not  I 
raised  vile  doubts  of  thee  ?  Have  not  I  lost  my 
Belief;  and  with  it,  all,  all  that  was  to  make 
me  so  blessed  ?  Ah !  Thou  wilt  now  never, 
never  be  mine;  for  me  the  Golden  Pot  is  lost, 
and  I  shall  not  behold  its  wonders  any  more. 
Ah !  But  once  could  I  see  thee ;  but  once  hear 
thy  kind  sweet  voice,  thou  lovely  Serpentina !" 

So  wailed  the  Student  Anselmus,  caught  with 
deep  piercing  sorrow  :  then  spoke  a  voice  close 
by  him  :  «  What  the  devil  ails  you  Herr  Studio- 
sus?  What  makes  you  lament  so,  out  of  all 
compass  and  measure?" 

The  Student  Anselmus  now  perceived  that 
on  the  same  shelf  with  him  were  five  other 
bottles,  in  which  he  perceived  three  Cross 
Church  Scholars,  and  two  Law  Clerks. 

"Ah,  gentlemen,  my  fellows  in  misery,"  cried 
he,  "  how  is  it  possible  for  you  to  be  so  calm, 
nay  so  happy,  as  I  read  in  your  cheerful  looks? 
You  are  sitting  here  corked  up  in  glass  bottles, 
as  well  as  I,  and  cannot  move  a  finger;  nay, 
not  think  a  reasonable  thought,  but  there  rises 
such  a  murder-tumult  of  clanging  and  droning, 
and  in  your  head  itself  a  tumbling  and  rumbling 
enough  to  drive  one  mad.  But  doubtless  you 
do  not  believe  in  the  Salamander,  or  the  green 
Snake." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  jest,  Mein  Herr  Studio- 
sus,"  replied   a  Cross  Church  Scholar ;  "  we 
have  never  been  better  off  than  at  present :  for 
3s 


the  speziesthalers  which  the  mad  Archivarius 
gave  us  for  all  manner  of  pot-hook  copies,  are 
chinking  in  our  pockets;  we  have  now  no  Ita- 
lian choruses  to  learn  by  heart;  we  go  every 
day  to  Joseph's  or  other  houses  of  call,  where 
the  double-beer  is  sufficient,  and  we  can  look  a 
pretty  girl  in  the  face ;  so  we  sing  like  real  Stu- 
dents, Gaudeamus  igitur,  and  are  contented  in 
spirit !" 

"  They  of  the  Cross  are  quite  right,"  added  a 
Law  Clerk ;  "  I  too  am  well  furnished  with 
speziesthalers,  like  my  dearest  colleague  beside 
me  here  ;  and  we  now  diligently  walk  about  on 
the  Weinberg,  instead  of  scurvy  Act-writing 
within  four  walls." 

"  But,  my  best,  worthiest  masters !"  said  the 
Student  Anselmus,  "  do  you  not  observe,  then, 
that  you  are  all  and  sundry  corked  up  in  glass 
bottles,  and  cannot  for  your  hearts  walk  a  hairs- 
breadth  ?" 

Here  the  Cross  Church  Scholars  and  the  Law 
Clerks  set  up  a  loud  laugh,  and  cried  :  "  The 
Student  is  mad ;  he  fancies  himself  to  be  sitting 
in  a  glass  bottle,  and  is  standing  on  the  Elbe- 
bridge  and  looking  right  down  into  the  water. 
Let  us  go  along!" 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  Student,  "they  have  never 
seen  the  kind  Serpentina;  they  know  not  what 
Freedom,  and  life  in  Love,  and  Belief,  signifies; 
and  so  by  reason  of  their  folly  and  low-minded- 
ness,  they  feel  not  the  oppression  of  the  impri- 
sonment into  which  the  Salamander  has  cast 
them.  But  I,  unhappy  I,  must  perish  in  want 
and  woe,  if  she,  whom  I  so  inexpressibly  love, 
do  not  deliver  me !" 

Then  waving  in  faint  tinkles,  Serpentina's 
voice  flitted  through  the  room:  "Anselmus! 
believe,  love,  hope !"  And  every  tone  beamed 
into  Anselmus'  prison  ;  and  the  crystal  yielded 
to  his  pressure,  and  expanded,  till  the  breast  of 
the  captive  could  move  and  heave. 

The  torment  of  his  situation  became  less  and 
less,  and  he  saw  clearly  that  Serpentina  still 
loved  him  ;  and  that  it  was  she  alone,  who  had 
rendered  his  confinement  tolerable.  He  dis- 
turbed himself  no  more  about  his  insane  com- 
panions in  misfortune;  but  directed  all  his 
thoughts  and  meditations  on  the  gentle  Serpen- 
tina. Suddenly,  however,  there  arose  on  the 
other  side  a  dull  croaking  repulsive  murmur. 
Ere  long  he  could  observe  that  it  proceeded 
from  an  old  coffee-pot,  with  half-broken  lid, 
standing  over  against  him  on  a  little  shelf.  As 
he  looked  at  it  more  narrowly,  the  ugly  features 
of  a  wrinkled  old  woman  by  degrees  unfolded 
themselves ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  the  Apple- 
wife  of  the  Schwarzthor  stood  before  him.  She 
grinned  and  laughed  at  him,  and  cried  with 
screeching  voice  :  "  Ey,  Ey,  my  pretty  boy,  must 
thou  lie  in  limbo  now?  To  the  crystal  thou 
hast  run :  did  I  not  tell  thee  long  ago  ?" 

"Mock  and  jeer  me;  do,  thou  cursed  witch!" 
said  the  Student  Anselmus,  "thou  art  to  blame 
for  it  all ;  but  the  Salamander  will  catch  thee, 
thou  vile  Parsnip !" 


538  HOFFMANN. 


"  Ho,  ho !"  replied  the  crone,  "  not  so  proud, 
good  readywriter!  Thou  hast  squelched  my 
little  sons  to  pieces,  thou  hast  burnt  my  nose; 
but  I  must  still  like  thee,  thou  knave,  for  once 
thou  wert  a  pretty  fellow ;  and  my  little  daugh- 
ter likes  thee  too.  Out  of  the  crystal  thou  wilt 
never  come  unless  I  help  thee :  up  thither  I 
cannot  clamber ;  but  my  cousin  gossip  the  Rat, 
that  lives  close  behind  thee,  will  eat  the  shelf 
in  two  ;  thou  shalt  jingle  down,  and  I  catch 
thee  in  my  apron,  that  thy  nose  be  not  broken, 
or  thy  fine  sleek  face  at  all  injured  :  then  I  carry 
thee  to  Mamsell  Veronica ;  and  thou  shalt 
marry  her,  when  thou  art  Hofrath." 

"  Avaunt,  thou  devil's  brood!"  cried  the  Stu- 
dent Anselmus  full  of  fury;  "it  was  thou  alone 
and  thy  hellish  arts  that  brought  me  to  the  sin 
which  I  must  now  expiate.  But  I  bear  it  all 
patiently:  for  only  here  can  I  be,  where  the 
kind  Serpentina  encircles  me  with  love  and 
consolation.  Hear  it,  thou  beldam,  and  despair! 
I  bid  defiance  to  thy  power:  I  love  Serpentina, 
and  none  but  her  for  ever ;  I  will  not  be  Ho- 
frath, will  not  look  at  Veronica,  who  by  thy 
means  entices  me  to  evil.  Can  the  green 
Snake  not  be  mine,  I  will  die  in  sorrow  and 
longing.  Take  thyself  away,  thou  filthy  rook  ! 
Take  thyself  away!" 

The  crone  laughed,  till  the  chamber  rung: 
"  Sit  and  die  then,"  cried  she :  "  but  now  it  is 
time  to  set  to  work ;  for  I  have  other  trade  to 
follow  here."  She  threw  off  her  black  cloak, 
and  so  stood  in  hideous  nakedness;  then  she 
ran  round  in  circles,  and  large  folios  came  tum- 
bling down  to  her ;  out  of  these  she  tore  parch- 
ment leaves,  and  rapidly  patching  them  together 
in  artful  combination,  and  fixing  them  on  her 
body,  in  a  few  instants  she  was  dressed  as  if 
in  strange  party-colored  harness.  Spitting  fire, 
the  black  Cat  darted  out  of  the  ink-glass,  which 
was  standing  on  the  table,  and  ran  mewing  to- 
wards the  crone,  who  shrieked  in  loud  triumph, 
and  along  with  him  vanished  through  the  door. 

Anselmus  observed  that  she  went  towards 
the  azure  chamber;  and  directly  he  heard  a 
hissing  and  storming  in  the  distance;  the  birds 
in  the  garden  were  crying;  the  Parrot  creaked 
out:  "Help!  help!  Thieves!  thieves!"  That 
moment  the  crone  returned  with  a  bound  into 
the  room,  carrying  the  Golden  Pot  on  her  arm, 
and  with  hideous  gestures,  shrieking  wildly 
through  the  air  ;  "  Joy !  joy,  little  son  ! — Kill  the 
green  Snake!  To  her,  son!  To  her!" 

Anselmus  thought  he  heard  a  deep  moaning, 
heard  Serpentina's  voice.  Then  horror  and 
despair  took  hold  of  him:  he  gathered  all  his 
force,  he  dashed  violently,  as  if  nerve  and  ar- 
tery were  bursting,  against  the  crystal;  a  pierc- 
ing clang  went  through  the  room,  and  the 
Archivarius  in  his  bright  damask  nightgown 
was  standing  in  the  door. 

"  Hey,  hey !  vermin  ! — Mad  spell !  — Witch- 
work! — Hither,  holla!"  So  shouted  he:  then 
the  black  hair  of  the  crone  started  up  in  tufts ; 
her  red  eyes  glanced  with  infernal  fire,  and 


clenching  together  the  peaked  fangs  of  her 
abominable  jaws,  she  hissed:  "Hiss,  at  him! 
Hiss,  at  him  !  Hiss !"  and  laughed  and  neighed 
in  scorn  and  mockery,  and  pressed  the  Golden 
Pot  firmly  towards  her,  and  threw  out  of  it 
handfuls  of  glittering  earth  on  the  Archivarius; 
but  as  it  touched  the  nightgown,  the  earth 
changed  into  flowers,  which  rained  down  on 
the  ground.  Then  the  lilies  of  the  nightgown 
flickered  and  flamed  up ;  and  the  Archivarius 
caught  these  lilies  blazing  in  sparky  fire  and 
dashed  them  on  the  witch  ;  she  howled  for 
agony,  but  still  as  she  leapt  aloft  and  shook  her 
harness  of  parchment  the  lilies  went  out,  and 
fell  away  into  ashes. 

"  To  her,  my  lad !"  creaked  the  crone :  then 
the  black  Cat  darted  through  the  air,  and  soused 
over  the  Archivarius'  head  towards  the  door; 
but  the  grey  Parrot  fluttered  out  against  him; 
caught  him  with  his  crooked  bill  by  the  nape, 
till  red  fiery  blood  burst  down  over  his  neck ; 
and  Serpentina's  voice  cried  :  "  Saved  !  Saved  !" 
Then  the  crone,  foaming  with  rage  and  despe- 
ration, darted  out  upon  the  Archivarius  :  she 
threw  the  Golden  Pot  behind  her,  and  holding 
up  the  long  talons  of  her  skinny  fists,  was  for 
clutching  the  Archivarius  by  the  throat :  but  he 
instantly  doffed  his  nightgown,  and  hurled  it 
against  her.  Then,  hissing,  and  sputtering,  and 
bursting,  shot  blue  flames  from  the  parchment 
leaves,  and  the  crone  rolled  round  in  howling 
agony,  and  strove  to  get  fresh  earth  from  the 
Pot,  fresh  parchment  leaves  from  the  books, 
that  she  might  stifle  the  blazing  flames;  and 
whenever  any  earth  or  leaves  came  down  on 
her,  the  flames  went  out.  But  now,  from  the 
interior  of  the  Archivarius  issued  fiery  crack- 
ling beams,  and  darted  on  the  crone. 

"Hey,  hey!  To  it  again!  Salamander!  Vic- 
tory !"  clanged  the  Archivarius'  voice  through 
the  chamber ;  and  a  hundred  bolts  whirled 
forth  in  fiery  circles  round  the  shrieking  crone. 
Whizzing  and  buzzing  flew  Cat  and  Parrot  in 
their  furious  battle ;  but  at  last  the  Parrot,  with 
his  strong  wing,  dashed  the  Cat  to  the  ground  ; 
and  with  his  talons  transfixing  and  holding  fast 
his  adversary,  which,  in  deadly  agony,  uttered 
horrid  mews  and  howls,  he,  with  his  sharp  bill, 
picked  out  his  glowing  eyes,  and  the  burning 
froth  spouted  from  them.  Then  thick  vapor 
streamed  up  from  the  spot  where  the  crone, 
hurled  to  the  ground,  was  lying  under  the  night- 
gown :  her  howling,  her  terrific,  piercing  cry  of 
lamentation,  died  away  in  the  remote  distance. 
The  smoke,  which  had  spread  abroad  with  irre- 
sistible smell,  cleared  off;  the  Archivarius  pick- 
ed up  his  nightgown ;  and  under  it  lay  an  ugly 
Parsnip. 

"  Honored  Herr  Archivarius,  here  let  me  offer 
you  the  vanquished  foe,"  said  the  Parrot,  hold- 
ing out  a  black  hair  in  his  beak  to  Archivarius 
Lindhorst. 

"  Very  right,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  the 
Archivarius:  "here  lies  my  vanquished  foe  too: 
be  so  good  now  as  to  manage  what  remains.  This 


HOFFMANN. 


539 


very  day,  as  a  small  douceur,  you  shall  have 
six  cocoa-nuts,  and  a  new  pair  of  spectacles 
also,  for  I  see  the  Cat  has  villainously  broken 
the  glasses  of  these  old  ones." 

"  Yours  forever,  most  honored  friend  and  pa- 
tron!"  answered  the  Parrot,  much  delighted; 
then  took  the  Parsnip  in  his  bill,  and  fluttered 
out  with  it  by  the  window,  which  Archivarius 
Lindhorst  had  opened  for  him. 

The  Archivarius  now  lifted  the  Golden  Pot, 
and  cried,  with  a  strong  voice,  "  Serpentina ! 
Serpentina!"  But  as  the  Student  Anselmus, 
joying  in  the  destruction  of  the  vile  beldam 
who  had  hurried  him  into  misfortune,  cast  his 
eyes  on  the  Archivarius,  behold,  here  stood  once 
more  the  high  majestic  form  of  the  Spirit-prince, 
looking  up  to  him  with  indescribable  dignity  and 
grace.  "Anselmus,"  said  the  Spirit-prince,  "  not 
thou,  but  a  hostile  Principle,  which  strove  de- 
structively to  penetrate  into  thy  nature,  and 
divide  thee  against  thyself,  was  to  blame  for 
thy  unbelief.  Thou  hast  kept  thy  faithfulness  : 
be  free  and  happy."  A  bright  flash  quivered 
through  the  spirit  of  Anselmus:  the  royal  tri- 
phonyof  the  crystal  bells  sounded  stronger  and 
louder  than  he  had  ever  heard  it:  his  nerves 
and  fibres  thrilled  ;  but,  swelling  higher  and 
higher,  the  melodious  tones  rang  through  the 
room ;  the  glass  which  enclosed  Anselmus 
broke ;  and  he  rushed  into  the  arms  of  his  dear 
and  gentle  Serpentina. 

ELEVENTH  VIGIL. 

Conrector  Paulmann's  anger  at  the  Madness  which  had  broken 
out  in  his  Family.  How  Registrator  Heerbrand  became  Ho- 
frath  ;  and,  in  the  keenest  Frost,  walked  about  in  Shoes  and 
silk  Stockings.  Veronica's  Confessions.  Betrothment  over  the 
steaming  Soup-plate. 

"  But  tell  me,  best  Registrator !  how  the 
cursed  punch  last  night  could  so  mount  into  our 
heads,  and  drive  us  to  all  manner  of  aZfofro'a?" 
So  said  Conrector  Paulmann,  as  he  next  morn- 
ing entered  his  room,  which  still  lay  full  of 
broken  sherds ;  with  his  hapless  peruke,  dis- 
solved into  its  original  elements,  floating  in 
punch  among  the  ruin.  For  after  the  Student 
Anselmus  ran  out  of  doors,  Conrector  Paulmann 
and  Registrator  Heerbrand  had  still  kept  trotting 
and  hobbling  up  and  down  the  room,  shouting 
like  maniacs,  and  butting  their  heads  together; 
till  Franzchen,  with  much  labor,  carried  her 
vertiginous  papa  to  bed ;  and  Registrator  Heer- 
brand in  the  deepest  exhaustion,  sunk  on  the 
sofa,  which  Veronica  had  left,  taking  refuge  in 
her  bed-room.  Registrator  Heerbrand  had  his 
blue  handkerchief  tied  about  his  head;  he 
looked  quite  pale  and  melancholic,  and  moan- 
ed out :  "  Ah,  worthy  Conrector,  not  the  punch 
which  Mamsell  Veronica  most  admirably  brew- 
ed, no!  but  simply  that  cursed  Student  is  to 
blame  for  all  the  mischief.  Do  you  not  observe 
that  he  has  long  been  mente  captus?  And  are 
you  not  aware  that  madness  is  infectious  ?  One 
fool  makes  twenty ;  pardon  me,  it  is  an  old 
proverb :  especially  when  you  have  drunk  a 


glass  or  two,  you  fall  into  madness  quite  readily, 
and  then  involuntarily  you  manoeuvre,  and  go 
through  your  exercise,  just  as  the  crack-brained 
fugleman  makes  the  motion.  Would  you  believe 
it,  Conrector?  I  am  still  giddy  when  I  think  of 
that  grey  Parrot!" 

"Grey  fiddlestick!"  interrupted  the  Conrec- 
tor :  t:  it  was  nothing  but  Archivarius  Lindhorst's 
little  old  Famulus,  who  had  thrown  a  grey  cloak 
over  him,  and  was  seeking  the  Student  Ansel- 
mus." 

"  It  may  be,"  answered  Registrator  Heerbrand ; 
"but,  I  must  confess,  I  am  quite  downcast  in 
spirit;  the  whole  night  through  there  was  such 
a  piping  and  organing." 

"That  was  I,"  said  the  Conrector,  "for  I 
snore  loud." 

"  Well,  may  be,"  answered  the  Registrator : 
"but,  Conrector,  Conrector!  Ah,  not  without 
cause  did  I  wish  to  raise  some  cheerfulness 
among  us  last  night — And  that  Anselmus  has 
spoiled  all !  You  know  not — 0  Conrector,  Con- 
rector !"  And  with  this,  Registrator  Heerbrand 
started  up;  plucked  the  cloth  from  his  head, 
embraced  the  Conrector,  warmly  pressed  his 
hand,  and  again  cried,  in  quite  heart-breaking 
tone:  "0  Conrector,  Conrector!"  and  snatching 
his  hat  and  staff,  rushed  out  of  doors. 

"  This  Anselmus  comes  not  over  my  threshold 
again,"  said  Conrector  Paulmann  ;  "  for  I  see 
very  well,  that,  with  this  moping  madness  of 
his,  he  robs  the  best  gentlemen  of  their  senses. 
The  Registrator  is  now  over  with  it  too :  I  have 
hitherto  kept  safe ;  but  the  Devil,  who  knocked 
hard  last  night  in  our  carousal,  may  get  in  at 
last,  and  play  his  tricks  with  me.  So  Jlpage, 
Satanas  !  Off  with  thee,  Anselmus !"  Veronica 
had  grown  quite  pensive ;  she  spoke  no  word ; 
only  smiled  now  and  then  very  oddly,  and  liked 
best  to  be  alone.  "She  too  has  Anselmus  in 
her  head,"  said  the  Conrector,  full  of  spleen: 
"but  it  is  well  that  he  does  not  show  himself 
here;  I  know  he  fears  me,  this  Anselmus,  and 
so  he  never  comes." 

These  concluding  words  Conrector  Paulmann 
spoke  aloud ;  then  the  tears  rushed  into  Vero- 
nica's eyes,  and  she  said,  sobbing:  "Ah!  how 
can  Anselmus  come?  He  has  long  been  corked 
up  in  the  glass  bottle." 

"How?  What?"  cried  Conrector  Paulmann. 
"Ah  Heaven!  Ah  Heaven!  she  is  doting  too, 
like  the  Registrator:  the  loud  fit  will  soon 
come!  Ah,  thou  cursed,  abominable,  thrice- 
cursed  Anselmus !"  He  ran  forth  directly  to 
Doctor  Eckstein ;  who  smiled,  and  again  said: 
"  Ey !  Ey !"  This  time,  however,  he  prescribed 
nothing;  but  added,  to  the  little  he  had  uttered, 
the  following  words,  as  he  walked  away: 
"Nerves!  Come  round  of  itself.  Take  the  air; 
walks;  amusements;  theatre;  playing  Soutags- 
kind,  Schwestern  von  Prag.  Come  round  of  itself." 

"  So  eloquent  I  have  seldom  seen  the  Doctor," 
thought  Conrector  Paulmann;  "really  talkative, 
I  declare !" 

Several  days  and  weeks  and  months  were 


540 


HOFFMANN. 


gone;  Anselmus  had  vanished  ;  but  Registrator 
Heerbrand  also  did  not  make  his  appearance  : 
not  till  the  fourth  of  February,  when  the  Regis- 
trator, in  a  new  fashionable  coat  of  the  finest 
cloth,  in  shoes  and  silk  stockings,  notwithstand- 
ing the  keen  frost,  and  with  a  large  nosegay  of 
fresh  flowers  in  his  hand,  did  enter  precisely  at 
noon  into  the  parlor  of  Conrector  Paulmann, 
who  wondered  not  a  little  to  see  his  friend  so 
dizened.  With  a  solemn  air,  Registrator  Heer- 
brand stept  forward  to  Conrector  Paulmann; 
embraced  him  with  the  finest  elegance,  and 
then  said :  "  Now  at  last,  on  the  Saint's-day  of 
your  beloved  and  most  honored  Mamsell  Ve- 
ronica, I  will  tell  you  out,  straight  forward, 
what  I  have  long  had  lying  at  my  heart.  That 
evening,  that  unfortunate  evening,  when  I  put 
the  ingredients  of  our  noxious  punch  in  my 
pocket,  I  purposed  imparting  to  you  a  piece  of 
good  news,  and  celebrating  the  happy  day  in 
convivial  joys.  Already  I  had  learned  that  I 
was  to  be  made  Hofrath ;  for  which  promotion 
I  have  now  the  patent,  cum  nomine  et  sigillo 
Principis,  in  my  pocket." 

"Ah!  Herr  Registr — Herr Hofrath  Heerbrand, 
I  meant  to  say,"  stammered  the  Conrector. 

"But  it  is  you,  most  honored  Conrector,"  con- 
tinued the  new  Hofrath;  "it  is  you  alone  that 
can  complete  my  happiness.  For  a  long  time, 
I  have  in  secret  loved  your  daughter,  Mamsell 
Veronica ;  and  I  can  boast  of  many  a  kind  look 
which  she  has  given  me,  evidently  showing  that 
she  would  not  cast  me  away.  In  one  word, 
honored  Conrector!  I,  Hofrath  Heerbrand,  do 
now  entreat  of  you  the  hand  of  your  most  amia- 
ble Mamsell  Veronica,  whom  I,  if  you  have 
nothing  against  it,  purpose  shortly  to  take  home 
as  my  wife." 

Conrector  Paulmann,  full  of  astonishment, 
clapped  his  hands  repeatedly,  and  cried  :  "  Ey, 
Ey,  Ey!  Herr  Registr — Herr  Hofrath,  I  meant 
to  say — who  would  have  thought  it?  Well,  if 
Veronica  does  really  love  you,  I  for  my  share 
cannot  object:  nay, perhaps,  her  present  melan- 
choly is  nothing  but  concealed  love  for  you, 
most  honored  Hofrath !  You  know  what  freaks 
they  have !" 

At  this  moment  Veronica  entered,  pale  and 
agitated  as  she  now  commonly  was.  Then 
Hofrath  Heerbrand  stept  towards  her;  men- 
tioned in  a  neat  speech  her  Saint's  day  and 
handed  her  the  odorous  nosegay,  along  with  a 
little  packet ;  out  of  which,  when  she  opened 
it,  a  pair  of  glittering  earrings  beamed  up  to 
her.  A  rapid  flying  blush  tinted  her  cheeks ; 
her  eyes  sparkled  in  joy,  and  she  cried:  "O 
Heaven !  These  are  the  very  earrings  which  I 
wore  some  weeks  ago,  and  thought  so  much  of." 

"  How  can  this  be,  dearest  Mamsell,"  inter- 
rupted Hofrath  Heerbrand,  somewhat  alarmed 
and  hurt,  "  when  I  bought  these  jewels  not  an 
hour  ago  in  the  Schlossgasse,  for  current  mo- 
ney?" 

But  Veronica  heeded  him  not;  she  was 
standing  before  the  mirror  to  witness  the  effect 


of  the  trinkets,  which  she  had  already  suspended 
in  her  pretty  little  ears.  Conrector  Paulmann 
disclosed  to  her,  with  grave  countenance  and 
solemn  tone,  his  friend  Heerbrand's  preferment 
and  present  proposal.  Veronica  looked  at  the 
Hofrath  with  a  searching  look,  and  said;  «I 
have  long  known  that  you  wished  to  marry  me. 
Well,  be  it  so !  I  promise  you  my  heart  and 
hand ;  but  I  must  now  unfold  to  you,  to  both  of 
you,  I  mean,  my  father  and  my  bridegroom, 
much  that  is  lying  heavy  on  my  heart;  yds, 
even  now,  though  the  soup  should  get  cold, 
which  I  see  Franzchen  is  just  putting  on  the 
table." 

Without  waiting  for  the  Conrector's  or  the 
Hofrath's  reply,  though  the  words  were  visibly 
hovering  on  the  lips  of  both,  Veronica  continued: 
"  You  may  believe  me,  best  father,  I  loved  An- 
selmus from  my  heart,  and  when  Registrator 
Heerbrand,  who  is  now  become  Hofrath  him- 
self, assured  us  that  Anselmus  might  probably 
enough  get  some  such  length,  I  resolved  that  he 
and  no  other  should  be  my  husband.  But  then 
it  seemed  as  if  alien  hostile  beings  were  for 
snatching  him  away  from  me :  I  had  recourse 
to  old  Liese,  who  was  once  my  nurse,  but  is 
now  a  wise  woman,  and  a  great  enchantress. 
She  promised  to  help  me,  and  give  Anselmus 
wholly  into  my  hands.  We  went  at  midnight 
on  the  Equinox  to  the  crossing  of  the  roads: 
she  conjured  certain  hellish  spirits,  and  by  aid 
of  the  black  Cat,  we  manufactured  a  little  me- 
tallic mirror,  in  which  I,  directing  my  thoughts 
on  Anselmus,  had  but  to  look,  in  order  to  rule 
him  wholly  in  heart  and  mind.  But  now  I 
heartily  repent  having  done  all  this ;  and  here 
abjure  all  Satanic  arts.  The  Salamander  has 
conquered  old  Liese ;  I  heard  her  shrieks  ;  but 
there  'was  no  help  to  be  given:  so  soon  as  the 
Parrot  had  eaten  the  Parsnip,  my  metallic  mir- 
ror broke  in  two  with  a  piercing  clang."  Ve- 
ronica took  out  both  the  pieces  of  the  mirror, 
and  a  lock  of  hair  from  her  work-box,  and 
handing  them  to  Hofrath  Heerbrand,  she  pro- 
ceeded :  "  Here,  take  the  fragments  of  the  mir- 
ror, dear  Hofrath :  throw  them  down,  to-night, 
at  twelve  o'clock,  over  the  Elbe-bridge,  from 
the  place  where  the  Cross  stands ;  the  stream 
is  not  frozen  there :  the  lock,  however,  do  you 
wear  on  your  faithful  breast.  I  here  abjure  all 
magic:  and  heartily  wish  Anselmus  joy  of  his 
good  fortune,  seeing  he  is  wedded  with  the 
green  Snake,  who  is  much  prettier  aud  richer 
than  I.  You,  dear  Hofrath,  I  will  love  and 
reverence  as  becomes  a  true  honest  wife." 

«  Alake  !  Alake  !"  cried  Conrector  Paulmann, 
full  of  sorrow  ;  "  she  is  cracked,  she  is  cracked ; 
she  can  never  be  Frau  Hofrathinn ;  she  is 
cracked !" 

"Not  in  the  smallest,"  interrupted  Hofrath 
Heerbrand;  "I  know  well  that  Mamsell  Vero- 
nica has  had  some  kindness  for  the  loutish  An- 
selmus ;  and  it  may  be  that  in  some  fit  of  pas- 
sion, she  has  had  recourse  to  the  wise  woman, 
who,  as  I  perceive,  can  be  no  other  than  the 


HOFFMANN. 


541 


card-caster  and  coffee-pourer  of  the  Seethor ;  in 
a  word,  old  Rauerin.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that 
there  are  secret  arts,  which  exert  their  influence 
on  men  but  too  balefully ;  we  read  of  such  in 
the  Ancients,  and  doubtless  there  are  still  such; 
but  as  to  what  Mamsell  Veronica  is  pleased  to 
say  about  the  victory  of  the  Salamander,  and 
the  marriage  of  Anselmus  with  the  green  Snake, 
this,  in  reality,  I  take  for  nothing  but  a  poetic 
allegory ;  a  sort  of  song,  wherein  she  sings  her 
entire  farewell  to  the  Student." 

"  Take  it  for  what  you  will,  best  Hofrath !" 
cried  Veronica;  "perhaps  for  a  very  stupid 
dream." 

"That  I  nowise  do,"  replied  Hofrath  Heer- 
brand ;  "  for  I  know  well  that  Anselmus  him- 
self is  possessed  by  secret  powers,  which  vex 
him  and  drive  him  on  to  all  imaginable  mad 
freaks." 

Conrector  Paulmann  could  stand  it  no  longer; 
he  broke  loose :  "Hold !  For  the  love  of  Heaven, 
hold !  Are  we  again  overtaken  with  the  cursed 
punch,  or  has  Anselmus'  madness  come  over  us 
too?  Herr  Hofrath,  what  stuff  is  this  you  are 
talking?  I  will  suppose,  however, that  it  is  love 
which  haunts  your  brain :  this  soon  comes  to 
rights  in  marriage :  otherwise  I  should  be  ap- 
prehensive that  you  too  had  fallen  into  some 
shade  of  madness,  most  honored  Herr  Hofrath ; 
then  what  would  become  of  the  future  branches 
of  the  family,  inheriting  the  malum  of  their  pa- 
rents ?  But  now  I  give  my  paternal  blessing  to 
this  happy  union ;  and  permit  you  as  bride  and 
bridegroom  to  take  a  kiss." 

This  happened  forthwith;  and  thus  before 
the  presented  soup  had  grown  cold,  was  a  for- 
mal betrothment  concluded.  In  a  few  weeks, 
Frau  Hofrathinn  Heerbrand  was  actually,  as 
she  had  been  in  vision,  sitting  in  the  balcony  of 
a  fine  house  in  the  Neumarkt,  and  looking  down 
with  a  smile  on  the  beaux,  who  passing  by 
turned  their  glasses  up  to  her,  and  said :  "  She 
is  a  heavenly  woman,  the  Hofrathinn  Heer- 
brand." 

TWELFTH  VIGIL. 

Account  of  the  Freehold  Property  to  which  Anselmus  removed, 
as  Son-in-law  of  Archivarius  Lindhorst;  and  how  he  lives 
there  with  Serpentina.  Conclusion. 

How  deeply  did  I  feel,  in  the  centre  of  my 
spirit,  the  blessedness  of  the  Student  Anselmus, 
who  now,  indissolubly  united  with  his  gentle 
Serpentina,  has  withdrawn  to  the  mysterious 
Land  of  Wonders,  recognised  by  him  as  the 
home  towards  which  his  bosom,  filled  with 
strange  forecastings,  had  always  longed.  But 
in  vain  was  all  my  striving  to  set  before  thee, 
favorable  reader,  those  glories  with  which  An- 
< '  selmus  is  encompassed,  or  even  in  the  faintest 
degree  to  shadow  them  forth  to  thee  in  words. 
Reluctantly  I  could  not  but  acknowledge  the 
feebleness  of  my  every  expression.  I  felt  my- 
self enthralled  amid  the  paltriness  of  every-day 
life;  I  sickened  in  tormenting  dissatisfaction;  I 
glided  about  like  a  dreamer ;  in  brief,  I  fell  into 


that  condition  of  the  Student  Anselmus,  which, 
in  the  Fourth  Vigil,  I  have  endeavored  to  set 
before  thee.  It  grieved  me  to  the  heart,  when 
I  glanced  over  the  Eleven  Vigils,  now  happily 
accomplished,  and  thought  that  to  insert  the 
Twelfth,  the  keystone  of  the  whole,  would 
never  be  vouchsafed  me.  For  whensoever,  in 
the  night  season,  I  set  myself  to  complete  the 
work,  it  was  as  if  mischievous  Spirits  (they 
might  be  relations,  perhaps  cousins-german,  of 
the  slain  witch)  held  a  polished  glittering  piece 
of  metal  before  me,  in  which  I  beheld  my  own 
mean  Self,  pale,  overwatched,  and  melancholic, 
like  Registrator  Heerbrand  after  his  bout  of 
punch.  Then  I  threw  down  my  pen,  and 
hastened  to  bed,  that  I  might  behold  the  happy 
Anselmus  and  the  fair  Serpentina  at  least  in 
my  dreams.  This  had  lasted  for  several  days 
and  nights,  when  at  length  quite  unexpectedly 
I  received  a  note  from  Archivarius  Lindhorst, 
in  which  he  addressed  me'as  follows : 

"Respected  Sir, — It  is  well  known  tome  that 
you  have  written  down,  in  Eleven  Vigils,  the 
singular  fortunes  of  my  good  son-in-law  Ansel- 
mus, whilom  Student,  now  Poet;  and  are  at 
present  cudgelling  your  brains  very  sore,  that 
in  the  Twelfth  and  Last  Vigil  you  may  tell 
somewhat  of  his  happy  life  in  Atlantis,  where 
he  now  lives  with  my  daughter,  on  the  pleasant 
Freehold,  which  I  possess  in  that  country.  Now, 
notwithstanding  I  much  regret  that  hereby  my 
own  peculiar  nature  is  unfolded  to  the  reading 
world ;  seeing  it  may,  in  my  office  as  Privy  Ar- 
chivarius, expose  me  to  a  thousand  inconveni- 
ences; nay,  in  the  Collegium  even  give  rise  to 
the  question  :  How  far  a  Salamander  can  justly, 
and  with  binding  consequences,  plight  himself 
by  oath,  as  a  Servant  of  the  State  ?  and  how 
far,  on  the  whole,  important  affairs  may  be  in- 
trusted to  him,  since,  according  to  Gabalis  and 
Swedenborg,  the  Spirits  of  the  Elements  are  not 
to  be  trusted  at  all  ? — notwithstanding,  my  best 
friends  must  now  avoid  my  embrace  ;  fearing 
lest,  in  some  sudden  anger,  I  dart  out  a  flash  or 
two,  and  singe  their  hair-curls,  and  Sunday 
frocks ;  notwithstanding  all  this,  I  say,  it  is  still 
my  purpose  to  assist  you  in  the  completion  of 
the  Work,  since  much  good  of  me  and  of  my 
dear  married  daughter  (would  the  other  two 
were  off  my  hands  also!)  has  therein  been 
said.  Would  you  write  your  Twelfth  Vigil, 
therefore,  then  descend  your  cursed  five  pair 
of  stairs,  leave  your  garret,  and  come  over  to 
me.  In  the  blue  palm-tree-room,  which  you 
already  know,  you  will  find  fit  writing  mate- 
rials; and  you  can  then,  in  few  words,  specify 
to  your  readers,  what  you  have  seen ;  a  better 
plan  for  you  than  any  long-winded  description 
of  a  life,  which  you  know  only  by  hearsay. 
"  With  esteem,  your  obedient  servant, 

"The  Salamander  Lindhohst, 
"  P.  T.  Royal  Archivarius." 

This  truly  somewhat  rough,  yet  on  the  whole 
friendly  note  from  Archivarius  Lindhorst,  gave 
me  high  pleasure.    Clear  enough  it  seemed, 
46 


542 


HOFFMANN. 


indeed,  that  the  singular  manner  in  which  the 
fortunes  of  his  son-in-law  had  been  revealed  to 
me,  and  which  I,  bound  to  silence,  must  conceal 
even  from  thee,  favorable  reader,  was  well 
known  to  this  peculiar  old  gentleman  ;  yet  he 
had  not  taken  it  so  ill  as  I  might  readily  have 
apprehended.  Nay,  here  was  he  offering  me 
his  helpful  hand  in  the  completion  of  my  work; 
and  from  this  I  might  justly  conclude,  that  at 
bottom  he  was  not  averse  to  have  his  marvel- 
lous existence  in  the  world  of  spirits  thus  di- 
vulged through  the  press. 

"  It  may  be,"  thought  I,  "  that  he  himself  ex- 
pects from  this  measure,  perhaps,  to  get  his  two 
other  daughters  the  sooner  married :  for  who 
knows  but  a  spark  may  fall  in  this  or  that  young 
man's  breast,  and  kindle  a  longing  for  the  green 
Snake ;  whom,  on  Ascension-day,  under  the 
eider-bush,  he  will  forthwith  seek  and  find? 
From  the  woe  which  befell  Anselmus,  when 
inclosed  in  the  glass  bottle,  he  will  take  warn- 
ing to  be  doubly  and  trebly  on  his  guard  against 
all  Doubt  and  Unbelief." 

Precisely  at  eleven  o'clock,  I  extinguished  my 
study-lamp ;  and  glided  forth  to  Archivarius 
Lindhorst,  who  was  already  waiting  for  me  in 
the  lobby. 

"Are  you  there,  my  worthy  friend?  Well, 
this  is  what  I  like,  that  you  have  not  mistaken 
my  good  intentions:  do  but  follow  me!" 

And  with  this  he  led  the  way  through  the 
garden,  now  filled  with  dazzling  brightness, 
into  the  azure  chamber,  where  I  observed  the 
same  violet  table,  at  which  Anselmus  had  been 
writing. 

Archivarius  Lindhorst  disappeared  :  but  soon 
came  back,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  fair  golden 
goblet,  out  of  which  a  high  blue  flame  was 
sparkling  up.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  I  bring  you 
the  favorite  drink  of  your  friend  the  Bandmas- 
ter, Johannes  Kreisler.*  It  is  burning  arrack, 
into  which  I  have  thrown  a  little  sugar.  Sip  a 
touch  or  two  of  it :  I  will  doff  my  night-gown, 
and  to  amuse  myself  and  enjoy  your  worthy 
company  while  you  sit  looking  and  writing,  I 
shall  just  bob  up  and  down  a  little  in  the  goblet." 

"  As  you  please,  honored  Herr  Archivarius," 
answered  I :  "  but  if  I  am  to  ply  the  liquor,  you 
will  get  none." 

"  Don't  fear  that,  my  good  fellow,"  cried  the 
Archivarius;  then  hastily  threw  off  his  night- 
gown, mounted,  to  my  no  small  amazement, 


*  An  imaginary  musical  enthusiast  of  whom  Hoffmann 
has  written  much;  under  the  fiery  sensitive  wayward 
character  of  this  crazy  Bandmaster,  presenting,  it  would 
seem,  a  shadowy  likeness  of  himself.  The  Kreisleriana 
occupy  a  large  space  among  these  Fantasy  pieces ;  and 
Johannes  Kreisler  is  the  main  figure  in  Kater  Murr, 
Hoffmann's  favorite  but  unfinished  work.  In  the  the 
third  and  last  volume,  Kreisler  was  to  end,  not  in  com- 
posure and  illumination,  as  the  critics  would  have  re- 
quired, but  in  utter  madness  :  a  sketch  of  a  wild,  flail-like 
scarecrow,  dancing  vehemently  and  blowing  soap-bub- 
bles, and  which  had  been  intended  to  front  the  last  title- 
page,  was  found  among  Hoffmann's  papers,  and  engraved 
and  published  in  his  Life  and  Remains.— Ed. 


into  the  goblet,  and  vanished  in  the  blaze. 
Without  fear,  softly  blowing  back  the  flame,  I 
partook  of  the  drink :  it  was  truly  precious ! 

Stir  not  the  emerald  leaves  of  the  palm-trees 
in  soft  sighing  and  rustling,  as  if  kissed  by  the 
breath  of  the  morning  wind  ?  Awakened  from 
their  sleep,  they  move,  and  mysteriously  whisper 
of  the  wonders,  which  from  the  far  distance 
approach  like  tones  of  melodious  harps  !  The 
azure  rolls  from  the  walls,  and  floats  like  airy 
vapor  to  and  fro ;  but  dazzling  beams  shoot 
through  it;  and  whirling  and  dancing,  as  in  ju- 
bilee of  childlike  sport,  it  mounts  and  mounts 
to  immeasurable  height,  and  vaults  itself  over 
the  palm-trees.  But  brighter  and  brighter  shoots 
beam  on  beam,  till  in  boundless  expanse  opens 
the  grove  where  I  behold  Anselmus.  Here 
glowing  hyacinths,  and  tulips,  and  roses,  lift 
their  fair  heads ;  and  their  perfumes,  in  loveli- 
est sound,  call  to  the  happy  youth :  "  Wander, 
wander  among  us,  our  beloved  ;  for  thou  under- 
standest  us!  Our  perfume  is  the  Longing  of 
Love :  we  love  thee,  and  are  thine  forever- 
more!"  The  golden  rays  burn  in  glowing  tones: 
"We  are  Fire,  kindled  by  love.  Perfume  is 
Longing;  but  Fire  is  Desire:  and  dwell  we 
not  in  thy  bosom  ?  We  are  thy  own !"  The  dark 
bushes,  the  high  trees  rustle  and  sound:  "Come 
to  us,  thou  loved,  thou  happy  one !  Fire  is  De- 
sire ;  but  Hope  is  our  cool  Shadow.  Lovingly 
we  rustle  round  thy  head  :  for  thou  understand- 
est  us,  because  Love  dwells  in  thy  breast!" 
The  brooks  and  fountains  murmur  and  patter : 
"  Loved  one,  walk  not  so  quickly  by :  look  into 
our  crystal !  Thy  image  dwells  in  us,  which  we 
preserve  with  Love,  for  thou  hast  understood 
us."  In  the  triumphal  choir,  bright  birds  are 
singing:  "Hear  us!  Hear  us!  We  are  Joy,  we 
are  Delight,  the  rapture  of  Love  !"  But  anxiously 
Anselmus  turns  his  eyes  to  the  glorious  Temple, 
which  rises  behind  him  in  the  distance.  The 
fair  pillars  seem  trees ;  and  the  capitals  and 
friezes  acanthus  leaves,  which  in  wondrous 
wreaths  and.  figures  form  splendid  decorations. 
Anselmus  wralks  to  the  Temple  :  he  views  with 
inward  delight  the  variegated  marble,  the  steps 
with  their  strange  veins  of  moss.  "Ah,  no!" 
cries  he,  as  if  in  the  excess  of  rapture,  "  she  is 
not  far  from  me  now;  she  is  near!"  Then  ad- 
vances Serpentina,  in  the  fulness  of  beauty  and 
grace,  from  the  Temple  ;  she  bears  the  Golden 
Pot,  from  which  a  bright  Lily  has  sprung.  The 
nameless  rapture  of  infinite  longing  glows  in 
her  meek  eyes;  she  looks  at  Anselmus,  and 
says:  "Ah!  Dearest,  the  Lily  has  sent  forth  her 
bowl:  what  we  longed  for  is  fulfilled;  is  there 
a  happiness  to  equal  ours?"  Anselmus  clasps 
her  with  the  tenderness  of  warmest  ardor:  the 
Lily  burns  in  flaming  beams  over  his  head. 
And  louder  move  the  trees  and  bushes ;  clearer 
and  gladder  play  the  brooks ;  the  birds,  the 
shining  insects  dance  in  the  waves  of  perfume: 
a  gay,  bright  rejoicing  tumult,  in  the  air,  in  the 
water,  in  the  earth,  is  holding  the  festival  of 


HOFFMANN. 


543 


Love!  Now  rush  sparkling  streaks,  gleaming 
over  all  the  bushes;  diamonds  look  from  the 
ground  like  shining  eyes:  strange  vapors  are 
wafted  hither  on  sounding  wings  :  they  are  the 
Spirits  of  the  Elements,  who  do  homage  to  the 
Lily,  and  proclaim  the  happiness  of  Anselmus. 
Then  Anselmus  raises  his  head,  as  if  encircled 
with  a  beamy  glory.  Is  it  looks?  Is  it  words? 
Is  it  song?  You  hear  the  sound:  "Serpentina! 
Belief  in  thee,  Love  of  thee  has  unfolded  to  my 
soul  the  inmost  spirit  of  Nature !  Thou  hast 
brought  me  the  Lily,  which  sprung  from  Gold, 
from  the  primeval  Force  of  the  world,  before 
Phosphorus  had  kindled  the  spark  of  Thought ; 
this  Lily  is  Knowledge  of  the  sacred  Harmony 
of  all  Beings ;  and  in  this  do  I  live  in  highest 
blessedness  forevermore.  Yes,  I,  thrice  happy, 
have  perceived  what  was  highest :  I  must  in- 
deed love  thee  forever,  0  Serpentina!  Never 
shall  the  golden  blossoms  of  the  Lily  grow  pale ; 
for,  like  Belief  and  Love  this  Knowledge  is 
eternal." 

For  the  vision,  in  which  I  had  now  beheld 
Anselmus  bodily,  in  his  Freehold  of  Atlantis,  I 
stand  indebted  to  the  arts  of  the  Salamander ; 
and  most  fortunate  was  it  that,  when  all  had 
melted  into  air,  I  found  a  paper  lying  on  the 


violet-table,  with  the  foregoing  statement  of  the 
matter,  written  fairly  and  distinctly  by  my  own 
hand.  But  now  I  felt  myself  as  if  transpierced 
and  torn  in  pieces  by  sharp  sorrow.  "  Ah, 
happy  Anselmus,  who  hast  cast  away  the  bur- 
den of  week-day  life,  who  in  the  love  of  thy 
kind  Serpentina  fliest  with  bold  pinion,  and  now 
livest  in  rapture  and  joy  on  thy  Freehold  in  At- 
lantis! while  I — poor  I! — must  soon,  nay,  in 
few  moments,  leave  even  this  fair  hall,  which 
itself  is  far  from  a  Freehold  in  Atlantis ;  and 
again  be  transplanted  to  my  garret,  where,  en- 
thralled among  the  pettinesses  of  necessitous 
existence,  my  heart  and  my  sight  are  so  be- 
dimmed  with  thousand  mischiefs,  as  with  thick 
fog,  that  the  fair  Lily  will  never,  never  be  be- 
held by  me." 

Then  Archivarius  Lindhorst  patted  me  gently 
on  the  shoulder,  and  said:  "Soft,  soft,  my  ho- 
nored friend !  Lament  not  so !  Were  you  not 
even  now  in  Atlantis ;  and  have  you  not  at 
least  a  pretty  little  copyhold  Farm  there,  as  the 
poetical  possession  of  your  inward  sense  ?  And 
is  the  blessedness  of  Anselmus  aught  else  but  a 
Living  in  Poesy?  Can  aught  else  but  Poesy 
reveal  itself  as  the  sacred  Harmony  of  all  Be- 
ings, as  the  deepest  secret  of  Nature  3" 


ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO.* 


Born  1781.  Died  1839. 


We  would  fain  perform  in  some  degree  an 
act  of  tardy  justice  to  the  memory  of  a  poet  of 
no  mean  order,  and  a  man  of  rare  and  sterling 
worth.  Considering  the  early  and  extensive 
popularity  which  the  story  of  Peter  Schlemihl 
obtained  in  this  country,  it  is  surprising  how 
rarely  the  author's  name  is  mentioned  amongst 
us.  Few  English  readers,  we  believe,  are 
aware  that  he  ever  wrote  a  line  of  poetry,  or 
acquired  any  other  title  to  celebrity  than  that 
which  his  far-famed  romance  conferred  upon 
him.  Yet  neither  as  to  the  man  nor  his  works 
is  this  neglect  deserved.  Both  have  long  been 
regarded  in  Germany  with  fervent  love  and 
admiration,  and  both  commend  themselves  to 
our  sympathies  by  qualities  peculiarly  adapted 
to  win  the  cordial  esteem  of  Englishmen.  But 
even  were  it  not  so,  even  though  Chamisso 
claimed  our  attention  on  no  higher  grounds, 
curiosity  at  least  might  well  be  directed  towards 
the  productions  of  a  Frenchman,  whose  German 
style  has  been  accepted  in  the  country  of  his 
adoption  as  a  model  of  purity,  force,  and  ele- 
gance. Such  an  example  of  eminent  mastery 
achieved  both  in  prose  and  verse  over  a  lan- 
guage which  was  not  the  writer's  mother 
tongue,  is  almost  unique  in  the  history  of  lite- 
rature. 

Louis  Charles  Adelaide,  or,  as  he  was  after- 
wards called,  Adalbert  von  Chamisso,  was  one 
of  the  younger  sons  of  the  count  of  that  name, 
and  was  born  in  the  Chateau  de  Boncourt,  in 
Champagne,  in  January,  1781.  His  family, 
which  was  of  Lorrainian  origin,  had  been  dis- 
tinguished for  its  loyalty  to  its  suzerains,  its 
ample  feudal  honors  and  possessions,  and  its 
intermarriages  with  many  reigning  houses. 
Not  less  eminent  than  its  prosperous  fortunes 
were  the  disasters  that  afterwards  befel  it. 
Adalbert's  parents  were  residing  in  the  chateau 
where  he  was  born  when  the  Revolution  broke 
out.  Boncourt  was  assailed,  ransacked,  and 
destroyed. 

Little  is  known  of  Chamisso's  childhood,  ex- 
cept that  he  was  even  then  remarkable  for  the 

*  Abridged  from  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  No.  LXXII. 


taciturn  and  thoughtful  disposition  that  charac- 
terized his  manhood,  and  already  evinced  a 
propensity  to  the  pursuits  of  the  naturalist  and 
the  reveries  of  the  poet.  "I  used,"  he  says, 
"  to  observe  insects,  search  out  new  plants,  and 
at  an  open  window  on  stormy  nights,  stand 
contemplating  and  reflecting."  When  his 
more  volatile  companions  teased  and  ridiculed 
him  for  his  backwardness  to  join  in  their  romps, 
his  mother  would  come  to  the  rescue,  and  cry 
out,  "  Let  him  alone ;  he  will  outstrip  you  all 
by  and  by  as  a  man,  as  much  as  he  surpasses 
you  now  in  good  conduct  and  information." 
He  used  to  say  of  his  own  fourth  son,  a  delicate 
boy,  whose  apparent  weakness  of  intellect  oc- 
casioned his  mother  much  uneasiness,  "  Never 
fear,  the  lad  will  come  right  in  time ;  he  is  ex- 
actly such  as  I  was  myself  at  his  age." 

Chamisso  was  nine  years  old  when  his  im- 
poverished family  fled  from  France.  At  thir- 
teen, he  studied  drawing  and  miniature  paint- 
ing, at  Wurtzburg.  At  fifteen,  after  having 
been  for  some  time  a  pupil  in  the  painting  de- 
partment of  the  royal  porcelain  manufactory  of 
Berlin,  he  became  one  of  the  Queen  of  Prus- 
sia's pages.  At  seventeen,  he  entered  the 
Prussian  army ;  three  years  afterwards  (1801) 
he  was  a  lieutenant,  and  his  family  returned 
to  France.  The  first  occupation  of  the  young 
Prussian  officer  was  to  make  himself  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  German  tongue;  for  at 
twenty  years  of  age  he  was  not  yet  perfectly 
familiar  with  the  language,  in  the  literature  of 
which  he  was  afterwards  to  take  so  prominent 
a  place. 

In  1810,  he  was  called  to  France,  to  fill  a 
professorship  in  the  new  college  of  Napoleon- 
ville ;  his  errand  was  again  a  fruitless  one,  but 
the  journey  made  him  acquainted  with  Madame 
de  Stael  and  M.  de  Barante,  the  historian,  then 
prefect  of  Vendee.  With  the  latter  he  spent 
the  winter  of  1810-11,  agreeably  enough,  in- 
structing the  future  translator  of  Schiller  in 
German  literature,  and  filling  up  his  leisure 
with  the  perusal  of  old  fabliaux  and  romances 
of  chivalry.    He  was  also  a  welcome  guest  of 

(544) 


CH  AMISSO. 


515 


Madame  de  Stael's,  at  Chaumont  and  Blois; 
and  after  her  banishment  he  followed  her  to 
Geneva  and  Coppet. 

It  was  during  his  visit  to  Coppet  that  Cha- 
misso  began  the  study  of  Botany,  which  was 
afterwards  the  professional  occupation  of  his 
life.  In  1812,  he  made  a  pedestrian  tour  in 
Switzerland,  hesitated  on  the  frontiers  of  Italy, 
and  then  turned  short  round  to  the  north,  hun- 
gering for  his  beloved  Germany.  Hastening 
to  Berlin,  he  entered  the  university  as  a  medi- 
cal pupil,  and  began  to  study  anatomy  and 
physiology  with  intense  zeal. 

In  1813,  he  composed  his  famous  tale  of 
"Peter  Schlemihl,"  the  man  who  was  rendered 
miserable  by  the  loss  of  his  shadow.  Ampere 
has  an  ingenious  passage  on  this  subject,  which 
is  worth  quoting : 

"  Is  there  a  latent  moral  in  this  whimsical 
story?  Without  doing  like  Schlemihl,  and 
running  after  a  shadow,  it  seems  to  me  we  may 
attribute  to  the  author  the  intention  of  express- 
ing this  truth,  that  in  society,  as  it  is  now  con- 
stituted, virtue,  merit,  and  even  fortune,  are 
not  everything.  It  is  not  enough  that  one  is 
rich,  something  more  is  wanting  to  give  one 
mark  and  consequence  in  the  world;  there 
needs  a  slight  shadowy  something,  designated 
by  the  vague,  but  not  insignificant  words,  spe- 
ciality, notability,  position.  To  be  other  than 
a  nobody  in  society  in  these  days,  when  men 
are  no  longer  classed  according  to  rank,  one 
must  bear  a  known  name,  or  have  produced  a 
book,  or  possess  some  striking  accomplishment; 
one  must  have  the  supplementary  aid  of  fashion, 
or  enjoy  a  celebrity,  a  notoriety,  a  distinction, 
as  they  phrase  it,  of  one  kind  or  another.  This 
is  the  indispensable  shadow  for  which  the  devil 
sometimes  tempts  us  to  sell  our  souls,  and  with- 
out which  we  succeed  in  nothing.  The  author 
of  'Peter  Schlemihl'  is  right  in  concluding, 
that  when  one  has  not  a  shadow,  one  ought  not 
to  go  into  the  sunshine." 

We  accept  this  interpretation,  although  since 
it  was  written  Hitzig  has  published  Chamisso's 
positive  declaration  that  he  had  no  didactic 
purpose  in  view  when  he  composed  the  tale. 
We  hold  that  every  well-constructed  story,  in- 
asmuch as  it  purports  to  present  a  regular 
series  of  events  and  circumstances,  bound  to- 
gether by  known  laws,  must  of  necessity  supply 
data  from  which  may  be  deduced  one  moral  or 
more.  In  other  words,  the  details  of  any  fable 
will  suggest  pointed  analogies  just  in  proportion 
3t 


as  they  are  consistent  with  each  other  and  co- 
herent. It  is  generally  conceded  that  although 
the  poet's  functions  have  a  moral  tendency,  he 
is  not  required  to  be  solicitous  about  teaching 
categorically ;  and  perhaps  it  would  not  be  too 
much  to  say  that  if  he  thinks  about  his  moral 
at  all,  the  less  he  does  so  the  better.  Chamisso 
appears  to  have  been  of  this  opinion : 

"1  have  seldom,"  he  says,  "  any  ulterior  aim 
in  my  poetry ;  if  an  anecdote  or  a  word  strikes 
me  in  a  particular  manner  (mich  selbst  in  Leibe 
von  der  Seite  der  linken  Pfole  bewegl)  I  sup- 
pose it  must  have  the  same  effect  on  others, 
and  I  set  to  work,  wrestling  laboriously  with 
the  language,  till  the  thing  comes  out  dis- 
tinctly. 

"If  by  chance  I  have  had  a  notion  to  evolve, 
I  am  always  disappointed  with  the  way  in 
which  the  thing  turns  out.    It  looks  flimsy; 

there  is  no  life  in  it  You  may  call  me 

for  this  a  nightingale,  or  a  cuckoo,  or  any  other 
singing  bird,  rather  than  a  reasoning  man  ; 

with  all  my  heart !  I  ask  no  better  

Schlemihl,  too,  came  forth  in  this  way.  I  had 
lost  on  a  journey  my  hat,  portmanteau,  gloves, 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  all  my  movable  es- 
tate. Fouque  asked  me  whether  I  had  not  also 
lost  my  shadow ;  and  we  pictured  to  ourselves 
the  effects  of  such  a  disaster.  Another  time, 
in  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  by  Lafon- 
taine  (I  do  not  know  the  title),  was  found  a 
passage  in  which  a  very  obliging  man  was  de- 
scribed as  producing  all  sorts  of  things  from  his 
pocket  in  a  party,  as  fast  as  they  were  called 
for;  upon  this  I  remarked  that,  only  ask  him 
civilly,  the  good  fellow  would,  no  doubt,  lug 
out  a  coach  and  horses  from  his  pocket. — Here 
was  Schlemihl  complete  in  conception,  and  as 
time  hung  heavy  enough  on  my  hands  in  the 
country,  I  began  to  write.  In  truth  I  had  no 
need  to  have  read  the  'Baron  de  Feneste' 
(Daubigne's  philosophical  romance)  to  have 
picked  up  all  sorts  of  practical  knowledge, 
touching  the  fyaiveoOat,  and  the  euuc.  But  it 
was  not  my  object  to  embody  this  knowledge, 
but  to  amuse  Hitzig's  wife  and  children,  whom 
I  looked  upon  as  my  public,  and  so  it  has  come 
to  pass  that  you  and  others  have  laughed  over 
my  performance." 

He  employed  the  latter  part  of  1813,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  following  year,  upon 
natural  history,  attending  lectures  on  mineral- 
ogy, which  surprised  him  with  the  discovery 
"that  stones  had  so  much  sense  in  them,"  as- 
46* 


546 


CH  AMISSO. 


sisting  in  the  arrangement  of  the  Crustacea  in 
the  Zoological  Museum  of  Berlin,  and  exercis- 
ing himself  in  writing  and  speaking  Latin,  pre- 
paratory to  taking  his  doctor's  degree.  The 
storm  of  war  broke  out  again  in  1815,  and  made 
him  more  than  ever  solicitous  to  withdraw  for 
a  while  from  the  scene  of  strife.  He  endea- 
vored to  join  the  Prince  de  Neuwied,  who  was 
about  to  travel  in  Brazil,  but  was  disappointed 
in  this  and  many  other  similar  attempts.  At 
last  the  opportunity  he  so  much  longed  for  ar- 
rived. Taking  up  a  newspaper  one  day  at 
Hitzig's,  he  chanced  to  see  the  announcement 
of  a  voyage  of  discovery  towards  the  North 
Pole  and  in  the  Pacific,  which  was  about  to  be 
undertaken  on  board  the  Russian  ship  of  war, 
commanded  by  Otto  von  Kotzebue,  son  of  the 
German  author  of  that  name.  Stamping  with 
his  foot,  Chamisso  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  I  was 
with  these  Russians  at  the  North  Pole."  "Are 
you  in  earnest  V  said  Hitzig.  "  Quite  so." 
And,  on  the  15th  of  July,  Chamisso  left  Berlin 
for  a  voyage  of  three  years. 

He  published  a  very  lively  and  entertaining 
account  of  this  voyage.  In  1829,  he  produced 
his  grandest  work,  Salas  y  Gomez,  which  pro- 
bably first  germinated  in  his  mind  during  this 
voyage. 

Returning  to  Berlin  in  the  autumn  of  1818, 
he  employed  the  remainder  of  that  year  in  ar- 
ranging the  specimens  of  natural  history  he 
had  brought  home,  and  which  he  bestowed  on 
the  Berlin  Museum.  In  1819  he  was  married, 
and  of  his  bride  he  speaks  thus :  "  She  is  young, 
blooming  and  strong,  handsome  and  good,  pure 
and  innocent,  clear,  cloudless  and  serene,  calm, 
rational  and  cheerf  ul,  and  so  amiable  !" 

Whilst  he  was  writing  verses  for  his  young 
wife,  and  arranging  the  Herbaria  of  the  Museum 
of  Berlin,  Chamisso,  it  is  probable,  scarcely  re- 
collected his  quality  of  French  emigrant.  He 
was  agreeably  reminded  of  this,  in  the  autumn 
of  1825,  by  a  call  to  Paris  to  receive  100,000 
francs  lodged  to  his  credit  by  the  Commissioners 
of  the  Indemnity  Fund.  He  was  welcomed 
with  marked  distinction  by  the  learned  world 
of  Paris,  and  passed  his  time  far  more  plea- 
santly than  he  had  done  when  he  visited  the 
luxurious  capital  in  his  needy  and  obscure 
youth.  The  letters  he  wrote  home  were  filled 
with  accounts  of  the  many  remarkable  things, 
literary  and  theatrical,  social  and  political, 
which  Paris  presented  to  his  view  at  that  stir- 
ring period.    But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  ex- 


citement he  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  least 
every-day  detail  of  his  beloved  home.  "  Don't 
forget,"  he  says,  writing  to  his  wife,  "don't 
forget  the  roses;  don't  forget  the  children's 
letters ;  don't  forget  to  strew  food  for  the  spar- 
rows on  my  window.  I  shall  return  to  you  the 
same  as  I  left  you;  let  me  find  everything 
again  just  as  it  was." 

After  his  return  from  Paris,  in  1827,  a  second 
German  edition  of"  Schlemihl"  was  published, 
with  an  appendix  containing  a  small  collection 
of  his  poems.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  no  serious 
belief  in  his  own  poetical  powers,  and  in  a  let- 
ter to  Varnhagen's  sister  (May  24,  1827),  he 
says,  "That  I  am  no  poet,  nor  ever  was,  is 
manifest,  but  that  does  not  prevent  me  from 
having  a  feeling  for  poetry."  But  the  new 
publication  began  to  attract  public  attention 
towards  him,  and,  in  June,  1828,  he  ventured 
to  write  to  De  la  Foye.  "  I  almost  begin  to 
think  I  am  one  of  the  poets  of  Germany." 
The  matter  was  put  beyond  all  doubt  by  the 
reception  given  to  his  "  Salas  y  Gomez"  in  the 
following  year.  Soon  after  this  we  find  him 
mentioning,  with  honest  pride,  that  next  to 
Uhland's  Poems,  none  were  in  such  frequent 
demand  for  presents  as  his  own.  Bridegrooms 
especially  selected  them  as  gifts  for  their 
brides. 

Chamisso's  existence  had  now  reached  the 
culminating  point  from  which  began  its  conti- 
nuous descent.  In  1831,  he  was  seized  by  that 
worst  form  of  influenza,  which  we  all  remember 
to  have  been  the  precursor  of  the  cholera.  It 
broke  down  his  iron  constitution,  and  left  be- 
hind it  a  chronic  affection  of  the  lungs,  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  His  declining 
years  were  still  cheered  by  the  increasing  ho- 
nors conferred  on  him,  both  as  a  poet  and  a 
naturalist,  but  they  were  visited  by  a  calamity 
for  which  there  was  no  balm  on  earth.  His 
wife  died  on  the  21st  of  May,  1837,  in  her 
thirty-sixth  year.  He  bore  this  fatal  blow  with 
manly  fortitude,  thankful  for  the  blessings  he 
had  enjoyed,  and  patiently  awaiting  his  dis- 
missal. It  was  not  long  delayed.  He  survived 
his  wife  exactly  fifteen  months,  and  expired  on 
the  21st  of  August,  1839. 

Most  characteristic  of  the  man,  was  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  passed  this  interval.  Earnest 
and  strenuous  to  the  last,  he  increased  rather 
than  relaxed  his  mental  activity.  He  found  in 
occupation  the  best  alleviation  of  his  sorrows, 
and  employed  himself  simultaneously  on  two 


CHAMISSO. 


547 


works  of  very  dissimilar  character.  He  pub- 
lished a  grammar  of  the  Havai  language, 
spoken  in  some  of  the  islands  of  the  South  Sea, 
and  entered  upon  an  elaborate  philological  in- 
vestigation of  the  kindred  dialects;  and  he 
joined  Baron  Gaudy  in  translating,  or  rather, 
as  he  says,  Germanizing  a  selection  of  ninety- 
eight  songs  of  Beranger.  He  continued  also, 
the  troublesome  task  of  editing  the  "  Musen 
Almanach,"  and  shortly  before  his  death,  he 
showed  that  the  old  ardor  was  not  extinct 
within  him,  by  undertaking  a  journey  to  Leip- 


THE  WONDERFUL  HISTORY  OF  PETER 
SCHLEMIHL. 

CHAPTER  I. 

After  a  fortunate,  but  for  me  very  trouble- 
some voyage,  we  finally  reached  the  port.  The 
instant  that  I  touched  land  in  the  boat,  I  loaded 
myself  with  my  few  effects,  and  passing  through 
the  swarming  people,  I  entered  the  first,  and 
least  house,  before  which  I  saw  a  sign  hang.  I 
requested  a  room  ;  the  boots  measured  me  with 
a  look,  and  conducted  me  into  the  garret.  I 
caused  fresh  water  to  be  brought,  and  made 
him  exactly  describe  to  me  where  I  should  find 
Mr.  Thomas  John. 

"  Before  the  north-gate ;  the  first  country-house 
on  the  right  hand  ;  a  large  new  house  of  red 
and  white  marble,  with  many  columns." 

"  Good."  It  was  still  early  in  the  day.  I 
opened  at  once  my  bundle ;  took  thence  my 
new  black  cloth  coat;  clad  myself  cleanly  in 
my  best  apparel :  put  my  letter  of  introduction 
into  my  pocket,  and  set  out  on  the  way  to  the 
man  who  was  to  promote  my  modest  expecta- 
tions. 

When  I  had  ascended  the  long  North  Street, 
and  reached  the  gate,  I  soon  saw  the  pillars 
glimmer  through  the  foliage.  "Here  it  is  then," 
thought  I.  I  wiped  the  dust  from  my  feet  with 
my  pocket-handkerchief;  put  my  neckcloth  in 
order,  and  in  God's  name  rung  the  bell.  The 
door  flew  open.  In  the  hall  I  had  an  examina- 
tion to  undergo  ;  the  porter,  however,  permitted 
me  to  be  announced,  and  I  had  the  honor  to  be 
called  into  the  park,  where  Mr.  John  was 
walking  with  a  select  party.  I  recognised  the 
man  at  once  by  the  lustre  of  his  corpulent  self- 
complacency.  He  received  me  very  well — as 
a  rich  man  receives  a  poor  devil, — even  turned 
towards  me,  without  turning  from  the  rest  of 
the  company,  and  took  the  offered  letter  from 
my  hand.  "  So,  so,  from  my  brother.  I  have 
heard  nothing  from  him  for  a  long  time.  But 
he  is  well?  There,"  continued  he,  addressing 
the  company,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
and  pointing  with  the  letter  to  a  hill,  "  there  I 
am  going  to  erect  the  new  building."    He  broke 


zig,  in  order  to  run  over  the  first  portion  of  the 
Dresden  Railway.  He  was  radiant  with  de- 
light. Speaking  as  a  poet,  he  called  the  loco- 
motive "Time's  wings  "  and  in  the  language 
of  a  naturalist,  he  defined  it  as  a  warm-blooded 
animal  without  eyes.  He  looked  on  the  inven- 
tion as  the  certain  commencement  of  a  new 
era,  and  deemed  that  every  moneyed  man  was 
morally  bound  to  contribute  a  portion  of  his 
means  towards  the  promotion  of  a  system  from 
which  such  grand  results  were  to  accrue. 


the  seal  without  breaking  off  the  conversation, 
which  turned  upon  riches. 

"  He  that  is  not  master  of  a  million,  at  least,"  he 
observed,  "is — pardon  me  the  word — a  wretch  !" 

"  O !  how  true  !"  I  exclaimed  with  a  rush  of 
overflowing  feeling. 

That  pleased  him.  He  smiled  at  me,  and 
said — "  Stay  here,  my  good  friend;  in  awhile 
I  shall  perhaps  have  time  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  about  this."  He  pointed  to  the  letter, 
which  he  then  thrust  into  his  pocket,  and  turned 
again  to  the  company.  He  offered  his  arm  to 
a  young  lady;  the  other  gentlemen  addressed 
themselves  to  other  fair  ones;  each  found  what 
suited  him;  and  all  proceeded  towards  the 
rose-blossomed  mount. 

I  slid  into  the  rear,  without  troubling  any 
one,  for  no  one  troubled  himself  any  further 
about  me.  The  company  was  excessively 
lively;  there  was  dalliance  and  playfulness; 
trifles  were  sometimes  discussed  with  an  im- 
portant tone,  but  oftener  important  matters  with 
levity;  and  especially  pleasantly  flew  the  wit 
over  absent  friends  and  their  circumstances.  I 
was  too  strange  to  understand  much  of  all  this; 
too  anxious  and  introverted  to  take  an  interest 
in  such  riddles. 

We  had  reached  the  rosary.  The  lovely 
Fanny,  the  belle  of  the  day,  as  it  appeared, 
would,  out  of  obstinacy,  herself  break  off  a 
blooming  bough.  She  wounded  herself  or»  a 
thorn,  and  as  if  from  the  dark  roses,  flowed  the 
purple  on  her  tender  hand.  This  circumstance 
put  the  whole  party  into  a  flutter.  English 
plaister  was  sought  for.  A  still,  thin,  lanky, 
longish,  oldish  man,  who  stood  near,  and  whom 
I  had  not  hitherto  remarked,  put  his  hand  in- 
stantly into  the  close-lying  breast-pocket  of  his 
old  French  grey  tafletty  coat;  produced  thence 
a  little  pocket-book ;  opened  it;  and  presented 
to  the  lady,  with  a  profound  obeisance,  the  re- 
quired article.  She  took  it  without  noticing  the 
giver,  and  without  thanks ;  the  wound  was 
bound  up  ;  and  we  went  forward  over  the  hill, 
from  whose  back  the  company  could  enjoy  the 
wide  prospect  over  the  green  labyrinth  of  the 
park  to  the  boundless  ocean. 


548 


CH  AMISSO. 


The  view  was  in  reality  vast  and  splendid. 
A  light  point  appeared  on  the  horizon  between 
the  dark  flood,  and  the  blue  of  the  heaven. 
"  A  telescope  here  !"  cried  John  ;  and  already 
before  the  servants  who  appeared  at  the  call, 
were  in  motion,  the  grey  man,  modestly  bowing, 
had  thrust  his  hand  into  his  coat-pocket,  and 
drawn  thence  a  beautiful  Dollond,  and  handed 
it  to  Mr.  John.  Bringing  it  immediately  to  his 
eye,  he  informed  the  company  that  it  was  the 
ship  which  went  out  yesterday,  and  was  de- 
tained in  view  of  port  by  contrary  winds.  The 
telescope  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  but  not 
again  into  that  of  its  owner.  I,  however,  gazed 
in  wonder  at  the  man,  and  could  not  conceive 
how  the  great  machine  had  come  out  of  the 
narrow  pocket:  but  this  seemed  to  have  struck 
no  one  else,  and  nobody  troubled  himself  any 
farther  about  the  grey  man  than  about  myself. 

Refreshments  were  handed  round  ;  the  choic- 
est fruits  of  every  zone,  in  the  costliest  vessels. 
Mr.  John  did  the  honors  with  an  easy  grace, 
and  a  second  time  addressed  a  word  to  me. 
"  Help  yourself ;  you  have  not  had  the  like  at 
sea."  I  bowed,  but  he  saw  it  not,  he  was 
already  speaking  with  some  one  else. 

The  company  would  fain  have  reclined  upon 
the  sward  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  opposite  to 
the  outstretched  landscape,  had  they  not  feared 
the  dampness  of  the  earth.  "  It  were  divine," 
observed  one  of  the  party,  "had  we  but  a  Tur- 
key carpet  to  spread  here."  The  wish  was 
scarcely  expressed  when  the  man  in  the  grey 
coat  had  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  was  busied 
in  drawing  thence,  with  a  modest  and  even 
humble  deportment,  a  rich  Turkey  carpet  in- 
terwoven with  gold.  The  servants  received  it 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  opened  it  on  the  re- 
quired spot.  The  company  without  ceremony, 
took  their  places  upon  it;  for  myself,  I  looked 
again  in  amazement  on  the  man  ;  at  the  carpet, 
which  measured  above  twenty  paces  long  and 
ten  in  breadth  :  and  rubbed  my  eyes,  not  know- 
ing what  to  think  of  it,  especially  as  nobody  saw 
anything  extraordinary  in  it. 

I  would  fain  have  had  some  explanation  re- 
garding the  man,  and  have  asked  who  he  was, 
but  I  knew  not  to  whom  to  address  myself,  for 
I  was  almost  more  afraid  of  the  gentlemen's 
servants  than  of  the  served  gentlemen.  At 
length  I  took  courage,  and  stepped  up  to  a 
young  man  who  appeared  to  me  to  be  of  less 
consideration  than  the  rest,  and  who  had  often 
stood  alone.  I  begged  him  softly  to  tell  me 
who  the  agreeable  man  in  the  grey  coat  there 
was. 

"  He  there,  who  looks  like  an  end  of  thread 
that  has  escaped  out  of  a  tailor's  needle?" 

"  Yes,  he  who  stands  alone." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  he  replied,  and  as  it 
seemed  in  order  to  avoid  a  longer  conversation 
with  me,  he  turned  away,  and  spoke  of  indif- 
ferent matters  to  another. 

The  sun  began  now  to  shine  more  powerfully, 
and  to  inconvenience  the  ladies.    The  lovely 


Fanny  addressed  carelessly  to  the  grey  man, 
whom  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  no  one  had  yet 
spoken  to,  the  trifling  question,  "Whether  he 
had  not,  perchance,  also  a  tent  by  him  ?" — He 
answered  her  by  an  obeisance  most  profound, 
as  if  an  unmerited  honor  were  done  him.  and 
had  already  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  out  of  which 
I  saw  come  canvass,  poles,  cordage,  iron-work, 
in  short,  everything  which  belongs  to  the  most 
splendid  pleasure-tent.  The  young  gentlemen 
helped  to  expand  it,  and  it  covered  the  whole 
extent  of  the  carpet,  and  nobody  found  anything 
remarkable  in  it. 

I  was  already  become  uneasy,  nay  horrified 
at  heart,  but  how  completely  so,  as,  at  the  very 
next  wish  expressed,  I  saw  him  yet  pull  out  of 
his  pocket  three  roadsters — T  tell  thee  three 
beautiful  great  black  horses,  with  saddle  and 
caparison.  Bethink  thee !  for  God's  sake  !— 
three  saddled  horses,  still  out  of  the  same 
pocket  out  of  which  already  a  pocket-book,  a 
telescope,  an  embroidered  carpet,  twenty  paces 
long  and  ten  broad,  a  pleasure-tent  of  equal  di- 
mensions, and  all  the  requisite  poles  and  irons, 
had  come  forth !  If  I  did  not  protest  to  thee 
that  I  saw  it  myself  with  my  own  eyes,  thou 
couldst  not  possibly  believe  it. 

Embarrassed  and  obsequious  as  the  man 
himself  appeared  to  be,  little  as  was  the  atten- 
tion which  had  been  bestowed  upon  him,  yet 
to  me  his  grisly  aspect,  from  which  I  could  not 
turn  my  eyes,  became  so  fearful,  that  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

I  resolved  to  steal  away  from  the  company, 
which  from  the  insignificant  part  I  played  in  it 
seemed  to  me  an  easy  affair.  I  proposed  to 
myself  to  return  to  the  city,  to  try  my  luck  again 
on  the  morrow  with  Mr.  John,  and  if  I  could 
muster  the  necessary  courage,  to  question  him 
about  the  singular  grey  man.  Had  I  only  had 
the  good  fortune  to  escape  so  well! 

I  had  already  actually  succeeded  in  stealing 
through  the  rosary,  and  in  descending  the  bill, 
found  myself  on  a  piece  of  lawn,  when  fearing 
to  be  encountered  in  crossing  the  grass  out  of 
the  path,  I  cast  an  enquiring  glance  round  me. 
What  was  my  terror  to  behold  the  man  in  the 
grey  coat  behind  me,  and  making  towards  me! 
In  the  next  moment  he  took  off  his  hat  before 
me,  and  bowed  so  low  as  no  one  had  ever  yet 
done  to  me.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  he 
wished  to  address  me,  and  without  being  rude, 
I  could  not  prevent  it.  I  also  took  off  my  hat; 
bowed  also ;  and  stood  there  in  the  sun  with 
bare  head  as  if  rooted  to  the  ground.  I  stared 
at  him  full  of  terror,  and  was  like  a  bird  which 
a  serpent  has  fascinated.  He  himself  appeared 
very  much  embarrassed.  He  raised  not  his 
eyes;  again  bowed  repeatedly;  drew  nearer, 
and  addressed  me  with  a  soft,  tremulous  voice, 
almost  in  a  tone  of  supplication. 

"  May  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  will  pardon  my 
boldness  in  venturing  in  so  unusual  a  manner  to 
approach  you,  but  I  would  ask  a  favor.  Per- 
mit me  most  condescendingly — " 


CHAMISSO.  549 


"But  in  God's  name!"  exclaimed  I  in  my 
trepidation,  "what  can  I  do  for  a  man  who — " 
we  both  started,  and,  as  I  believe,  reddened. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  he  again  resumed: 
"During  the  short  time  that  I  had  the  happiness 
to  find  myself  near  you,  I  have,  sir,  many 
times, — allow  me  to  say  it  to  you — really  con- 
templated with  inexpressible  admiration,  the 
beautiful,  beautiful,  shadow  which,  as  it  were, 
with  a  certain  noble  disdain,  and  without  your- 
self remarking  it,  you  cast  from  you  in  the  sun- 
shine. The  noble  shadow  at  your  feet  there. 
Pardon  me  the  bold  supposition,  but  possibly 
you  might  not  be  indisposed  to  make  this  sha- 
dow over  to  me." 

I  was  silent,  and  a  mill-wheel  seemed  to 
whirl  round  in  my  head.  What  was  I  to  make 
of  this  singular  proposition  to  sell  my  own  sha- 
dow? He  must  be  mad,  thought  I,  and  with 
an  altered  tone  which  was  more  assimilated  to 
that  of  his  own  humility,  1  answered  thus: 

"  Ha !  ha !  good  friend,  have  not  you  then 
enough  of  your  own  shadow  ?  I  take  this  for  a 
business  of  a  very  singular  sort — ." 

He  hastily  interrupted  me; — "I  have  many 
things  in  my  pocket  which,  sir,  might  not  ap- 
pear worthless  to  you,  and  for  this  inestimable 
shadow  I  hold  the  very  highest  price  too  small." 

It  struck  cold  through  me  again  as  I  was  re- 
minded of  the  pocket.  I  knew  not  how  I  could 
have  called  him  good  friend.  I  resumed  the 
conversation,  and  sought,  if  possible,  to  set  all 
right  again  by  excessive  politeness. 

"But,  sir,  pardon  your  most  humble  servant; 
I  do  not  understand  your  meaning.  How  in- 
deed could  my  shadow" — He  interrupted  me — 

"I  beg  your  permission  only  here  on  the  spot 
to  be  allowed  to  take  up  this  noble  shadow  and 
put  it  in  my  pocket;  how  I  shall  do  that  be  my 
care.  On  the  other  hand,  as  a  testimony  of  my 
grateful  acknowledgment  to  you,  I  give  you  the 
choice  of  all  the  treasures  which  I  carry  in  my 
pocket, — the  genuine  Spring-root*  the  Man- 
drake-root, the  Change-penny,  the  Rob-dollar, 
the  napkin  of  Roland's  Page,  a  mandrake-man, 
at  your  own  price.  But  these,  probably  don't 
interest  you, — rather  Fortunatus's  Wishing-cap 
newly  and  stoutly  repaired,  and  a  lucky-bag 
such  as  he  had  !" 

"  The  Luck-purse  of  Fortunatus  !"  I  exclaimed, 
interrupting  him  ;  and  great  as  my  anxiety  was, 
with  that  one  word  he  had  taken  my  whole 
mind  captive.  A  dizziness  seized  me,  and 
double  ducats  seemed  to  glitter  before  my  eyes. 

"  Honored  Sir,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to 
view,  and  to  make  trial  of  this  purse  ?"  He 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  a 
tolerably  large,  well-sewed  purse  of  stout  Cor- 

*  These  are  references  to  facts  in  the  popular  tales  of 
Germany:  as  for  instance,  the  Spring-wurzel,  or  Spring- 
root,  is  found  in  the  story  of  Ruberzahl ;  and  the  Galgen- 
mannlein,  or  gallows-men,  were  little  figures  cut  out  of 
a  root,  said  by  the  dealers  in  such  things  in  the  middle 
ages,  to  be  actual  mandrake-roots  growing  in  that  shape 
at,  the  feet  of  gallowses,  etc.,  etc. 


duan  leather,  with  two  strong  strings,  and 
handed  it  to  inc.  1  plunged  iny  hand  into  it, 
and  drew  out  ten  gold  pieces,  and  again  ten, 
and  again  ten,  and  again  ten.  I  extended  him 
eagerly  my  hand — "Agreed!  the  business  is 
done  ;  for  the  purse  you  have  my  shadow  I" 

He  closed  with  me;  kneeled  instantly  down 
before  me,  and  I  beheld  him,  with  an  admirable 
dexterity,  gently  loosen  my  shadow  from  top  to 
toe  from  the  grass,  lift  it  up,  roll  it  together,  fold 
it,  and  finally,  pocket  it.  He  arose,  made  me 
another  obeisance,  and  retreated  towards  the 
rosary.  I  fancied  that  I  heard  him  there  softly 
laughing  to  himself;  but  I  held  the  purse  fast 
by  the  strings;  all  round  me  lay  the  clear  sun- 
shine, and  within  me  was  yet  no  power  of  re- 
flection. 

CHAPTER  II. 

At  length  I  came  to  myself,  and  hastened 
to  quit  the  place  where  I  had  nothing  more  to 
expect.  In  the  first  place  I  filled  my  pockets 
with  gold ;  then  I  secured  the  strings  of  the 
purse  fast  round  my  neck,  and  concealed  the 
purse  itself  in  my  bosom.  I  passed  unobserved 
out  of  the  park,  reached  the  highway  and  took 
the  road  to  the  city.  As,  sunk  in  thought,  I 
approached  the  gate,  I  heard  a  cry  behind  me. 

"Young  gentleman!  eh!  young  gentleman! 
hear  you !" 

I  looked  round,  an  old  woman  called  after 
me. 

"Do  take  care,  sir, you  have  lost  your  shadow !" 

"Thank  you,  good  mother!"  I  threw  her  a 
gold  piece  for  her  well-meant  intelligence,  and 
stopped  under  the  trees. 

At  the  city  gate  I  was  compelled  to  hear  again 
from  the  sentinel — "  Where  has  the  gentleman 
left  his  shadow'?"  And  immediately  again  from 
some  women — "Jesus  Maria!  the  poor  fellow 
has  no  shadow  !"  That  began  to  irritate  me,  and 
I  became  especially  careful  not  to  walk  in  the 
sun.  This  could  not,  however,  be  accomplished 
everywhere,  for  instance,  over  the  broad  street 
which  I  next  must  approach  actually,  as  mis- 
chief would  have  it,  at  the  very  moment  that 
the  boys  came  out  of  school.  A  cursed  hunch- 
backed rogue,  I  see  him  yet,  spied  out  instantly 
that  I  had  no  shadow.  He  proclaimed  the  fact 
with  a  loud  outcry  to  the  whole  assembled  lite- 
rary street  youth  of  the  suburb,  who  began 
forthwith  to  criticise  me,  and  to  pelt  me  with 
mud.  "  Decent  people  are  accustomed  to  take 
their  shadow  with  them,  when  they  go  into  the 
sunshine."  To  defend  myself  from  them  I 
threw  whole  handfuls  of  gold  amongst  them 
and  sprang  into  a  hackney-coach,  which  some 
compassionate  soul  procured  for  me. 

As  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  rolling 
carriage  I  began  to  weep  bitterly.  The  pre- 
sentiment must  already  have  arisen  in  me,  that 
far  as  gold  on  earth  transcends  in  estimation, 
merit  and  virtue,  so  much  higher  than  gold  it- 
self is  the  shadow  valued;  and  as  I  had  earlier 
sacrificed  wealth  to  conscience,  I  had  now 


550 


CH  AMISSO. 


thrown  away  the  shadow  for  mere  gold.  What 
in  the  world  could  and  would  become  of  me! — 
I  was  again  greatly  annoyed  as  the  carriage 
stopped  before  my  old  inn.  I  was  horrified  at 
the  bare  idea  of  entering  that  wretched  cock- 
loft. I  ordered  my  things  to  be  brought  down ; 
received  my  miserable  bundle  with  contempt, 
threw  down  some  gold  pieces,  and  ordered  the 
coachman  to  drive  to  the  most  fashionahle  hotel. 
The  house  faced  the  north,  and  I  had  not  the 
sun  to  fear.  I  dismissed  the  driver  with  gold  ; 
caused  the  best  front  rooms  to  be  assigned  me, 
and  shut  myself  up  in  them  as  quickly  as  I 
could ! 

What  thinkest  thou  I  now  began?  Oh,  my 
dear  Chamisso,  to  confess  it  even  to  thee  makes 
me  blush.  I  drew  the  unlucky  purse  from  my 
bosom,  and  with  a  kind  of  desperation  which, 
like  a  rushing  conflagration,  grew  in  me  with 
self-increasing  growth,  I  extracted  gold,  and 
gold,  and  gold,  and  ever  more  gold,  and  strewed 
it  on  the  floor,  and  strode  amongst  it,  and  made 
it  ring  again,  and  feeding  my  poor  heart  on  the 
splendor  and  the  sound,  flung  continually  more 
metal  to  metal,  till  in  my  weariness,  I  sank 
down  on  the  rich  heap,  and  rioting  thereon, 
rolled  and  revelled  amongst  it.  So  passed  the 
day,  the  evening.  I  opened  not  my  door  ;  night 
and  day  found  me  lying  on  my  gold,  and  then 
sleep  overcame  me. 

I  dreamed  of  thee.  I  seemed  to  stand  behind 
the  glass-door  of  thy  little  room,  and  to  see  thee 
sitting  then  at  thy  work-table,  between  a  skele- 
ton and  a  bundle  of  dried  plants.  Before  thee 
lay  open  Haller,  Humboldt,  and  Linnaeus ;  on 
thy  sofa  a  volume  of  Goethe  and  "The  Magic- 
Ring."  I  regarded  thee  long,  and  every  thing 
in  thy  room,  and  then  thee  again.  Thou  didst 
not  move,  thou  drewest  no  breath ; — thou  wert 
dead ! 

I  awoke.  It  appeared  still  to  be  very  early. 
My  watch  stood.  I  was  sore  all  over;  thirsty 
and  hungry  too;  I  had  taken  nothing  since  the 
evening  before.  I  pushed  from  me  with  loath- 
ing and  indignation  the  gold  on  which  I  had 
before  sated  my  foolish  heart.  In  my  vexation 
I  knew  not  what  I  should  do  with  it.  It  must 
not  lie  there.  I  tried  whether  the  purse  would 
swallow  it  again, — but  no!  None  of  my  win- 
dows opened  upon  the  sea.  I  found  myself 
compelled  laboriously  to  drag  it  to  a  great  cup- 
board which  stood  in  a  cabinet,  and  there  to 
pile  it.  I  left  only  some  handfuls  of  it  lying. 
When  I  had  finished  the  work,  I  threw  myself 
exhausted  into  an  easy  chair,  and  waited  for 
the  stirring  of  the  people  in  the  house.  As  soon 
as  possible  I  ordered  food  to  be  brought,  and 
the  landlord  to  come  to  me. 

I  fixed  in  consultation  with  this  man  the  fu- 
ture arrangements  of  my  house.  He  recom- 
mended for  the  services  about  my  person  a 
certain  Bendel,  whose  honest  and  intelligent 
physiognomy  immediately  captivated  me.  He 
it  was  whose  attachment  has  since  accompanied 
me  consolingly  through  the  wretchedness  of 


life,  and  has  helped  me  to  support  my  gloomy 
lot.  I  spent  the  whole  day  in  my  room  among 
masterless  servants,  shoemakers,  tailors,  and 
tradespeople.  I  fitted  mysel  f  out,  and  purchased 
besides  a  great  many  jewels  and  valuables  for 
the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  some  of  the  vast  heap 
of  hoarded  up  gold ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
it  were  impossible  to  diminish  it. 

In  the  mean  time  I  brooded  over  my  situation 
in  the  most  agonising  despair.  I  dared  not 
venture  a  step  out  of  my  doors,  and  at  evening 
I  caused  forty  waxlights  to  be  lit  in  my  room 
before  I  issued  from  the  shade.  I  thought  with 
horror  on  the  terrible  scene  with  the  schoolboys, 
yet  I  resolved,  much  courage  as  it  demanded, 
once  more  to  make  a  trial  of  public  opinion. 
The  nights  were  then  moonlight.  Late  in  the 
evening  I  threw  on  a  wide,  cloak,  pressed  my 
hat  over  my  eyes,  and  stole,  trembling  like  a 
criminal,  out  of  the  house.  I  stepped  first  out 
of  the  shade  in  whose  protection  I  had  arrived 
there,  in  a  remote  square,  into  the  full  moon- 
light, determined  to  learn  my  fate  out  of  the 
mouths  of  the  passers  by. 

Spare  me,  dear  friend,  the  painful  repetition 
of  all  that  I  had  to  endure.  The  women  often 
testified  the  deepest  compassion  with  which  I 
inspired  them,  declarations  which  no  less  trans- 
pierced me  than  the  mockery  of  the  youth  and 
the  proud  contempt  of  the  men,  especially  of 
those  fat,  well-fed  fellows,  who  themselves  cast 
a  broad  shadow.  A  lovely  and  sweet  girl,  who, 
as  it  seemed,  accompanied  her  parents,  while 
these  suspiciously  only  looked  before  their  feet, 
turned  by  chance  her  flashing  eyes  upon  me. 
She  was  obviously  terrified  ;  she  observed  my 
want  of  a  shadow,  let  fall  her  veil  over  her 
beautiful  countenance,  and  dropping  her  head, 
passed  in  silence. 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Briny  streams 
started  from  my  eyes,  and  cut  to  the  heart,  I 
staggered  back  into  the  shade.  I  was  obliged  to 
support  myself  against  the  houses  to  steady  my 
steps  and  wearily  and  late  reached  my  dwelling. 

I  spent  a  sleepless  night.  The  next  morning 
it  was  my  first  care  to  have  the  man  in  the  grey 
coat  everywhere  sought  after.  Possibly  I  might 
succeed  in  finding  him  again,  and  how  joyful ! 
if  he  repented  of  the  foolish  bargain  as  heartily 
as  I  did.  I  ordered  Bendel  to  come  to  me,  he 
appeared  to  possess  address  and  tact;  I  de- 
scribed to  him  exactly  the  man  in  whose  pos- 
session lay  a  treasure  without  which  my  life 
was  only  a  misery.  I  told  him  the  time,  the 
place  in  which  I  had  seen  him ;  I  described  to 
him  all  who  had  been  present,  and  added, 
moreover,  this  token :  he  should  particularly 
inquire  after  a  Dollond*s  telescope  ;  after  a  gold 
interwoven  Turkish  carpet;  after  a  splendid 
pleasure  tent;  and,  finally,  after  the  black 
chargers,  whose  story,  we  knew  not  how,  was 
connected  with  that  of  the  mysterious  man,  who 
seemed  of  no  consideration  amongst  them,  and 
whose  appearance  had  destroyed  the  quiet  and 
happiness  of  my  life. 


CHAMISSO. 


551 


When  I  had  done  speaking  I  fetched  out  gold, 
such  a  load  that  I  was  scarcely  able  to  carry  it, 
and  laid  upon  it  precious  stones  and  jewels  of  a 
far  greater  value.  "  Bendel,"  said  I,  "these 
level  many  ways,  and  make  easy  many  things 
which  appeared  quite  impossible;  don't  be 
stingy  with  it,  as  I  am  not,  but  go  and  rejoice 
thy  master  with  the  intelligence  on  which  his 
only  hope  depends." 

He  went.  He  returned  late  and  sorrowful. 
None  of  the  people  of  Mr.  John,  none  of  his 
guests,  and  he  had  spoken  with  all,  were  able 
in  the  remotest  degree,  to  recollect  the  man  in 
the  grey  coat.  The  new  telescope  was  there, 
and  no  one  knew  whence  it  had  come;  the 
carpet,  the  tent  were  still  there  spread  and 
pitched  on  the  self-same  hill;  the  servants 
boasted  of  the  affluence  of  their  master,  and  no 
one  knew  whence  these  same  valuables  had 
come  to  him.  He  himself  took  his  pleasure  in 
them,  and  did  not  trouble  himself  because  he 
did  not  know  whence  he  had  them.  The  young 
gentlemen  had  the  horses,  which  they  had  rid- 
den, in  their  stables,  and  they  praised  the  libe- 
rality of  Mr.  John  who  on  that  day  made  them 
a  present  of  them.  Thus  much  was  clear  from 
the  circumstantial  relation  of  Bendel,  whose 
active  zeal  and  able  proceeding,  although  with 
such  fruitless  result,  received  from  me  their 
merited  commendation.  I  gloomily  motioned 
him  to  leave  me  alone. 

"I  have,"  began  he  again,  "given  my  master 
an  account  of  the  matter  which  was  most  im- 
portant to  him.  I  have  yet  a  message  to  deliver 
which  a  person  gave  me  whom  I  met  at  the 
door  as  I  went  out  on  the  business  in  which  I 
have  been  so  unfortunate.  The  very  words  of 
the  man  were  these  :  'Tell  Mr.  Peter  Schlemihl 
he  will  not  see  me  here  again  as  I  am  going 
over  sea,  and  a  favorable  wind  calls  me  at  this 
moment  to  the  harbor.  But  in  a  year  and  a 
day  I  will  have  the  honor  to  seek  him  myself, 
and  then  to  propose  to  him  another  and  probably 
to  him  more  agreeable  transaction.  Present  my 
most  humble  compliments  to  him,  and  assure 
him  of  my  thanks.'  I  asked  him  who  he  was, 
but  he  replied,  your  honor  knew  him  already." 

"What  was  the  man's  appearance?"  cried  I, 
filled  with  foreboding,  and  Bendel  sketched  me 
the  man  in  the  grey  coat,  trait  by  trait,  word  for 
word,  as  he  had  accurately  described  in  his 
former  relation  the  man  after  whom  he  had 
inquired. 

"Unhappy  one!"  I  exclaimed,  wringing  my 
hands, — "that  was  the  very  man!"  and  there 
fell,  as  it  were,  scales  from  his  eyes. 

"Yes!  it  was  he,  it  was,  positively!"  cried 
he  in  horror,  "and  I,  blind  and  imbecile  wretch 
have-not  recognized  him,  have  not  recognized 
him,  and  have  betrayed  my  master!" 

He  broke  out  into  violent  weeping :  heaped 
the  bitterest  reproaches  on  himself,  and  the  de- 
spair in  which  he  was  inspired  even  me  with 
compassion.  I  spoke  comfort  to  him.  assured 
him  repeatedly  that  I  entertained  not  the  slight- 


est doubt  of  his  fidelity,  and  sent  him  instantly 
to  the  port,  if  possible  to  follow  the  traces  of 
this  singular  man.  But  in  the  morning  a  great 
number  of  ships  which  the  contrary  winds  had 
detained  in  the  harbor,  had  run  out,  bound  to 
different  climes  and  different  shores,  and  the 
grey  man  had  vanished  as  tracelessly  as  a 
dream. 

CHAPTER  III. 

Of  what  avail  are  wings  to  him  who  is  fast 
bound  in  iron  fetters?  He  is  compelled  only 
the  more  fearfully  to  despair.  I  lay  like  Faffner 
by  his  treasure  far  from  every  consolation,  suf- 
fering much  in  the  midst  of  my  gold.  But  my 
heart  was  not  in  it,  on  the  contrary,  I  cursed  it, 
because  I  saw  myself  through  it  cut  off  from 
all  life.  Brooding  over  my  gloomy  secret  alone, 
I  trembled  before  the  meanest  of  my  servants, 
whom  at  the  same  time  I  was  forced  to  envy, 
for  he  had  a  shadow  ;  he  might  show  himself 
in  the  sun.  I  wore  away  days  and  nights  in 
solitary  sorrow  in  my  chamber,  and  anguish 
gnawed  at  my  heart. 

There  was  another  who  pined  away  before 
my  eyes;  my  faithful  Bendel  never  ceased  to 
torture  himself  with  silent  reproaches,  that  he 
had  betrayed  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  his 
master,  and  had  not  recognized  him  after  whom 
he  was  despatched,  and  with  whom  he  must 
believe  that  my  sorrowful  fate  was  intimately 
interwoven.  I  could  not  lay  the  fault  to  his 
charge;  I  recognised  in  the  event  the  mysteri- 
ous nature  of  the  Unknown. 

That  I  might  leave  nothing  untried,  I  one 
time  sent  Bendel  with  a  valuable  brilliant  ring 
to  the  most  celebrated  painter  of  the  city,  and 
begged  that  he  would  pay  me  a  visit.  He 
came.  I  ordered  my  people  to  retire,  closed 
the  door,  seated  myself  by  the  man,  and  after  I 
had  praised  his  art,  I  came  with  a  heavy  heart 
to  the  business,  causing  him  before  that  to  pro- 
mise the  strictest  secrecy. 

"Mr.  Professor,"  said  I,  "could  not  you,  think 
you,  paint  a  false  shadow  for  one,  who  by  the 
most  unlucky  chance  in  the  world,  has  become 
deprived  of  his  own?"  

u  You  mean  a  personal  shadow  ?" 

"That  is  precisely  my  meaning"  

"But,"  continued  he,  "through  what  awk- 
wardness, through  what  negligence  could  he 
then  lose  his  proper  shadow  ?" 

"How  it  happened,"  replied  I,  "  is  now  of 
very  little  consequence,  but  thus  far  I  may  say," 
added  I,  lying  shamelessly  to  him,  "in  Russia, 
whither  he  made  a  journey  last  winter,  in  an 
extraordinary  cold  his  shadow  froze  so  fast  to 
the  ground  that  he  could  by  no  means  loose  it 
again." 

"The  false  shadow  that  I  could  paint  him." 
replied  the  professor,  "  would  only.be  such  a 
one  as  by  the  slightest  agitation  he  might  lose 
again,  especially  a  person,  who,  as  appears  by 
your  relation,  has  so  little  adhesion  to  his  own 
native  shadow.    He  who  has  no  shadow,  let 


552  CH  AMIS  SO. 


him  keep  out  of  the  sunshine,  that  is  the  safest 
and  most  sensible  thing  for  him."  He  arose 
and  withdrew,  casting  at  me  a  transpiercing 
glance  which  mine  could  not  support.  I  sunk 
hack  in  my  seat,  and  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands. 

Thus  Bendel  found  me.as  he  at  length  entered. 
He  saw  the  grief  of  his  master,  and  was  desirous 
silently  and  reverently  to  withdraw.  I  looked 
up,  I  lay  under  the  burden  of  my  trouble;  I 
must  communicate  it. 

"Bendel!"  cried  I,  "Bendel,  thou  only  one 
who  seest  my  affliction  and  respectest  it,  seek- 
est  not  to  pry  into  it,  but  appearest  silently  and 
kindly  to  sympathise,  come  to  me,  Bendel,  and 
be  the  nearest  to  my  heart ;  I  have  not  locked 
from  thee  the  treasure  of  my  gold,  neither  will 
I  lock  from  thee  the  treasure  of  my  grief.  Ben- 
del, forsake  me  not.  Bendel,  thou  beholdest  me 
rich,  liberal,  kind.  Thou  imaginest  that  the 
world  ought  to  honor  me,  and  thou  seest  me  fly 
the  world,  and  hide  myself  from  it.  Bendel, 
the  world  has  passed  judgment,  and  cast  me 
from  it,  and  perhaps  thou  too  wilt  turn  from 
me  when  thou  knowest  my  fearful  secret. 
Bendel,  I  am  rich,  liberal,  kind,  but,  —  0  God! 
—  T  have  no  shadow  !" 

"  No  shadow !"  cried  the  good  youth  with 
horror,  and  the  bright  tears  gushed  from  his 
eyes.  "  Woe  is  me,  that  I  was  born  to  serve  a 
shadowless  master!"  He  was  silent,  and  I  held 
my  face  buried  in  my  hands. 

"Bendel,"  added  I,  at  length,  tremblingly — 
"  now  hast  thou  my  confidence,  and  now  canst 
thou  betray  it — go  forth  and  testify  against  me." 
He  appeared  to  be  in  a  heavy  conflict  with 
himself;  at  length,  he  flung  himself  before  me 
and  seized  my  hand,  which  he  bathed  with  his 
tears. 

"No!"  exclaimed  he,  "think  the  world  as  it 
will,  I  cannot,  and  will  not,  on  account  of  a 
shadow  abandon  my  kind  master;  I  will  act 
justly,  and  not  with  policy.  I  will  continue 
with  you,  lend  you  my  shadow,  help  you  when 
I  can,  and  when  I  cannot,  weep  with  you."  I 
fell  on  his  neck,  astonished  at  such  unusual 
sentiment,  for  I  was  convinced  that  he  did  it 
not  for  gold. 

From  that  time  my  fate  and  my  mode  of  life 
were  in  some  degree  changed.  It  is  indescri- 
bable how  much  Bendel  continued  to  conceal 
my  defect.  He  was  everywhere  before  me 
and  with  me;  foreseeing  everything,  hitting  on 
contrivances,  and  where  danger  threatened, 
covering  me  quickly  with  his  shadow,  since  he 
Was  taller  and  bulkier  than  I.  Thus  I  ventured 
myself  again  among  men,  and  began  to  play  a 
part  in  the  world.  I  was  obliged,  it  is  true,  to 
assume  many  peculiarities  and  humors,  but  such 
became  the  rich,  and  so  long  as  the  truth  con- 
tinued to  be  concealed,  I  enjoyed  all  the  honor 
and  respect  which  were  paid  to  my  wealth.  I 
looked  calmly  forward  to  the  promised  visit  of 
the  mysterious  unknown,  at  the  end  of  the  year 
and  the  day. 


I  felt,  indeed,  that  I  must  not  remain  longer 
in  a  place  where  I  had  once  been  seen  without 
a  shadow,  and  where  I  might  easily  be  betrayed. 
Perhaps  I  yet  thought  too  much  of  the  manner 
in  which  I  had  introduced  myself  to  Thomas 
John,  and  it  was  a  mortifying  recollection.  I 
would  therefore  here  merely  make  an  experi- 
ment, to  present  myself  with  more  ease  and 
confidence  elsewhere,  but  that  now  occurred 
which  held  me  a  long  time  riveted  to  my  van- 
ity, for  there  it  is  in  the  man  that  the  anchor 
bites  the  firmest  ground. 

Even  the  lovely  Fanny,  whom  I  in  this  place 
again  encountered,  honored  me  with  some  no- 
tice without  recollecting  ever  to  have  seen  rne 
before;  for  I  now  had  wit  and  sense.  As  I 
spoke,  people  listened,  and  I  could  not,  for  the 
life  of  me,  comprehend  myself  how  I  had  ar- 
rived at  the  art  of  maintaining  and  engrossing 
so  easily  the  conversation.  The  impression 
which  I  perceived  that  I  had  made  on  the  fair 
one,  made  of  me  just  what  she  desired — a  fool, 
and  I  thenceforward  followed  her  through 
shade  and  twilight  wherever  I  could.  I  was 
only  so  far  vain  that  I  wished  to  make  her  vain 
of  myself,  and  found  it  impossible,  even  with 
the  very  best  intentions,  to  force  the  intoxication 
from  my  head  to  my  heart. 

But  why  relate  to  thee  the  whole  long  ordi- 
nary story  ?  Thou  thyself  bast  often  related  it 
to  me  of  other  honorable  people.  To  the  old, 
well  known  play  in  which  I  goodnaturedly  un- 
dertook a  wornout  part,  there  came  in  truth  to 
her  and  me,  and  everybody,  unexpectedly  a 
most  peculiar  and  poetic  catastrophe. 

As,  according  to  my  wont,  I  had  assembled 
on  a  beautiful  evening  a  party  in  a  garden,  I 
wandered  with  the  lady,  arm  in  arm  at  some 
distance  from  the  other  guests,  and  exerted  my- 
self to  strike  out  pretty  speeches  for  her.  She 
cast  down  modestly  her  eyes,  and  returned 
gently  the  pressure  of  my  hand,  when  suddenly 
the  moon  broke  through  the  clouds  behind  me, 
and — she  saw  only  her  own  shadow  thrown 
forward  before  her!  She  started  and  glanced 
wildly  at  me,  then  again  on  the  earth,  seeking 
my  shadow  with  her  eyes,  and  what  passed 
within  her,  painted  itself  so  singularly  on  her 
countenance,  that  I  should  have  burst  into  a 
loud  laugh  if  it  had  not  itself  ran  ice-cold  over 
my  back. 

I  let  her  fall  from  my  arms  in  a  swoon,  shot 
like  an  arrow  through  the  terrified  guests, 
reached  the  door,  flung  myself  into  the  first 
chaise  which  I  saw  on  the  stand,  and  drove 
back  to  the  city,  where  this  time,  to  my  cost,  I 
had  left  the  circumspect  Bendel.  He  was  ter- 
rified as  he  saw  me; — one  word  revealed  to 
him  all.  Post  horses  were  immediately  fetched. 
I  took  only  one  of  my  people  with  me,  an  arrant 
knave,  called  Rascal,  who  had  contrived  to 
make  himself  necessary  to  me  by  his  clever- 
ness; and  who  could  suspect  nothing  of  the 
present  occurrence.  That  night  I  left  upwards 
of  a  hundred  miles  behind  me.    Bendel  re- 


CHAMISSO. 


553 


mained  behind  me  todischarge  my  establishment, 
to  pay  money,  and  to  bring  me  what  I  most 
required.  When  he  overtook  me  next  day,  I 
threw  myself  into  his  arms,  and  swore  to  him, 
never  again  to  run  into  the  like  lolly,  but  in  fu- 
ture to  be  more  cautious.  We  continued  our 
journey  without  pause,  over  the  frontiers  and 
the  mountains,  and  it  was  not  till  we  began  to 
descend  and  had  placed  those  lofty  bulwarks 
between  us  and  our  former  unlucky  abode,  that 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  persuaded  to  rest  from 
the  fatigues  I  had  undergone,  in  a  neighboring 
and  little  frequented  Bathing-place. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

I  must  pass  in  my  relation  hastily  over  a  time 
in  which,  how  gladly  would  I  linger,  could  I 
but  conjure  up  the  living  spirit  of  it  with  the  re- 
collection. But  the  color  which  vivified  it,  and 
can  only  vivify  it  again,  is  extinguished  in  me; 
and  when  I  seek  in  my  bosom  what  then  so 
mightily  animated  it,  the  grief  and  the  joy,  the 
innocent  illusion, — then  do  I  vainly  smite  a  rock 
in  which  no  living  spring  now  dwells,  and  the 
god  is  departed  from  me.  How  changed  does 
this  past  time  now  appear  to  me.  I  would  act 
in  the  watering  place  an  heroic  character,  ill 
studied,  and  myself  a  novice  on  the  boards,  and 
my  gaze  was  lured  from  my  part  by  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes.  The  parents,  deluded  by  the  play, 
oiler  everything  only  to  make  the  business 
quickly  secure ;  and  the  poor  farce  closes  in 
mockery.  And  that  is  all,  all !  That  presents 
itself  now  to  me  so  absurd  and  commonplace, 
and  yet  is  it  terrible,  that  that  can  thus  appear 
to  me  which  then  so  richly,  so  luxuriantly, 
swelled  my  bosom.  Mina!  as  I  wept  at  losing 
thee,  so  weep  I  still  to  have  lost  thee  also  in 
myself.  Am  I  then  become  so  old?  Oh,  me- 
lancholy reason!  Oh,  but  for  one  pulsation  of 
that  time  !  one  moment  of  that  illusion  !  But  no! 
alone  on  the  high  waste  sea  of  thy  bitter  flood! 
and  long  out  of  the  last  cup  of  champagne  the 
elfin  has  vanished ! 

I  had  sent  forward  Bendel  with  some  purses 
of  gold  to  procure  for  me  a  duelling  adapted  to 
my  needs.  He  had  there  scattered  about  much 
money,  and  expressed  himself  somewhat  inde- 
finitely respecting  the  distinguished  stranger 
whom  he  served,  for  I  would  not  be  named,  and 
that  filled  the  good  people  with  extraordinary 
fancies.  As  soon  as  my  house  was  ready  Ben- 
del  returned  to  conduct  me  thither.  We  set 
out. 

About  three  miles  from  the  place,  on  a  sunny 
plain,  our  progress  was  obstructed  by  a  gay  fes- 
tal throng.  TJie  carriage  stopped.  Music,  sound 
of  bells,  discharge  of  cannon,  were  heard;  a 
loud  vivat!  rent  the  air;  before  the  door  of  the 
carriage  appeared,  clad  in  white,  a  troop  of 
damsels  of  extraordinary  beauty,  but  who  were 
eclipsed  by  one  in  particular,  as  the  stars  of  night 
by  the  sun.  She  stepped  forth  from  the  midst 
of  her  sisters;  the  tall  and  delicate  figure 
kneeled  blushing  before  me,  and  presented  to 
3  u 


me  on  a  silken  cushion  a  garland  woven  of 
laurel,  olive  branches,  and  roses,  while  she  ut- 
tered some  words  about  majesty,  veneration  and 
love,  which  I  did  not  understand,  but  whose 
bewitching  silver  tone  intoxicated  my  ear  and 
heart.  It  seemed  as  if  the  heavenly  apparition 
had  sometime  already  passed  before  me.  The 
chorus  struck  in,  and  sung  the  praises  of  a  good 
king  and  the  happiness  of  his  people. 

And  this  scene,  my  dear  friend,  in  the  face 
of  the  sun !  She  kneeled  still  only  two  paces 
from  me,  and  I  without  a  shadow,  could  not 
spring  over  the  gulph,  could  not  also  fall  on  the 
knee  before  the  angel !  Oh  !  what  would  I  then 
have  given  for  a  shadow  !  I  was  compelled  to 
hide  my  shame,  my  anguish,  my  despair,  deep 
in  the  bottom  of  my  carriage.  At  length  Bendel 
recollected  himself  on  my  behalf.  He  leaped 
out  of  the  carriage  on  the  other  side.  I  called 
him  back,  and  gave  him  out  of  my  jewel-case, 
which  lay  at  hand,  a  splendid  diamond  crown, 
which  had  been  made  to  adorn  the  brows  of 
the  lovely  Fanny!  He  stepped  forward,  and 
spoke  in  the  name  of  his  master,  who  could  not 
and  would  not  receive  such  tokens  of  homage; 
there  must  be  some  mistake;  and  the  good 
people  of  the  city  were  thanked  for  their  good 
Will.  As  he  said  this,  he  took  up  the  proffered 
wreath,  and  laid  the  brilliant  coronet  in  its 
place.  He  then  extended  respectfully  his  hand 
to  the  lovely  maiden,  that  she  might  arise,  and 
dismissed,  with  a  sign,  clergy,  magistrates,  and 
all  the  deputations.  No  one  else  was  allowed 
to  approach.  He  ordered  the  throng  to  divide, 
and  make  way  for  the  horses ;  sprang  again 
into  the  carriage,  and  on  we  went  at  full  gallop, 
through  a  festive  archway  of  foliage  and  flowers 
towards  the  city.  The  discharges  of  cannon 
continued.  The  carriage  stopped  before  my 
house.  I  sprang  hastily  in  at  the  door,  dividing 
the  crowd  which  the  desire  to  see  me  had  col- 
lected. The  mob  hurrahed  under  my  window, 
and  I  let  double  ducats  rain  out  of  it.  In  the 
evening  the  city  was  voluntarily  illuminated. 

And  yet  I  did  not  at  all  know  what  all  this 
could  mean,  and  who  I  was  supposed  to  be.  I 
sent  out  Rascal  to  make  enquiry.  He  brought 
word  to  this  effect: — that  the  people  hail  re- 
ceived certain  intelligence  that  the  good  king 
of  Prussia  travelled  through  the  country  under 
the  name  of  a  Graf;  that  my  adjutant  had  been 
recognised;  and,  finally,  how  great  the  joy  was 
as  they  became  certain  that  they  really  had  me 
in  the  place.  They  now  saw  clearly  that  I  evi- 
dently desired  to  maintain  the  strictest  incognito, 
and  how  very  wrong  it  had  been  to  attempt  so 
importunately  to  lift  the  veil.  But  I  had  resented 
it  so  graciously,  so  kindly, — 1  should  certainly 
pardon  their  good  heartedness. 

The  thing  appeared  so  amusing  to  the  rogue, 
that  he  did  his  best,  by  reproving  words,  the 
more  to  strengthen  the  good  folk  in  their  belief. 
He  made  a  very  comical  recital  of  all  this:  and 
as  he  found  that  it  diverted  me,  he  made  a  joke 
to  me  of  his  own  additional  wickedness.  Shall 
47 


554  CHAMISSO. 


I  confess  it?  It  flattered  me,  even  by  such 
means,  to  be  taken  for  that  honored  head. 

I  commanded  a  feast  to  be  prepared  for  the 
evening  of  the  next  day,  beneath  the  trees  which 
over-shadowed  the  open  space  before  my  house; 
and  the  whole  city  to  be  invited  to  it.  The 
mysterious  power  of  my  purse ;  the  exertions 
of  Bendel  and  the  active  invention  of  Rascal, 
succeeded  in  triumphing  over  time  itself.  It  is 
really  astonishing  how  richly  and  beautifully 
everything  was  arranged  in  those  few  hours. 
The  splendor  and  abundance  which  exhibited 
themselves,  and  the  ingenious  lighting  up,  so 
admirably  contrived  that  I  felt  myself  quite  se- 
cure, left  me  nothing  to  desire.  I  could  not  but 
praise  my  servants. 

The  evening  grew  dark  ;  the  guests  appeared, 
and  were  presented  to  me.  Nothing  more  was 
said  about  Majesty;  I  was  styled  with  deep 
reverence  and  obeisance,  Herr  Graf.  What 
was  to  be  done?  I  allowed  the  Herr  Graf  to 
please,  and  remained  from  that  hour  the  Graf 
Peter.  In  the  midst  of  festive  multitudes  my 
soul  yearned  alone  after  one.  She  entered  late, 
— she  was  and  wore  the  crown.  She  followed 
modestly  her  parents,  and  seemed  not  to  know 
that  she  was  the  loveliest  of  all.  They  were 
presented  to  me  as  Mr.  Forest-master,  his  lady 
and  their  daughter.  I  found  many  agreeable 
and  obliging  things  to  say  to  the  old  people ; 
before  the  daughter  I  stood  like  a  rebuked  boy, 
and  could  not  bring  out  one  word.  I  begged 
her,  at  length,  with  a  faltering  tone,  to  honor 
this  feast  by  assuming  the  office  whose  insignia 
she  graced.  She  entreated  with  blushes  and  a 
moving  look  to  be  excused ;  but  blushing  still 
more  than  herself  in  her  presence,  I  paid  her  as 
her  first  subject  my  homage,  with  a  most  pro- 
found respect,  and  the  hint  of  the  Graf  became 
to  all  the  guests  a  command  which  every  one 
with  emulous  joy  hastened  to  obey.  Majesty, 
innocence  and  grace,  presided  in  alliance  with 
beauty  over  a  rapturous  feast.  Mina's  happy 
parents  believed  their  child  only  thus  exalted 
in  honor  of  them.  I  myself  was  in  an  indescri- 
bable intoxication.  I  caused  all  the  jewels 
which  yet  remained  of  those  which  I  had  for- 
merly purchased,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  burthen- 
some  gold,  all  the  pearls,  all  the  precious  stones, 
to  be  laid  in  two  covered  dishes,  and  at  the 
table,  in  the  name  of  the  queen,  to  be  distributed 
round  to  her  companions  and  to  all  the  ladies. 
Gold,  in  the  mean  time,  was  incessantly  strewed 
over  the  inclosing  lists  among  the  exulting  people. 

Bendel,  the  next  morning,  revealed  to  me  in 
confidence  that  the  suspicion  which  he  had  long 
entertained  of  Rascal's  honesty,  was  now  be- 
come certainty.  Ttiat  he  had  "yesterday  em- 
bezzled whole  purses  of  gold.  «  Let  us  permit," 
replied  I,  "the  poor  scoundrel  to  enjoy  the  petty 
plunder.  I  spend  willingly  on  everybody,  why 
not  on  him  ?  Yesterday  he  and  all  the  fresh 
people  you  have  brought  me,  served  me  hon- 
estly ;  they  helped  me  joyfully  to  celebrate  a 
joyful  feast." 


There  was  no  farther  mention  of  it.  Rascal 
remained  the  first  of  my  servants,  but  Bendel 
was  my  friend  and  my  confidant.  The  latter 
was  accustomed  to  regard  my  wealth  as  inex- 
haustible, and  he  pried  not  after  its  sources; 
entering  into  my  humor,  he  assisted  me  rather 
to  discover  opportunities  to  exercise  it,  and  to 
spend  my  gold.  Of  that  unknown  one,  that 
pale  sneak,  he  knew  only  this,  that  I  could  alone 
through  him  be  absolved  from  the  curse  which 
weighed  on  me ;  and  that  I  feared  him,  on 
whom  my  sole  hope  reposed.  That,  for  the 
rest,  I  was  convinced  that  he  could  discover  me 
anywhere ;  I  him  nowhere ;  and  that  therefore 
awaiting  the  promised  day,  I  abandoned  every 
vain  enquiry. 

The  magnificence  of  my  feast,  and  my  beha- 
vior at  it,  held  at  first  the  credulous  inhabitants 
of  the  city  firmly  to  their  preconceived  opinion. 
True,  it  was  soon  stated  in  the  newspapers  that 
the  whole  story  of  the  journey  of  the  king  of 
Prussia  had  been  a  mere  groundless  rumor;  but 
a  king  I  now  was,  and  must  spite  of  everything 
a  king  remain,  and  truly  one  of  the  most  rich 
and  royal  who  had  ever  existed ;  only  people 
did  not  rightly  know  what  king.  The  world 
has  never  had  reason  to  complain  of  the  scarcity 
of  monarchs,  at  least  in  our  time.  The  good 
people  who  had  never  seen  any  of  them,  pitched 
with  equal  correctness  first  on  one  and  then  on 
another  ;  Graf  Peter  still  remained  who  he  was. 

At  one  time  appeared  amongst  the  guests  at 
the  Bath,  a  tradesman,  who  had  made  himself 
bankrupt  in  order  to  enrich  himself;  and  who 
enjoyed  universal  esteem,  and  had  a  broad 
though  somewhat  pale  shadow.  The  property 
which  he  had  scraped  together,  he  resolved  to 
lay  out  in  ostentation,  and  it  even  occurred  to 
him  to  enter  into  rivalry  with  me.  I  had  re- 
course to  my  purse,  and  soon  brought  the  poor 
devil  to  such  a  pass,  that  in  order  to  save  his 
credit  he  was  obliged  to  become  bankrupt  a 
second  time,  and  hasten  over  the  frontier.  Thus 
I  got  rid  of  him.  In  this  neighborhood  I  made 
many  idlers  and  good-for-nothing  fellows. 

With  all  the  royal  splendor  and  expenditure 
by  which  I  made  all  succumb  to  me,  I  still  in 
my  own  house  lived  very  simply  and  retired. 
I  had  established  the  strictest  circumspection  as 
a  rule.  No  one  except  Bendel,  under  any  pre- 
tence whatever,  was  allowed  to  enter  the  rooms 
which  I  inhabited.  So  long  as  the  sun  shone,  I 
kept  myself  shut  up  there,  and  it  was  said  the 
Graf  is  employed  in  his  cabinet.  With  this 
employment  numerous  couriers  stood  in  con- 
nexion, whom  I,  for  every  trifle,  sent  out  and 
received.  I  received  company  alone  under  my 
trees,  or  in  my  hall  arranged  and  lighted  accord- 
ing to  Bendel's  plan.  When  I  went  out,  on 
which  occasions  it  was  necessary  that  I  should 
be  constantly  watched  by  the  Argus  eyes  of 
Bendel.  it  was  only  to  the  Forester's  Garden, 
for  the  sake  of  one  alone ;  for  my  love  was  the 
innermost  heart  of  my  life. 

Oh,  my  good  Chamisso  !  I  will  hope  that  thou 


CHAMISSO. 


hast  not  yet  forgotten  what  love  is  !  I  leave  much 
unmentioned  here  to  thee.  Mina  was  really  an 
amiable,  kind,  good  child.  I  had  taken  her 
whole  imagination  captive.  She  could  not,  in 
her  humility,  conceive  how  she  could  be  worthy 
that  I  should  alone  have  fixed  my  regard  on 
her;  and  she  returned  love  for  love  with  all  the 
youthful  power  of  an  innocent  heart.  She  loved 
like  a  woman,  offering  herself  wholly  up;  self- 
forgetting;  living  wholly  and  solely  for  him 
who  was  her  life;  regardless  if  she  herself 
perished  ; — that  is  to  say — she  really  loved. 

But  I — oh  what  terrible  hours — terrible  and 
yet  worthy  that  I  should  wish  them  back  again, 
— have  I  often  wept  on  Bendel's  bosom,  when, 
after  the  first  unconscious  intoxication,  I  recol- 
lected myself ;  looked  sharply  into  myself; — I, 
without  a  shadow,  with  knavish  selfishness  de- 
stroying this  angel,  this  pure  soul  which  I  had 
deceived  and  stolen.  Then  did  I  resolve  to 
reveal  myself  to  her ;  then  did  I  swear  with  a 
most  passionate  oath  to  tear  myself  from  her, 
and  to  fly ;  then  did  I  burst  out  into  tears,  and 
concert  with  Bendel  how  in  the  evening  I  should 
visit  her  in  the  Forester's  garden. 

At  other  times  I  flattered  myself  with  great 
expectations  from  the  rapidly  approaching  visit 
from  the  grey  man,  and  wept  again  when  I  had 
in  vain  tried  to  believe  in  it.  I  had  calculated 
the  .day  on  which  I  expected  again  to  see  the 
fearful  one ;  for  he  had  said  in  a  year  and  a 
day ;  and  I  believed  his  word. 

The  parents,  good  honorable  old  people,  who 
loved  their  only  child  extremely,  were  amazed 
at  the  connexion,  as  it  already  stood,  and  they 
knew  not  what  to  do  in  it.  Earlier  they  could 
not  have  believed  that  the  Graf  Peter  could 
think  only  of  their  child ;  but  now  he  really 
loved  her  and  was  beloved  again.  The  mother 
was  probably  vain  enough  to  believe  in  the 
probability  of  an  union,  and  to  seek  for  it;  the 
sound  masculine  understanding  of  the  father  did 
not  give  way  to  such  overstretched  imaginations. 
Both  were  persuaded  of  the  purity  of  my  love! 
they  could  do  nothing  more  than  pray  for  their 
child. 

I  have  laid  my  hand  on  a  letter  from  Mina 
of  this  date,  which  I  still  retain.  Yes,  this  is 
her  own  writing.    I  transcribe  it  for  thee. 

"I  am  a  weak  silly  maiden,  and  cannot  be- 
lieve that  my  beloved,  because  I  love  him 
dearly,  dearly,  will  make  the  poor  girl  unhappy. 
Ah  !  thou  art  so  kind,  so  inexpressibly  kind,  but 
do  not  misunderstand  me.  Thou  shalt  sacrifice 
nothing  for  me,  desire  to  sacrifice  nothing  for 
me.  Oh  God !  I  should  hate  myself  if  thou 
didst!  No — thou  hast  made  me  immeasurably 
happy ;  hast  taught  me  to  love  thee.  Away  !  1 
know  my  own  fate.  Graf  Peter  belongs  not  to 
me,  he  belongs  to  the  world.  I  will  be  proud 
when  I  hear — 1  that  was  he,  and  that  was  he 
again, — and  that  has  he  accomplished;  there 
they  have  worshipped  him,  and  there  they  have 
deified  him !'  See,  when  I  think  of  this,  then 
am  I  angry  with  thee,  that  with  a  simple  child 


thou  canst  forget  thy  high  destiny.  Away!  or 
the  thought  will  make  me  miserable]  1 — oh! 
who  through  thee  am  so  happy,  so  blessed. 
Have  I  not  woven,  too,  an  olive  branch  and  a 
rosebud  into  thy  life,  as  into  the  wreath  which 
I  was  allowed  to  present  to  thee?  I  have  thee 
in  my  heart,  my  beloved,  fear  not  to  leave  me. 
I  will  die  oh!  so  happy,  so  ineffably  happy 
through  thee !" 

Thou  canst  imagine  how  the  words  must  cut 
through  my  heart.  I  explained  to  her  that  I 
was  not  what  people  believed  me,  that  I  was 
only  a  rich  but  infinitely  miserable  man.  That 
a  curse  rested  on  me,  which  must  be  the  only 
secret  between  us,  since  I  was  not  yet  without 
hope  that  it  should  be  loosed.  That  this  was 
the  poison  of  my  days ;  that  I  might  drag  her 
down  with  me  into  the  gulph, — she  who  was 
the  sole  light,  the  sole  happiness,  the  sole  heart 
of  my  life.  Then  wept  she  again,  because  I 
was  unhappy.  Ah,  she  was  so  loving,  so  kind  ! 
To  spare  me  but  one  tear,  she,  and  with  what 
transport,  would  have  sacrificed  herself  without 
reserve. 

In  the  mean  time  she  was  far  from  rightly 
comprehending  my  words;  she  conceived  in 
me  some  prince  on  whom  had  fallen  a  heavy 
bann,  some  high  and  honored  head,  and  her 
imagination  amidst  heroic  pictures  limned  forth 
her  lover  gloriously. 

Once  I  said  to  her — "  Mina,  the  last  day  in 
the  next  month  may  change  my  fate  and  decide 
it, — if  not  I  must  die,  for  I  will  not  make  thee 
unhappy."  Weeping  she  hid  her  head  in  my 
bosom.  "If  thy  fortune  changes,  let  me  know 
that  thou  art  happy.  I  have  no  claim  on  thee. 
Art  thou  wretched,  bind  me  to  thy  wretched- 
ness, that  I  may  help  thee  to  bear  it." 

"  Maiden  !  maiden !  take  it  back,  that  word, 
that  foolish  word  which  escaped  thy  lips.  And 
knowest  thou  this  wretchedness?  Knowest  thou 
this  curse?  Knowest  who  thy  love, — what  he? 
Seest  thou  not  that  I  convulsively  shrink  together, 
and  have  a  secret  from  thee?"  She  fell  sobbing 
to  my  feet,  and  repeated  with  oaths  her  intreaty. 

I  announced  to  the  Forest-master,  who  enter- 
ed, that  it  was  my  intention  on  the  first  ap- 
proaching of  the  month  to  solicit  the  hand  of  his 
daughter.  I  fixed  precisely  this  time,  because 
in  the  interim  many  things  might  occur  which 
might  influence  my  fortunes.  That  I  was  un- 
changeable in  my  love  to  his  daughter. 

The  good  man  was  quite  startled  as  he  heard 
such  words  out  of  the  mouth  of  Graf  Peter.  He 
fell  on  my  neck,  and  again  became  quite  ashamed 
to  have  thus  forgotten  himself.  Then  he  began 
to  doubt,  to  weigh,  and  to  enquire.  He  spoke 
of  dowry,  security,  and  the  fortune  for  his  be- 
loved child.  I  thanked  him  for  reminding  me 
of  these  things.  I  told  him  that  I  desired  to 
settle  myself  in  this  country  where  I  seemed  to 
be  beloved,  and  to  lead  a  care-free  life.  I  begged 
him  to  purchase  the  finest  estate  that  the  coun- 
try had  to  offer,  in  the  name  of  his  daughter, 
and  to  charge  the  cost  to  me.    A  father  could, 


556 


CHAMISSO. 


in  such  matter,  best  serve  a  lover.  It  gave  him 
enough  to  do,  for  everywhere  a  stranger  was 
before  him,  and  he  could  only  purchase  for 
about  a  million. 

My  thus  employing  him  was,  at  the  bottom, 
an  innocent  scheme  to  remove  him  to  a  distance, 
and  I  had  employed  him  similarly  before.  For 
I  must  confess  that  he  was  rather  wearisome. 
The  good  mother  was,  on  the  contrary,  some- 
what deaf,  and  not  like  him  jealous  of  the  honor 
of  entertaining  the  Graf. 

The  mother  joined  us.  The  happy  people 
pressed  me  to  stay  longer  with  them  that  even- 
ing,— I  dared  not  remain  another  minute.  I 
saw  already  the  rising  moon  glimmer  on  the 
horizon, — my  time  was  up. 

The  next  evening  I  went  again  to  the  For- 
ester's garden.  I  had  thrown  my  cloak  over 
my  shoulders  and  pulled  my  hat  over  my  eyes. 
I  advanced  to  Mina.  As  she  looked  up  and 
beheld  me,  she  gave  an  involuntary  start,  and 
there  stood  again  clear  before  my  soul  the  ap- 
parition of  that  terrible  night  when  I  showed 
myself  in  the  moonlight  without  a  shadow.  It 
was  actually  she!  But  had  she  also  recognised 
me  again?  She  was  silent  and  thoughtful;  on 
my  bosom  lay  a  hundred-weight  pressure.  I 
arose  from  my  seat.  She  threw  herself  silently 
weeping  on  my  bosom.    I  went. 

I  now  found  her  often  in  tears.  It  grew 
darker  and  darker  in  my  soul ;  the  parents 
meanwhile  swam  in  supreme  felicity;  the 
eventful  day  passed  on  sad  and  sullen  as  a 
thunder  cloud.  The  eve  of  the  day  was  come. 
I  could  scarcely  breathe.  I  had  in  precaution 
filled  several  chests  with  gold.  I  watched  the 
midnight  hour  approach. — It  struck. 

I  now  sat,  my  eye  fixed  on  the  fingers  of  the 
clock,  counting  the  minutes,  the  seconds,  like 
dagger-strokes.  At  every  noise  which  arose,  I 
started  up; — the  day  broke.  The  leaden  hours 
crowded  upon  each  other.  It  was  noon — even- 
ing— night:  as  the  clock  fingers  sped  on,  hope 
withered ;  it  struck  eleven  and  nothing  ap- 
peared;  the  last  minutes  of  the  last  hour  fell, 
and  nothing  appeared.  It  struck  the  first  stroke, 
— the  last  stroke  of  the  twelfth  hour,  and  I  sank 
hopeless  and  in  boundless  tears  upon  my  bed. 
On  the  morrow  I  should — forever  shadowless, 
solicit  the  hand  of  my  beloved.  Towards  morn- 
ing an  anxious  sleep  pressed  down  my  eyelids. 

CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  still  early  morning  when  voices,  which 
were  raised  in  my  ante-chamber  in  violent  dis- 
pute, awoke  me.  I  listened.  Bendel  forbade 
entrance ;  Rascal  swore  high  and  hotly  that  he 
would  receive  no  commands  from  his  fellow, 
and  insisted  in  forcing  his  way  into  my  room. 
The  good  Bendel  warned  him  that  such  words, 
came  they  to  my  ear,  would  turn  him  out  of  his 
most  advantageous  service.  Rascal  threatened 
to  lay  hands  on  him  if  he  any  longer  obstructed 
his  entrance. 

I  had  half  dressed  myself.    1  flung  the  door 


wrathfully  open,  and  advanced  to  Rascal— 
"What  wantest  thou,  villain  ?"  He  stepped  two 
strides  backwards,  and  replied  quite  coolly: 
"  To  request  you  most  humbly,  Herr  Graf,  just 
to  allow  me  to  see  your  shadow ; — the  sun 
shines  at  this  moment  so  beautifully  in  the 
court." 

I  was  struck,  as  with  thunder.  It  was  some- 
time before  I  could  recover  my  speech.  "  How 
can  a  servant  towards  his  master" — He  inter- 
rupted very  calmly  my  speech — 

"A  servant  may  be  a  very  honorable  man, 
and  not  be  willing  to  serve  a  shadowless 
master — I  demand  my  discharge."  It  was  ne- 
cessary to  try  other  chords.  "But  honest,  dear 
Rascal,  who  has  put  the  unlucky  idea  into  your 
head?  How  canst  thou  believe — ?" 

He  proceeded  in  the  same  tone — "People 
will  assert  that  you  have  no  shadow — and,  in 
short,  you  show  me  your  shadow,  or  give  me 
my  discharge." 

Bendel.  pale  and  trembling,  but  more  discreet 
than  I,  gave  me  a  sign.  I  sought  refuge  in  the 
all-silencing  gold  ;  and  that  had  lost  its  power. 
He  threw  it  at  my  feet.  "From  a  shadowless 
man  I  accept  nothing!"  He  turned  his  back 
upon  me,  and  went  most  deliberately  out  of  the 
room  with  his  hat  upon  his  head  and  whistling 
a  tune.  I  stood  there  with  Bendel  as  one  turned 
to  stone,  thoughtless,  motionless,  gazing  after  him. 

Heavily  sighing  and  with  death  in  my  heart, 
I  prepared  myself  to  redeem  my  promise,  and 
like  a  criminal  before  his  judge,  to  appear  in  the 
Forest-master's  garden.  I  alighted  in  the  dark 
arbor,  which  was  named  after  me,  and  where 
they  would  be  sure  also  at  this  time  to  await 
me.  The  mother  met  me,  care-free  and  joyous. 
Mina  sate  there,  pale  and  lovely  as  the  first 
snow  which  often  in  the  autumn  kisses  the  last 
flowers,  and  then  instantly  dissolves  into  bitter 
water.  The  Forest-master  went  agitatedly  to 
and  fro,  a  written  paper  in  his  hand,  and  ap- 
peared to  force  down  many  things  in  himself 
which  painted  themselves  with  rapidly  alter- 
nating flushes  and  paleness  on  his  otherwise 
immovable  countenance.  He  came  up  to  me 
as  I  entered  and  with  frequently  choked  words, 
begged  to  speak  with  me  alone.  The  path  in 
which  he  invited  me  to  follow  him,  conducted 
towards  an  open,  sunny  part  of  the  garden.  I 
sunk  speechless  on  a  seat,  and  then  followed  a 
long  silence,  which  even  the  good  mother  dared 
not  interrupt. 

The  Forest-master  raged  continually  with 
unequal  steps  to  and  fro  in  the  arbor,  and  sud- 
denly halting  before  me,  glanced  on  the  paper 
which  he  held,  and  demanded  of  me  with  a 
searching  look — 

"May  not,  Herr  Graf,  a  certain  Peter  Schle- 
mihl  be  not  quite  unknown  to  you  ?"  I  was 
silent.  "A  man  of  superior  character  and  sin- 
gular attainments — "  He  paused  for  an  answer. 

"  And  suppose  I  were  the  same  man?" 

"Who,"  added  he  vehemently — "  has  by  some 
means,  lost  his  shadow  !" 


CHAMISSO.  557 


"Oh,  my  foreboding,  my  foreboding!"  ex- 
claimed Mina,  "Yes,  I  have  long  known  it,  he 
has  no  shadow,"  and  she  flung  herself  into  the 
arms  of  her  mother,  who  terrified,  clasped  her 
convulsively,  and  upbraided  her  that  to  her  own 
hurt  she  had  kept  to  herself  such  a  secret.  But 
she,  like  Arethusa,  was  changed  into  a  fountain 
of  tears,  which  at  the  sound  of  my  voice  flowed 
still  more  copiously,  and  at  my  approach  burst 
forth  in  torrents. 

"And  you,"  again  grimly  began  the  Forest- 
master,  "and  you,  with  unparalleled  impudence, 
have  made  no  scruple  to  deceive  these  and  my- 
self, and  you  give  out  that  you  love  her  whom 
you  have  so  deeply  humbled.  See,  there,  how  she 
weeps  and  writhes!    Oh,  horrible!  horrible!" 

I  had  to  such  a  degree  lost  all  reflection,  that 
talking  like  one  crazed,  I  began — "And,  after 
all,  a  shadow  is  nothing  but  a  shadow  ;  one  can 
do  very  well  without  that,  and  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  make  such  a  riot  about  it."  But  I  felt 
so  sharply  the  baselessness  of  what  I  was  saying, 
that  I  stopped  of  myself,  without  his  deigning 
me  an  answer,  and  I  then  added, — "  What  one 
has  lost  at  one  time,  may  be  found  again  at 
another !" 

He  rushed  fiercely  towards  me — "Confess  to 
me,  sir !  confess  to  me,  how  became  you  deprived 
of  your  shadow  !" 

I  was  compelled  again  to  lie.  "A  rude  fel- 
low one  day  trod  so  heavily  on  my  shadow  that 
he  rent  a  great  hole  in  it.  I  have  only  sent  it 
to  be  mended,  for  money  can  do  much,  and  I 
was  to  have  received  it  back  yesterday." 

"Good,  sir,  very  good!"  replied  the  Forest- 
master.  "  You  solicit  my  daughter's  hand ; 
others  do  the  same.  I  have,  as  her  father,  to 
care  for  her.  I  give  you  three  days  in  which 
you  may  see  after  a  shadow.  If  you  appear 
before  me  within  these  three  days  with  a  good, 
well-fitting  shadow,  you  shall  be  welcome  to 
me;  but  on  the  fourth  day — I  tell  you  plainly, — 
my  daughter  is  the  wife  of  another." 

I  would  yet  attempt  to  speak  a  word  to  Mina, 
but  she  clung,  sobbing  violently,  only  closer  to 
her  mother's  breast,  who  motioned  me  to  be 
silent  and  to  withdraw.  I  reeled  away,  and 
the  world  seemed  to  close  itself  behind  me. 

Escaped  from  Bendel's  affectionate  oversight, 
I  traversed  in  erring  course,  woods  and  fields. 
The  perspiration  of  my  agony  dropped  from  my 
brow,  a  hollow  groaning  convulsed  my  bosom, 
madness  raged  within  me. 

I  know  not  how  long  this  had  continued, 
when  on  a  sunny  heath,  I  felt  myself  plucked 
by  the  sleeve.  I  stood  still  and  looked  round — 
it  was  the  man  in  the  grey  coat,  who  seemed  to 
have  run  himself  quite  out  of  breath  in  pursuit 
of  me.    He  immediately  began  : 

"  I  had  announced  myself  for  to-day,  but  you 
could  not  wait  the  time.  There  is  nothing  amiss, 
however,  yet.  You  consider  the  matter,  receive 
your  shadow  again  in  exchange,  which  is  at 
your  service,  and  turn  immediately  back.  You 
shall  be  welcome  in  the  Forest-master's  garden; 


the  whole  has  been  only  a  joke.  Rascal,  who 
has  betrayed  you,  and  who  seeks  the  hand  of 
your  bride,  I  will  take  charge  of;  the  fellow  is 
ripe." 

I  stood  there  as  still  asleep.  "Announced  for 
to-day?"  I  counted  over  again  the  time, — he 
was  right.  I  had  constantly  miscalculated  a 
day.  I  sought  with  the  right  hand  in  my  bosom 
for  my  purse :  he  guessed  my  meaning,  and 
stepped  two  paces  backwards. 

"No,  Herr  Graf,  that  is  in  too  good  hands, 
keep  you  that."  I  stared  at  him  with  eyes  of 
enquiring  wonder,  and  he  proceeded:  "I  re- 
quest only  a  trifle,  as  memento.  You  be  so 
good  as  to  set  your  name  to  this  paper."  On 
the  parchment  stood  the  words: 

"By  virtue  of  this  my  signature,  I  make  over 
my  soul  to  the  holder  of  this,  after  its  natural 
separation  from  the  body." 

I  gazed  with  speechless  amazement,  alter- 
nately at  the  writing  and  the  grey  unknown. 
Meanwhile,  with  a  new  made  pen  he  had  taken 
up  a  drop  of  blood  which  flowed  from  a  fresh 
thorn-scratch  on  my  hand  and  presented  it  to  me. 

"Who  are  you  then'?"  at  length  I  asked  him. 

"What  signifies  it?"  he  replied.  "And  is 
not  that  plain  enough  to  be  seen  in  me?  A 
poor  devil,  a  sort  of  learned  man  and  doctor, 
who  in  return  for  precious  arts,  receives  from 
his  friends  poor  thanks,  and  for  himself,  has  no 
other  amusement  on  earth  but  to  make  his  little 
experiments. — But,  however,  sign.  To  the  right 
there — P  eter  Schlemihl." 

I  shook  my  head,  and  said,  "Pardon  me,  sir, 
I  do  not  sign  that." 

"Not?"  replied  he,  in  amaze,  "and  why  not?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  a  certain  degree  serious  to 
stake  my  soul  on  a  shadow." 

"  So,  so,"  repeated  he,  "  serious !"  and  he 
laughed  almost  in  my  face.  "And  if  I  might 
venture  to  ask,  what  sort  of  a  thing  is  that  soul 
of  yours?  Have  you  ever  seen  it?  And  what 
do  you  think  of  doing  with  it  when  you  are 
dead?  Be  glad  that  you  have  found  an  ama- 
teur who  in  your  lifetime  is  willing  to  pay  you 
for  the  bequest  of  this  X,  of  this  galvanic  power, 
or  polarised  Activity,  or  whatever  this  silly  thing 
may  be,  with  something  actual ;  that  is  to  say, 
with  your  real  shadow,  through  which  you  may 
arrive  at  the  hand  of  your  beloved,  and  at  the 
accomplishment  of  all  your  desires.  Will  you 
rather  push  forth,  and  deliver  up  that  poor 
young  creature  to  that  low  bred  scoundrel  Ras- 
cal ?  No,  you  must  witness  that  with  your  own 
eyes.  Here,  I  lend  you  the  Tarn-cap,"  (the  cap 
of  invisibility) — he  drew  it  from  his  pocket — 
"and  we  will  proceed  unseen  to  the  Forester's 
garden." 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  excessively  ashamed 
of  being  ridiculed  by  this  man.  I  detested  him 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart;  and  I  believe  that 
this  personal  antipathy  withheld  me,  more  than 
principle,  or  prejudice,  from  purchasing  my 
shadow,  essential  as  it  was,  by  the  required 
signature.  The  thought  also  was  intolerable  to 
47* 


558 


CH  AMISSO. 


me  of  making  the  excursion  which  he  proposed, 
in  his  company.  To  see  this  abhorred  sneak, 
this  mocking  cobold,  step  between  me  and  my 
beloved,  two  torn  and  bleeding  bearts,  revolted 
my  innermost  feeling.  I  regarded  what  was 
past  as  predestined,  and  my  wretchedness  as 
unchangeable,  and  turning  to  the  man,  I  said  to 
him, 

"Sir,  I  have  sold  you  my  shadow  for  this  in 
itself  most  excellent  purse,  and  I  have  suffi- 
ciently repented  of  it.  Let  the  bargain  be  at  an 
end,  in  God's  name !"  He  shook  his  head,  and 
made  a  very  gloomy  face.  I  continued,  "I  will 
then  sell  you  nothing  further  of  mine,  even  for 
this  offered  price  of  my  shadow  ;  and,  therefore, 
I  shall  sign  nothing.  From  this  you  may  un- 
derstand, that  the  cap-wearing  to  which  you 
invite  me,  must  be  much  more  amusing  for  you 
than  for  me.  Excuse  me,  therefore  ;  and  as  it 
cannot  now  be  otherwise,  let  us  part." 

"It  grieves  me,  Monsieur  Schlemihl,  that  you 
obstinately  decline  the  business  which  I  propose 
to  you.  Perhaps  another  time  I  may  be  more 
fortunate.  Till  our  speedy  meeting  again  ! — 
Apropos :  Permit  me  yet  to  show  you,  that  the 
things  which  I  purchase  I  by  no  means  suffer 
to  grow  mouldy,  but  honorably  preserve,  and 
that  they  are  well  used  by  me." 

With  that  he  drew  my  shadow  out  of  his 
pocket  and  with  a  dexterous  throw  unfolding  it 
on  the  heath,  spread  it  out  on  the  sunny  side  of 
his  feet,  so  that  he  walked  between  two  attend- 
ant shadows,  his  own  and  mine,  for  mine  must 
equally  obey  him,  and  accommodate  itself  to 
and  follow  all  his  movements. 

When  I  once  saw  my  poor  shadow  again, 
after  so  long  an  absence,  and  beheld  it  degraded 
to  so  vile  a  service,  whilst  I,  on  its  account,  was 
in  such  unspeakable  trouble,  my  heart  broke, 
and  I  began  bitterly  to  weep.  The  detested 
wretch  swaggered  with  the  plunder  snatched 
from  me,  and  impudently  renewed  his  proposal. 

"  You  can  yet  have  it.  A  stroke  of  the  pen, 
and  you  snatch  therewith  the  poor  unhappy 
Mina  from  the  claws  of  the  villain  into  the  arms 
of  the  most  honored  Herr  Graf; — as  observed, 
only  a  stroke  of  the  pen." 

My  tears  burst  forth  with  fresh  impetuosity, 
but  I  turned  away  and  motioned  to  him  to 
withdraw  himself.  Bendel,  who  filled  with 
anxiety,  had  traced  me  to  this  spot,  at  this  mo- 
ment arrived.  When  the  kind,  good  soul,  found 
me  weeping,  and  saw  my  shadow,  which  could 
not  be  mistaken,  in  the  power  of  the  mysterious 
grey  man,  he  immediately  resolved,  was  it  even 
by  force,  to  restore  to  me  the  possession  of  my 
property;  and  as  he  did  not  understand  going 
much  about  with  tender  phrases,  he  immediately 
assaulted  the  man  with  words,  and  without 
much  asking,  ordered  him  bluntly  to  allow  that 
which  was  my  own,  instantly  to  follow  me. 
Instead  of  answer,  he  turned  his  back,  and 
went.  But  Bendel  up  with  his  buckthorn  cud- 
gel which  he  carried,  and  following  on  his 
heels,  without  mercy,  and  with  reiterated  com- 


mands to  give  up  the  shadow,  made  him  feel 
the  full  force  of  his  vigorous  arm.  He,  as  ac- 
customed to  such  handling,  ducked  his  head,  set 
up  his  shoulders,  and  with  silent  and  deliberate 
steps  pursued  his  way  over  the  heath,  at  once 
going  off  with  my  shadow  and  my  faithful  ser- 
vant. I  long  heard  the  heavy  sounds  roll  over 
the  waste,  till  they  were  finally  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance.   I  was  alone,  as  before,  with  my  misery. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Left  alone  on  the  wild  heath,  I  gave  free 
current  to  my  countless  tears,  relieving  my  heart 
from  an  ineffably  weary  weight.  But  I  saw  no 
bound,  no  outlet,  no  end  to  my  intolerable  mi- 
sery, and  I  drank  besides  with  savage  thirst  of 
the  fresh  poison  which  the  unknown  had  poured 
into  my  wounds.  When  I  called  the  image  of 
Mina  before  my  soul,  and  the  dear,  sweet  form 
appeared  pale  and  in  tears,  as  I  saw  her  last  in 
my  shame,  then  stepped  the  shadow  of  the  im- 
pudent and  mocking  Rascal  between  her  and 
me;  I  covered  my  face  and  fled  through  the 
wild.  But  the  hideous  apparition  left  me  not, 
but  pursued  me  in  my  flight,  till  I  sank  breath- 
less on  the  ground,  and  moistened  it  with  a 
fresh  torrent  of  tears. 

And  all  for  a  shadow.  And  this  shadow  a 
pen-stroke  had  obtained  for  me.  I  thought  on 
the  strange  proposition  and  my  refusal.  All  was 
chaos  in  me.  I  had  no  longer  either  judgment 
or  mastership  of  thought. 

The  day  went  over.  I  stilled  my  hunger 
with  wild  fruits;  my  thirst  in  the  nearest  moun- 
tain stream.  The  night  fell ;  I  lay  down  beneath 
a  tree.  The  damp  morning  awoke  me  out  of  a 
heavy  sleep  in  which  I  heard  myself  rattle  in 
the  throat  as  in  death.  Bendel  must  have  lost 
all  trace  of  me,  and  it  rejoiced  me  to  think  so. 
I  would  not  return  again  amongst  men  before 
whom  I  fled  in  terror,  like  the  timid  game  of 
the  mountains.  Thus  I  lived  through  three 
weary  days. 

On  the  fourth  morning  I  found  myself  on  a 
sandy  plain  bright  with  the  sun,  and  sate  on  the 
fragment  of  a  rock  in  its  beams,  for  I  loved  now 
to  enjoy  its  long-withheld  countenance.  I  still 
fed  my  heart  with  its  despair.  A  light  rustle 
startled  me.  Ready  for  flight  I  threw  round 
me  a  hurried  glance;  I  saw  no  one,  but  in  the 
sunny  sand  there  glided  past  me  a  human  sha- 
dow, not  unlike  my  own,  which  wandering 
there  alone,  seemed  to  have  got  away  from  its 
possessor.  There  awoke  in  me  a  mighty  yearn- 
ing. "Shadow,"  said  I,  "dost  thou  seek  thy 
master"?  I  will  be  he,"  and  I  sprang  forward  to 
seize  it.  I  thought  that  if  I  succeeded  in  tread- 
ing on  it  so  that  its  feet  touched  mine,  it  probably 
would  remain  hanging  there,  and  in  time  ac- 
commodate itself  to  me. 

The  shadow,  on  my  moving,  fled  before  me, 
and  I  was  compelled  to  begin  a  strenuous  chase 
of  the  light  fugitive,  for  which  the  thought  of 
rescuing  myself  from  my  fearful  condition  could 
alone  have  endowed  me  with  the  requisite 


CHAMISSO. 


550 


vigor.  It  flew  towards  a  wood,  at  a  great  dis- 
tance, in  which  I  must  of  necessity,  have  lost  it. 
I  perceived  this, — a  horror  convulsed  my  heart, 
inflamed  my  desire,  added  wings  to  my  speed; 
I  gained  evidently  on  the  shadow,  I  came  con- 
tinually nearer,  I  must  certainly  reach  it.  Sud- 
denly it  stopped,  and  turned  towards  me.  Like 
a  lion  on  its  prey,  I  shot  with  a  mighty  spring 
forwards  to  make  seizure  of  it, — and  dashed 
unexpectedly  against  a  hard  and  bodily  object. 
Invisibly  I  received  the  most  unprecedented 
blows  on  the  ribs  that  mortal  man  probably 
ever  received. 

The  effect  of  the  terror  in  me  was  convul- 
sively to  close  my  arms,  and  firmly  to  enclose 
that  which  stood  unseen  before  me.  In  the 
rapid  transaction,  I  plunged  forward  to  the 
ground,  but  backwards  and  under  me  was  a 
man  whom  I  had  embraced  and  who  now  first 
became  visible. 

The  whole  occurrence  became  now  very 
naturally  explicable  to  me.  The  man  must 
have  carried  the  invisible  bird's  nest  which  ren- 
ders him  who  holds  it,  but  not  his  shadow,  im- 
perceptible, and  had  now  cast  it  away.  I 
glanced  round,  soon  discovered  the  shadow  of 
the  invisible  nest  itself,  leaped  up  and  towards 
it,  and  did  not  miss  the  precious  prize.  Invisi- 
ble and  shadowless,  I  held  the  nest  in  my  hand. 

The  man  swiftly  springing  up,  gazing  round 
instantly  after  his  fortunate  conqueror,  descried 
on  the  wide  sunny  plain  neither  him  nor  his 
shadow,  for  which  he  sought  with  especial 
avidity.  For  that  I  was  myself  entirely  sha- 
dowless he  had  no  leisure  to  remark,  nor  could 
he  imagine  such  a  thing.  Having  convinced 
himself  that  every  trace  had  vanished,  he  turned 
his  hand  against  himself,  and  tore  his  hair.  To 
me,  however,  the  acquired  treasure  had  given 
the  power  and  desire  to  mix  again  amongst 
men.  I  did  not  want  for  self-satisfying  pallia- 
tives for  my  base  robbery,  or  rather  I  had  no 
need  of  them  ;  and  to  escape  from  every  thought 
of  the  kind,  I  hastened  away,  not  even  looking 
round  at  the  unhappy  one,  whose  deploring 
voice  I  long  heard  resounding  behind  me. — 
Thus,  at  least,  appeared  to  me  the  circumstances 
at  the  time. 

I  was  on  fire  to  proceed  to  the  Forester's 
garden,  and  there  myself  to  discern  the  truth  of 
what  the  Detested  One  had  told  me.  I  knew 
not,  however,  where  I  was.  I  climbed  the  next 
hill,  in  order  to  look  round  over  the  country,  and 
perceived  from  its  summit  the  near  city,  and  the 
Forester's  garden  lying  at  my  feet.  My  heart 
beat  violently,  and  tears  of  another  kind  than 
what  I  had  till  now  shed,  rushed  into  my  eyes. 
I  should  see  her  again  !  Anxious  desire  hastened 
my  steps  down  the  most  direct  path.  I  passed 
unseen  some  peasants  who  came  out  of  the  city. 
They  were  talking  of  me,  of  Rascal  and  the 
Forest-master;  I  would  hear  nothing, — I  hurried 
past. 

I  entered  the  garden,  all  the  tremor  of  expec- 
tation in  my  bosom.    I  seemed  to  hear  laughter 


near  me.  I  shuddered,  threw  a  rapid  glance 
round  me,  but  could  discover  nobody.  I  ad- 
vanced farther.  I  seemed  to  perceive  a  sound 
as  of  man's  steps  at  hand,  but  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen.  I  believed  myself  deceived  by  my 
ear.  It  was  yet  early,  no  one  in  Graf  Peter's 
arbor,  the  garden  still  empty.  I  traversed  the 
well-known  paths.  I  penetrated  to  the  very 
front  of  the  dwelling.  The  same  noise  more 
distinctly  followed  me.  I  seated  myself  with 
an  agonised  heart  on  a  bench  which  stood  in 
the  sunny  space  before  the  house-door.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  had  heard  the  unseen  cobold, 
laughing  in  mockery,  seat  himself  near  me. 
The  key  turned  in  the  door,  it  opened,  and  the 
Forest-master  issued  forth  with  papers  in  his 
hand.  A  mist  seemed  to  envelope  my  head.  I 
looked  up,  and — horror !  the  man  in  the  grey 
coat  sate  by  me,  gazing  on  me  with  a  satanic 
leer.  He  had  drawn  his  Tarncap  at  once  over 
his  head  and  mine;  at  his  feet  lay  his  and  my 
shadow  peaceably  by  each  other.  He  played 
negligently  with  the  well-known  paper  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  as  the  Forest-master, 
busied  with  his  documents,  went  to  and  fro  in 
the  shadow  of  the  arbor,  he  stooped  familiarly 
to  my  ear,  and  whispered  in  it  these  words, 
"So  then  you  have  notwithstanding  accepted 
my  invitation,  and  here  sit  we  for  once  two 
heads  under  one  cap.  All  right!  all  right! 
But  now  give  me  my  bird's  nest  again;  you 
have  no  further  occasion  for  it,  and  are  too 
honorable  a  man  to  wish  to  withhold  it  from 
me ;  but  there  needs  no  thanks :  I  assure  you 
that  I  have  lent  it  you  with  the  most  hearty 
good  will."  He  took  it  unceremoniously  out  of 
my  hand,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  laughed  at 
me.  and  that  so  loud  that  the  Forest-master 
himself  looked  round  at  the  noise.  I  sate  there 
as  if  changed  to  stone. 

"  But  you  must  allow,'1  continued  he,  "  that 
such  a  cap  is  much  more  convenient.  It  covers 
not  only  your  person  but  your  shadow  at  the 
same  time,  and  as  many  others  as  you  have  a 
mind  to  take  with  you.  See  you,  to-day  again, 
I  conduct  two  of  them" — he  laughed  again. 
"Mark  this,  Schlemihl,  what  we  at  first  won't 
do  with  a  good  will,  that  will  we  in  the  end  be 
compelled  to.  I  still  fancy  you  will  buy  that 
thing  from  me,  take  back  the  bride  (for  it  is  yet 
time),  and  we  leave  Rascal  dangling  on  the  gal- 
lows, an  easy  thing  for  us  so  long  as  rope  is  to 
be  had.  Hear  you — I  will  give  you  also  my 
cap  into  the  bargain." 

The  mother  came  forth,  and  the  conversation 
began.    "How  goes  it  with  Mina?" 

"  She  weeps." 

"  Silly  child !  it  cannot  be  altered  !" 

"Certainly  not;  but  to  give  her  to  another  so 
soon.  Oh,  man !  thou  art  cruel  to  thy  own 
child." 

"  No,  mother,  that  thou  quite  mistakest.  When 
she,  even  before  she  has  wept  out  her  childish 
tears,  finds  herself  the  wife  of  a  very  rich  and 
honorable  man,  she  will  awake  comforted  out 


5G0 


C  H  A  M  I  S  S  0. 


of  her  trouble  as  out  of  a  dream,  and  thank  God 
and  us,  that  wilt  thou  see!" 
"  God  grant  it!" 

"  She  possesses  now,  indeed  a  very  respectable 
property;  but  after  the  stir  that  this  unlucky 
affair  with  the  adventurer  has  made,  canst  thou 
believe  that  a  partner  so  suitable  as  Mr.  Rascal 
could  be  readily  found  for  her?  Dost  thou  know 
what  a  fortune  Mr.  Rascal  possesses?"  He  has 
paid  six  millions  for  estates  here  in  the  country 
free  from  all  debets.  I  have  had  the  title  deeds 
in  my  own  hands!  He  it  was  who  everywhere 
had  the  start  of  me  ;  and  besides  this,  has  in  his 
possession  bills  on  Thomas  John  for  about  five 
and  a  half  millions." 

"He  must  have  stolen  enormously." 

"  What  talk  is  that  again !  He  has  wisely 
saved  what  would  otherwise  have  been  lavished 
away." 

"A  man  that  has  worn  livery — " 
"Stupid  stuff!  he  has,  however,  an  unblem- 
ished shadow." 

"Thou  art  right,  but — " 

The  man  in  the  greycoat  laughed  and  looked 
at  me.  The  door  opened  and  Mina  came  forth. 
She  supported  herself  on  the  arm  of  a  chamber- 
maid, silent  tears  rolled  down  her  lovely  pale 
cheeks.  She  seated  herself  on  a  stool  which 
was  placed  for  her  under  the  lime  trees,  and 
her  father  took  a  chair  by  her.  He  tenderly 
took  her  hand,  and  addressed  her  with  tender 
words,  while  she  began  violently  to  weep. 

"Thou  art  my  good,  dear  child,  and  thou  wilt 
be  reasonable,  wilt  not  wish  to  distress  thy  old 
father,  who  seeks  only  thy  happiness.  I  can 
well  conceive  it,  dear  heart,  that  it  has  sadly 
shaken  thee.  Thou  art  wonderfully  escaped 
from  thy  misfortunes !  Before  we  discovered 
the  scandalous  imposition,  thou  hadst  loved  this 
unworthy  one  greatly;  see,  Mina,  I  know  it, 
and  upbraid  thee  not  for  it.  I  myself,  dear 
child,  also  loved  him  so  long  as  I  looked  upon 
him  as  a  great  gentleman.  But  now  thou  seest 
how  different  all  has  turned  out.  What!  every 
poodle  has  his  own  shadow,  and  should  my 
dear  child  have  a  husband — no!  thou  thinkst, 
indeed,  no  more  about  him.  Listen,  Mina.  Now 
a  man  solicits  thy  hand,  who  does  not  shun  the 
sunshine,  an  honorable  man,  who  truly  is  no 
prince,  but  who  possesses  ten  millions;  ten 
times  more  than  thou  ;  a  man  who  will  make 
my  dear  child  happy.  Answer  me  not,  make 
no  opposition,  be  my  good,  dutiful  daughter,  let 
thy  loving  father  care  for  thee,  and  dry  thy 
tears.  Promise  me  to  give  thy  hand  to  Mr. 
Rascal.    Say,  wilt  thou  promise  me  this?" 

She  answered  with  a  faint  voice, — "  I  have 
no  will,  no  wish  further  upon  earth.  Happen 
with  me  what  my  father  will." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Rascal  was  announced, 
and  stepped  impudently  into  the  circle.  Mina 
lay  in  a  swoon.  My  detested  companion  glanced 
archly  at  me,  and  whispered  in  hurried  words — 
"And  that  can  you  endure?  What  then  flows 
instead  of  blood  in  your  veins?"    He  scratched 


with  a  hasty  movement  a  slight  wound  in  my 
hand,  blood  flowed,  and  he  continued — "Ac- 
tually red  blood! — So  sign  then!"  I  had  the 
parchment  and  the  pen  in  my  hand. 

CHAPTER  VIT. 

Mi  wish,  dear  Chamisso,  is  merely  to  submit 
myself  to  thy  judgment,  not  to  endeavor  to  bias 
it.  I  have  long  passed  the  severest  sentence  on 
myself,  for  I  have  nourished  the  tormenting 
worm  in  my  heart.  It  hovered  during  this 
solemn  moment  of  my  life,  incessantly  before 
my  soul,  and  I  could  only  lift  my  eyes  to  it  with 
a  despairing  glance,  with  humility  and  contri- 
tion. Dear  friend,  he  who  in  levity  only  sets 
his  foot  out  of  the  right  road,  is  unawares  con- 
ducted into  other  paths,  which  draw  him  down- 
wards, and  ever  downwards;  he  then  sees  in 
vain  the  guiding  stars  glitter  in  heaven;  there 
remains  to  him  no  choice;  he  must  descend  un- 
pausingly  the  declivity,  and  become  a  voluntary 
sacrifice  to  Nemesis.  After  the  false  step  which 
had  laid  the  curse  upon  me,  I  had,  sinning 
through  love,  forced  myself  into  the  fortunes  of 
another  being,  and  what  remained  for  me  but 
that  where  I  had  sowed  destruction,  where 
speedy  salvation  was  demanded  of  me,  I  should 
blindly  rush  forward  to  the  rescue? — for  the 
last  hour  struck  !  Think  not  so  meanly  of  me, 
my  Adelbert,  as  to  imagine  that  I  should  have 
regarded  any  price  that  was  demanded  as  too 
high,  that  I  should  have  begrudged  anything 
that  was  mine  even  more  than  my  gold.  No, 
Adelbert!  but  my  soul  was  possessed  with  the 
most  unconquerable  hatred  of  this  mysterious 
sneaker  along  crooked  paths.  I  might  do  him 
injustice,  but  every  degree  of  association  with 
him  maddened  me.  And  here  stepped  forth, 
as  so  frequently  in  my  life,  and  as  especially 
often  in  the  history  of  the  world,  an  event  in- 
stead of  an  action.  Since  then  I  have  achieved 
reconciliation  with  myself.  I  have  learned,  in 
the  first  place,  to  reverence  Necessity;  and 
what  is  more  than  the  action  performed,  the 
event  accomplished — her  property.  Then  I  have 
learned  to  venerate  this  Necessity  as  a  wise 
Providence,  which  lives  through  that  great  col- 
lective Machine  in  which  we  officiate  simply  as 
co-operating,  impelling  and  impelled  wheels. 
What  shall  be,  must  be;  what  should  be,  hap- 
pened, and  not  without  that  Providence,  which 
I  ultimately  learned  to  reverence  in  my  own 
fate,  and  in  the  fate  of  her  on  whom  mine  thus 
impinged. 

I  know  not  whether  I  shall  ascribe  it  to  the 
excitement  of  my  soul  under  the  impulse  of  such 
mighty  sensations;  or  to  the  exhaustion  of  my 
physical  strength,  which  during  the  last  days 
such  unwonted  privations  had  enfeebled ;  or 
whether,  finally,  to  the  desolating  commotion 
which  the  presence  of  this  grey  fiend  excited  in 
my  whole  nature;  be  that  as  it  may,  as  I  was 
on  the  point  of  signing,  I  fell  into  a  deep  swoon, 
and  lay  a  long  time  as  in  the  arms  of  death. 

Stamping  of  feet  and  curses  were  the  first 


CHAMISSO.  561 


sounds  which  struck  my  ear,  as  I  returned  to 
consciousness.  I  opened  my  eyes:  it  was  dark  ; 
my  detested  attendant  was  busied  scolding  about 
me.  "Is  not  that  to  behave  like  an  old  woman? 
Up  with  you,  man  !  and  complete  off-hand  what 
you  have  resolved  on,  if  you  have  not  taken 
another  thought  and  had  rather  blubber."  I 
raised  myself  with  difficulty  from  the  ground 
and  gazed  in  silence  around.  It  was  late  in 
the  evening;  festive  music  resounded  from  the 
brightly  illuminated  Forester's  house,  various 
groups  of  people  wandered  through  the  garden 
walks.  One  couple  came  near  in  conversation, 
and  seated  themselves  on  the  bench  which  I 
had  just  quitted.  They  talked  of  the  union  this 
morning  solemnized  between  Mr.  Rascal  and 
the  daughter  of  the  house.  So,  then,  it  had 
taken  place ! 

I  tore  the  Tarncap  of  the  already  vanished 
Unknown  from  my  head,  and  hastened  in 
brooding  silence  towards  the  garden  gate, 
plunging  myself  into  the  deepest  night  of  the 
thicket,  and  striking  along  the  path  past  Graf 
Peter's  arbor.  But  invisibly  my  tormenting 
spirit  accompanied  me,  pursuing  me  with  keen- 
est reproaches.  "These  then  are  one's  thanks 
for  the  pains  which  one  has  taken  to  support 
Monsieur,  who  has  weak  nerves,  through  the 
long  precious  day.  And  one  shall  act  the  fool 
in  the  play.  Good,  Mr.  Wronghead,  fly  you 
from  me  if  you  please,  but  we  are,  nevertheless, 
inseparable.  You  have  my  gold  and  I  your 
shadow,  and  this  will  allow  us  no  repose.  Did 
anybody  ever  hear  of  a  shadow  forsaking  its 
master  ?  Your's  draws  me  after  you  till  you 
take  it  again  into  favor,  and  I  get  rid  of  it. 
What  you  have  hesitated  to  do  out  of  fresh 
pleasure,  will  you,  only  too  late,  be  compelled 
to  seek  through  new  weariness  and  disgust. 
One  cannot  escape  one's  fate."  He  continued 
speaking  in  the  same  tone.  I  fled  in  vain;  he 
relaxed  not,  but  ever  present  insultingly  talked 
of  gold  and  shadow.  I  could  come  to  no  single 
thought  of  rny  own. 

I  struck  through  unfrequented  ways  towards 
my  house.  When  I  stood  before  it,  and  gazed 
at  it,  I  could  scarcely  recognise  it.  No  light 
shone  through  the  dashed-in  windows.  The 
doors  were  closed  ;  no  throng  of  servants  was 
moving  therein.  There  was  a  laugh  near  me. 
"Ha!  ha!  so  goes  it!  But  you'll  probably  find 
your  Bendel  at  home,  for  he  was  the  other  day 
purposely  sent  back  so  weary,  that  he  has  most 
likely  kept  his  bed  since."  He  laughed  again. 
"He  will  have  a  story  to  tell!  Well  then,  for 
the  present,  good  night !  We  meet  speedily 
again !" 

I  had  rung  repeatedly  ;  light  appeared  ;  Ben- 
del  demanded  from  within  who  rung.  When 
the  good  man  recognised  my  voice,  he  could 
scarcely  restrain  his  joy.  The  door  flew  open, 
and  we  stood  weeping  in  each  other's  arms.  I 
found  him  greatly  changed,  weak  and  ill ;  but 
for  me, — my  hair  was  become  quite  grey ! 

He  conducted  me  through  the  desolated  rooms 
3  v 


to  an  inner  apartment  which  had  been  spared. 
He  brought  food  and  wine,  and  we  seated  our- 
selves, and  he  again  began  to  weep.  He  related 
to  me  that  he  the  other  day  had  cudgelled  the 
grey-clad  man  whom  he  had  encountered  with 
my  shadow,  so  long  and  so  far,  that  he  had  lost 
all  trace  of  me,  and  had  sunk  to  the  earth  in 
utter  fatigue.  That  after  this,  as  he  could  not 
find  me,  he  returned  home,  whither  presently 
the  mob,  at  Rascal's  instigation,  came  rushing 
in  fury,  dashed  in  the  windows,  and  gave  full 
play  to  their  lust  of  demolition.  Thus  did  they 
to  their  benefactor.  The  servants  had  fled  va- 
rious ways.  The  police  had  ordered  me,  as  a 
suspicious  person  to  quit  the  city,  and  had  al- 
lowed only  four-and-twenty  hours  in  which  to 
evacuate  their  jurisdiction.  To  that  which  I 
already  knew  of  Rascal's  affluence  and  mar- 
riage, he  had  yet  much  to  add.  This  scoundrel, 
from  whom  all  had  proceeded  that  had  been 
done  against  me,  must,  from  the  beginning,  have 
been  in  possession  of  my  secret.  It  appeared 
that  attracted  by  gold,  he  had  contrived  to  thrust 
himself  upon  me,  and  at  the  very  first  had  pro- 
cured a  key  to  the  gold  cupboard,  where  he  had 
laid  the  foundation  of  that  fortune,  whose  aug- 
mentation he  could  now  afford  to  despise. 

All  this  Bendel  narrated  to  me  with  abundant 
tears,  and  then  wept  for  joy  that  he  again  beheld 
me,  again  had  me ;  and  that  after  he  had  long 
doubted  whither  this  misfortune  might  have  led 
me,  he  saw  me  bear  it  so  calmly  and  collectedly ; 
for  such  an  aspect  had  despair  now  assumed  in 
me.  I  beheld  my  misery  unchangeably  before 
me ;  I  had  wept  out  to  it  my  last  tear ;  not 
another  cry  could  be  extorted  from  my  heart;  I 
presented  to  it  my  bare  head  with  chill  indif- 
ference. 

"  Bendel,"  I  said,  "  thou  knowest  my  lot.  Not 
without  earlier  blame  has  my  heavy  punish- 
ment befallen  me.  Thou,  innocent  man,  shalt 
no  longer  bind  thy  destiny  to  mine.  I  do  not 
desire  it.  I  ride  to-night  still  forward  ;  saddle 
me  a  horse  ;  I  ride  alone  ;  thou  remainest :  it  is 
my  will.  Here  still  must  remain  some  chests 
of  gold  ;  that  retain  thou  ;  but  I  will  alone  wan- 
der incessantly  through  the  world  :  but  if  ever  a 
happier  hour  should  smile  upon  me,  and  fortune 
look  on  me  with  reconciled  eyes,  then  will  I 
remember  thee,  for  I  have  wept  upon  thy  firmly 
faithful  bosom  in  heavy  and  agonising  hours." 

With  a  broken  heart  was  this  honest  man 
compelled  to  obey  this  last  command  of  his 
master,  at  which  his  soul  shrunk  with  terror.  I 
was  deaf  to  his  prayers,  to  his  representations, 
blind  to  his  tears.  He  brought  me  out  my  steed. 
Once  more  I  pressed  the  weeping  man  to  my 
bosom,  sprung  into  the  saddle,  and  under  the 
shroud  of  night  hastened  from  the  grave  of  my 
existence,  regardless  which  way  my  horse  con- 
ducted me,  since  I  had  longer  on  the  earth,  no 
aim,  no  wish,  no  hope. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  pedestrian  soon  joined  me,  who  begged, 


562 


CHAMISSO. 


after  he  had  walked  for  some  time  by  the  side 
of  my  horse,  that  as  we  went  the  same  way,  he 
might  he  allowed  to  lay  a  cloak  which  he  car- 
ried, on  the  steed  behind  me.  I  permitted  it  in 
silence.  He  thanked  me  with  easy  politeness 
for  the  trifling  service;  praised  my  horse,  and 
thence  took  occasion  to  extol  the  happiness  and 
power  of  the  rich,  and  let  himself,  I  know  not 
how,  fall  into  a  kind  of  monologue,  in  which  he 
had  me  now  merely  for  a  listener. 

He  unfolded  his  views  of  life  and  of  the 
world,  and  came  very  soon  upon  metaphysics, 
in  which  the  ultimate  pretension  extended  to 
the  discovery  of  the  word  that  should  solve  all 
mysteries.  He  stated  his  premises  with  great 
clearness  and  proceeded  to  the  proofs. 

Thou  knowest,  my  friend,  that  I  have  clearly 
discovered,  since  I  have  run  through  the  schools 
of  the  philosophers,  that  I  have  by  no  means  a 
turn  for  philosophical  speculations,  and  that  I 
have  totally  renounced  for  myself  this  field. 
Since  then  I  have  left  many  things  to  them- 
selves; abandoned  the  desire  to  know  and  to 
comprehend  many  things ;  and  as  thou  thyself 
advised  me,  have,  trusting  to  my  common  sense, 
followed  as  fur  as  I  was  able  the  voice  within 
me  on  the  direct  course.  Now  this  rhetorician 
seemed  to  me  to  raise  with  great  talent  a  firmly 
put-together  fabric,  which  was  at  once  self-based 
and  self-supported,  and  stood  as  by  an  innate 
necessity.  I  missed,  however,  in  it  completely, 
what  most  of  all  I  was  desirous  to  find,  and  so 
it  became  for  me  merely  a  work  of  art,  whose  or- 
namental compactness  and  completeness  served 
only  to  charm  the  eye ;  nevertheless  I  listened 
willingly  to  the  eloquent  man  who  drew  my 
attention  from  my  grief  to  him;  and  I  would 
have  gladly  yielded  myself  wholly  up  to  him, 
had  he  captivated  my  heart  as  much  as  my  un- 
derstanding. 

Meanwhile  the  time  had  passed,  and  unob- 
served the  dawn  had  already  enlightened  the 
heaven.  I  was  horrified  as  I  looked  suddenly 
up,  and  saw  the  pomp  of  colors  unfold  itself  in 
the  east,  which  announced  the  approach  of  the 
sun ;  while  at  this  hour  in  which  the  shadows 
ostentatiously  display  themselves  in  their  great- 
est extent,  there  was  no  protection  from  it ;  no 
refuge  in  the  open  country  to  be  descried.  And 
I  was  not  alone !  I  cast  a  glance  at  my  com- 
panion, and  was  again  terror-struck.  It  was  no 
other  than  the  man  in  the  grey  coat! 

He  smiled  at  my  alarm,  and  went  on  without 
allowing  me  to  get  in  a  word.  "Let,  however, 
as  is  the  way  of  the  world,  our  mutual  advan- 
tage for  awhile  unite  us.  It  is  all  in  good  time 
for  separating.  The  road  here  along  the  moun- 
tain-range, though  you  have  not  yet  thought  of 
it,  is.  nevertheless,  the  only  one  into  which  you 
could  prudently  have  struck.  Down  into  the 
valley  you  may  not  venture;  and  still  less  will 
you  desire  to  return  again  over  the  heights, 
whence  you  are  come ;  and  this  is  also  exactly 
my  way.  I  see  that  you  already  turn  pale  be- 
fore the  rising  sun.    I  will,  for  the  time  we  keep 


company,  lend  you  your  shadow,  and  you,  on 
that  account,  tolerate  me  in  your  society.  You 
have  no  longer  your  Bendel  with  you,  I  will  do 
you  good  service.  You  do  not  like  me,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  it;  but,  notwithstanding,  yen  can 
make  use  of  me.  The  devil  is  not  so  black  as 
he  is  painted.  Yesterday  you  vexed  me,  it  is 
true;  I  will  not  upbraid  you  with  it  to-day;  and 
I  have  already  shortened  the  way  hither  for 
you  ;  that  you  must  allow.  Only  just  take  your 
shadow  again  awhile  on  trial." 

The  sun  had  ascended ;  people  appeared  on 
the  road;  I  accepted,  though  with  internal  re- 
pugnance, the  proposal.  Smiling  he  let  my 
shadow  glide  to  the  ground,  which  immediately 
took  its  place  on  that  of  the -horse,  and  trotted 
gaily  by  my  side.  I  was  in  the  strangest  state 
of  mind.  I  rode  pasta  group  of  country-people, 
who  made  way  for  a  man  of  consequence,  re- 
verently, and  with  bared  heads.  I  rode  on,  and 
gazed  with  greedy  eyes  and  a  palpitating  heart 
on  this  my  quondam  shadow  which  I  had  now 
borrowed  from  a  stranger,  yes,  from  an  enemy. 

The  man  went  carelessly  near  me,  and  even 
whistled  a  tune.  He  on  foot,  I  on  horseback ; 
a  dizziness  seized  me  ;  the  temptation  was  too 
great;  I  suddenly  turned  the  reins;  clapped 
spurs  to  the  horse,  and  struck  at  full  speed  into 
a  side-path.  But  I  carried  not  oft'  the  shadow, 
which  at  the  turning  glided  from  the  horse,  and 
awaited  its  lawful  possessor  on  the  high  road. 
I  was  compelled  with  shame  to  turn  back.  The 
man  in  the  grey  coat  when  he  had  calmly  fin- 
ished his  tune,  laughed  at  me,  set  the  shadow 
right  again  for  me;  and  informed  me,  that  it 
would  then  only  hang  fast  and  remain  with  me 
when  I  was  disposed  to  become  the  rightful 
proprietor.  "  I  hold  you,"  continued  he,  "  fast 
by  the  shadow,  and  you  cannot  escape  me.  A 
rich  man,  like  you,  needs  shadow,  it  cannot  be 
otherwise,  and  you  only  are  to  blame  that  you 
did  not  perceive  that  sooner." 

I  continued  my  journey  on  the  same  road  • 
the  comforts  and  the  splendor  of  life  again  sur- 
rounded me;  I  could  move  about  free  and  con- 
veniently, since  I  possessed  a  shadow,  although 
only  a  borrowed  one;  and  I  everywhere  inspired 
the  respect  which  riches  command.  But  I  car- 
ried death  in  my  heart.  My  strange  companion, 
who  gave  himself  out  as  the  unworthy  servant 
of  the  richest  man  in  the  world,  possessed  an 
extraordinary  professional  readiness,  prompt 
and  clever  beyond  comparison,  the  very  model 
of  a  valet  for  a  rich  man,  but  he  stirred  not  from 
my  side,  perpetually  directing  the  conversation 
towards  me,  and  continually  blabbing  out  the 
most  confidential  matters;  so  that,  at  length, 
were  it  only  to  be  rid  of  him,  I  resolved  to  set- 
tle the  affair  of  the  shadow.  He  was  become 
as  burthensome  to  me  as  he  was  hateful.  I  was 
even  in  fear  of  him.  He  had  made  me  de- 
pendent on  him.  He  held  me,  after  he  had 
conducted  me  back  into  the  glory  of  the  world, 
which  I  had  fled  from.  I  was  obliged  to  tole- 
rate his  eloquence  upon  myself,  and  felt,  in  fact, 


CHAMISSO. 


563 


that  he  was  in  the  right.  A  rich  man  in  the 
world  must  have  a  shadow,  and  so  soon  as  I 
desired  to  command  the  rank  which  he  had 
contrived  again  to  make  necessary  to  me,  I  saw 
but  one  issue.  By  this,  however,  I  stood  fast; — 
alter  having  sacrificed  my  love,  after  my  life 
had  been  blighted,  I  would  never  sign  away 
my  soul  to  this  creature,  for  all  the  shadows  in 
the  world.    I  knew  not  how  it  would  end. 

We  sate,  one  day,  before  a  cave  which  the 
strangers  who  frequent  these  mountains,  are 
accustomed  to  visit.  We  heard  there  the  rush 
of  subterranean  streams  roaring  up  from  im- 
measurable depths,  and  the  stone  cast  in  seemed, 
in  its  resounding  fall,  to  find  no  bottom.  He 
painted  to  me,  as  he  often  did,  with  a  vivid 
power  of  imagination  and  in  the  lustrous  charms 
of  the  most  brilliant  colors,  the  most  carefully 
finished  pictures  of  what  I  might  achieve  in  the 
world  by  virtue  of  my  purse,  if  I  had  but  once 
my  shadow  in  my  possession.  With  my  elbows 
rested  on  my  knees,  I  kept  my  face  concealed 
in  my  hands,  and  listened  to  the  false  one,  my 
heart  divided  between  the  seduction  and  my 
own  strong  will.  In  such  an  inward  conflict  I 
could  no  longer  contain  myself,  and  the  deciding 
strife  began. 

"  You  appear,  sir,  to  forget  that  I  have  indeed 
allowed  you,  upon  certain  conditions,  to  remain 
in  my  company,  but  that  I  have  reserved  my 
perfect  freedom." 

"  If  you  command  it,  I  pack  up." 

He  was  accustomed  to  menace.  I  was  silent. 
He  began  immediately  to  roll  up  my  shadow. 
I  turned  pale,  but  I  let  it  proceed.  There  fol- 
lowed a  long  pause  ;  he  first  broke  it. 

"  You  cannot  bear  me,  sir.  You  hate  me  ;  I 
know  it;  yet  why  do  you  hate  me?  Is  it  be- 
cause you  attacked  me  on  the  highway,  and 
sought  to  deprive  me  by  violence  of  my  bird's 
nest  ?  Or  is  it  because  you  have  endeavored  in 
a  thievish  manner,  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  pro- 
perty, the  shadow,  which  was  entrusted  to  you 
entirely  on  your  honor?  I,  for  my  part,  do  not, 
therefore,  hate  you.  I  find  it  quite  natural  that  you 
shouid  seek  to  avail  yourself  of  all  your  advan- 
tages, cunning,  and  power.  For  the  rest,  that 
you  have  the  very  strictest  principles;  and  that 
you  think  like  honor  itself,  is  a  taste  that  you 
have,  against  which  I  have  nothing  to  say.  In 
fact,  I  think  not  so  strictly  as  you;  I  merely  act 
as  you  think.  Or  have  I  at  any  time  pressed 
my  finger  on  your  throat  in  order  to  bring  to  me 
yonr  most  precious  soul,  for  which  I  have  a 
fancy  ?  Have  I,  on  account  of  my  bartered 
purse,  let  a  servant  loose  on  you  ?  Have  I 
sought  thus  to  swindle  you  out  of  it?''  I  had 
nothing  to  oppose  to  this,  and  he  proceeded. — 
"Very  good,  sir!  very  good!  you  cannot  endure 
me :  I  know  that  very  well,  and  am  by  no 
means  angry  with  you  for  it.  We  must  part, 
that  is  clear,  and  in  fact,  you  begin  to  be  very 
wearisome  to  me.  In  order,  then,  to  rid  you  of 
my  further,  shame-inspiring  presence,  I  counsel 
you  once  more  purchase  this  thing  from  me."  I 


extended  to  him  the  purse:  "At  that  price?'' — 
"  No  I" 

I  sighed  deeply,  and  added,  "  Be  it  so,  then. 
I  insist,  sir,  that  we  part,  and  that  you.no  longer, 
obstruct  my  path  in  a  world  which  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  has  room  enough  in  it  for  us  both."  He 
smiled,  and  replied,  "I  go,  sir;  but  first  let  me 
instruct  you  how  you  may  ring  for  me  when  you 
desire  to  see  again,  your  most  devoted  servant. 
You  have  only  to  shake  your  purse,  so  that  the 
eternal  gold  pieces  therein  jingle,  and  the  sound 
will  instantly  attract  me.  Every  one  thinks  of 
his  own  advantage  in  this  world.  You  see  that 
I  at  the  same  time  am  thoughtful  of  yours,  since 
I  reveal  to  you  a  new  power.  Oh  !  this  purse  ! 
— had  the  moths  already  devoured  your  sha- 
dow, that  would  still  constitute  a  strong  bond  be- 
tween us.  Enough,  you  have  me  in  my  gold. 
Should  you  have  any  commands,  even  when 
far  off",  for  your  servant,  you  know  that  I  can 
show  myself  very  active  in  the  service  of  my 
friends,  and  the  rich  stand  particularly  well 
with  me.  You  have  seen  it  yourself.  Only 
your  shadow,  sir, — allow  me  to  tell  you  that — 
never  again,  except  on  one  sole  condition." 

Forms  of  the  past  time  swept  before  my  soul. 
I  demanded  hastily — u  Had  you  a  signature  from 
Mr.  John?"  He  smiled.  "With  so  good  a  friend 
it  was  by  no  means  necessary."  "Where  is  he? 
By  God  I  will  know  it!"  He  plunged  hesita- 
tingly his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and,  dragged 
thence  by  the  hair,  appeared  Thomas  John's 
ghastly  disfigured  form,  and  the  blue  death-lips 
moved  themselves  with  heavy  words — uJusto 
judicio  Dei  judicatus  sum  :  justo  judicio  Dei  con- 
demnatus  sum."  I  shuddered  with  horror,  and 
dashing  the  ringing  purse  into  the  abyss,  I  spoke 
to  him  the  last  words.  "  I  adjure  thee,  horrible 
one,  in  the  name  of  God  !  take  thyself  hence, 
and  never  again  show  thyself  in  my  sight!" 

He  arose  gloomily,  and  instantly  vanished 
behind  the  masses  of  rock  which  bounded  this 
wild,  overgrown  spot. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

I  sate  there  without  shadow  and  without 
money,  but  a  heavy  weight  was  taken  from  my 
bosom.  I  was  calm.  Had  I  lost  my  love,  or 
had  I  in  that  loss  felt  myself  free  from  blame,  I 
believe  that  I  should  have  been  happy ;  but  I 
knew  not,  however,  what  I  should  do.  I  ex- 
amined my  pockets :  I  found  yet  several  gold 
pieces  there ;  I  counted  them  and  laughed.  I 
had  my  horses  below  at  the  inn  ;  I  was  ashamed 
of  returning  thither;  I  must,  at  least,  wait  till 
the  sun  was  gone  down  ;  it  stood  yet  high  in  the 
heaven.  I  laid  myself  down  in  the  shade  of 
the  nearest  trees,  and  fell  calmly  asleep. 

Lovely  shapes  blended  themselves  before  me 
in  charming  dance  into  a  pleasing  dream.  Mina 
with  a  flower-wreath  in  her  hair  floated  by  me, 
and  smiled  kindly  upon  me.  The  noble  Bendel 
also  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and  went  past 
with  a  friendly  greeting.  I  saw  many  besides, 
and  I  believe  thee  too,  Chamisso,  in  the  distant 


564 


CH  AMISSO. 


throng.  A  bright  light  appeared,  but  no  one 
had  a  shadow,  and  what  was  stranger,  it  had 
by  no  means  a  bad  effect.  Flowers  and  songs, 
love  and  joy,  under  groves  of  palm.  I  could 
neither  hold  fast  nor  single  out  the  moving, 
lightly  floating,  loveable  forms :  but  I  knew  that 
I  dreamed  such  a  dream  with  joy,  and  was 
careful  to  avoid  waking.  I  was  already  awake, 
but  still  kept  my  eyes  closed  in  order  to  retain 
the  fading  apparition  longer  before  my  soul. 

I  finally  opened  my  eyes;  the  sun  stood  still 
high  in  the  heaven,  but  in  the  east;  I  had  slept 
through  the  night.  I  took  it  for  a  sign  that  I 
should  not  return  to  the  inn.  I  gave  up  readily 
as  lost,  what  I  yet  possessed  there,  and  deter- 
mined to  strike  on  foot  into  a  neighboring  path, 
which  led  along  the  wood-grown  feet  of  the 
mountains,  leaving  it  secretly  to  fate  to  fulfil 
what  it  had  yet  in  store  for  me.  I  looked  not 
behind  me,  and  thought  not  even  of  applying  to 
Bendel,  whom  I  left  rich  behind  me,  and  which 
I  could  readily  have  done.  I  considered  the 
new  character  which  I  should  support  in  the 
world.  My  dress  was  very  modest.  I  had  on 
an  old  black  Polonaise,  which  I  had  already 
worn  in  Berlin,  and  which,  I  know  not  how, 
had  first  come  again  into  my  hands  for  this 
journey.  I  had  also  a  travelling  cap  on  my 
head,  a  pair  of  old  boots  on  my  feet.  I  arose, 
and  cut  me  on  the  spot  a  knotty  stick  as  a  me- 
morial, and  advanced  at  once  on  my  wandering. 

I  met  in  the  wood  an  old  peasant  who  friend- 
ly greeted  me,  and  with  whom  I  entered  into 
conversation.  I  inquired,  like  an  inquisitive 
traveller,  first  the  way,  then  about  the  country, 
and  its  inhabitants,  the  productions  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  many  such  things.  He  answered  my 
questions  sensibly  and  loquaciously.  We  came 
to  the  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent,  which  had 
spread  its  devastations  over  a  wide  tract  of  the 
forest.  I  shuddered  involuntarily  at  the  sun- 
bright  space,  and  allowed  the  countryman  to  go 
first;  but  in  the  midst  of  this  dangerous  spot,  he 
stood  still,  and  turned  to  relate  to  me  the  his- 
tory of  this  desolation.  He  saw  immediately 
my  defect,  and  paused  in  the  midst  of  his  dis- 
course. 

"  But  how  does  that  happen, — the  gentleman 
has  actually  no  shadow  !" 

"Alas!  alas!"  replied  I,  sighing,  "during  a 
long  and  severe  illness,  my  hair,  nails,  and  sha- 
dow fell  off.  See,  father,  at  my  age,  my  hair, 
which  is  renewed  again,  is  quite  white,  the 
nails  very  short,  and  the  shadow, — that  will 
never  grow  again." 

"Ay!  ay!"  responded  the  old  man,  shaking 
his  head, — "  no  shadow,  that  is  bad !  That  was 
a  bad  illness  that  the  gentleman  had."  But  he 
continued  not  his  narrative,  and  at  the  next 
cross  way  which  presented  itself,  he  left  me 
without  saying  a  word.  Bitter  tears  trembled 
anew  upon  my  cheeks,  and  my  cheerfulness 
was  gone. 

I  pursued  my  way  with  a  sorrowful  heart, 
and  sought  no  further  the  society  of  men.  I 


kept  myself  in  the  darkest  wood,  and  was  many 
a  time  compelled,  in  order  to  pass  over  a  space 
where  the  sun  shone,  to  wait  for  whole  hours, 
least  some  human  eye  should  forbid  me  the 
transit.  In  the  evening  I  sought  for  a  small  inn 
in  the  villages.  I  went  particularly  in  quest  of 
a  mine  in  the  mountains  where  I  hoped  to  get 
work  under  the  oath ;  since,  besides  that  my 
present  situation  made  it  imperative  that  I 
should  provide  for  my  support,  I  had  discovered 
that  the  most  active  labor  alone  could  protect 
me  from  my  own  annihilating  thoughts. 

A  few  rainy  days  advanced  me  well  on  the 
way,  but  at  the  expense  of  my  boots,  whose 
soles  had  been  calculated  for  the  Graf  Peter, 
and  not  for  the  pedestrian  laborer.  1  was  al- 
ready barefoot:  I  must  procure  a  pair  of  new 
boots.  The  next  morning  I  transacted  this  bu- 
siness with  much  gravity  in  a  village  where 
was  held  a  Wake,  and  where  in  a  booth  old  and 
new  boots  stood  for  sale.  I  selected  and  bar- 
gained long.  I  was  forced  to  deny  myself  a 
new  pair,  which  I  would  gladly  have  had,  but 
the  extravagant  demand  frightened  me.  I  there- 
fore contented  myself  with  an  old  pair,  which 
were  yet  good  and  strong,  and  which  the  hand- 
some, blond-haired  boy  who  kept  the  stall,  for 
present  cash  payment  handed  to  me  with  a 
friendly  smile,  and  wished  me  good  luck  on  my 
journey.  I  put  them  on  at  once,  and  left  the 
place  by  the  northern  gate. 

I  was  sunk  very  deep  in  my  thoughts  and 
scarcely  saw  where  I  set  my  feet,  for  I  was 
pondering  on  the  mine  which  I  hoped  to  reach 
by  evening,  and  where  I  hardly  knew  how  I 
should  propose  myself.  I  had  not  advanced  two 
hundred  strides  when  I  observed  that  I  had  got 
out  of  the  way.  I  therefore  looked  round  me, 
and  found  myself  in  a  wild  and  ancient  forest, 
where  the  axe  appeared  never  to  have  been 
wielded.  I  pressed  forward  still  a  few  steps, 
and  beheld  myself  in  the  midst  of  desert  rocks 
which  were  overgrown  only  with  moss  and 
lichens,  and  between  which  lay  fields  of  snow 
and  ice.  The  air  was  intensely  cold  ;  I  looked 
round, — the  wood  had  vanished  behind  me.  I 
took  a  few  strides  more, — and  around  me 
reigned  the  silence  of  death :  boundlessly  ex- 
tended itself  the  ice  whereon  I  stood,  and  on 
which  rested  a  thick,  heavy  fog.  The  sun  stood 
blood-red  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  The  cold 
was  insupportable. 

I  knew  not  what  had  happened  to  me  ;  the 
benumbing  frost  compelled  me  to  hasten  my 
steps ;  I  heard  alone  the  roar  of  distant  waters ; 
a  step  and  I  was  on  the  ice  margin  of  an  ocean. 
Innumerable  herds  of  seals  plunged  rushing  be 
fore  me  in  the  flood.  I  pursued  this  shore;  I 
saw  naked  rocks,  land,  birch  and  pine  forests ; 
I  now  advanced  for  a  few  minutes  right  on- 
wards. It  was  stifling  hot.  I  looked  around, — 
I  stood  amongst  beautifully  cultivated  rice-fields, 
and  beneath  mulberry-trees.  I  seated  myself  in 
their  shade  ;  I  looked  at  my  watch ;  I  had  left 
the  market  town  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  be- 


CHAMISSO. 


5*5 


fore.  I  fancied  that  I  dreamed  ;  I  bit  my  tongue 
to  awake  myself.  I  closed  my  eyes  in  order  to 
collect  my  thoughts.  I  heard  before  me  singu- 
lar accents  pronounced  through  the  nose.  I 
looked  up.  Two  Chinese,  unmistakeable  from 
their  Asiatic  form  of  countenance,  if  indeed  I 
would  have  given  no  credit  to  their  costume, 
addressed  me  in  their  speech  with  the  accustom- 
ed salutations  of  their  country.  I  arose  and 
stepped  two  paces  backward ;  I  saw  them  no 
more.  The  landscape  was  totally  changed, 
trees  and  forests  instead  of  rice-fields.  I  con- 
templated these  trees,  and  the  plants  which 
bloomed  around  me,  which  I  recognised  as  the 
growth  of  south-eastern  Asia.  I  wished  to  ap- 
proach one  of  these  trees, — one  step,  and  again 
all  was  changed.  I  marched  now  like  a  recruit 
whu  is  drilled,  and  strode  slowly,  and  with 
measured  steps.  Wonderfully  diversified  lands, 
riv^s,  meadows,  mountain  chains,  steppes, 
deserts  of  sand,  unrolled  themselves  before  my 
astonished  eyes.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it, — I 
had  seven-leagued  boots  on  my  feet. 

CHAPTER  X. 

I  fell  in  speechless  adoration  on  my  knees 
and  shed  tears  of  thankfulness,  for  suddenly 
stood  my  fortune  clear  before  my  soul.  For 
early  offence  thrust  out  from  the  society  of  men, 
I  was  cast,  for  compensation,  upon  Nature, 
which  I  ever  loved;  the  earth  was  given  me 
as  a  rich  garden,  study  for  the  object  and  strength 
of  my  life,  and  science  for  its  goal.  It  was  no 
resolution  which  I  adopted.  I  have  since  then, 
with  severe,  unremitted  diligence,  striven  faith- 
fully to  represent  what  then  stood  clear  and 
perfect  before  my  eye,  and  my  satisfaction  has 
depended  on  the  agreement  of  the  demonstration 
with  the  original. 

I  prepared  without  hesitation,  with  a  hasty 
survey,  to  take  possession  of  the  field  which  I 
should  hereafter  reap.  I  stood  on  the  heights 
of  Thibet,  and  the  sun,  which  had  risen  upon 
me  only  a  few  hours  before,  now  already  stooped 
to  the  evening  sky.  I  wandered  over  Asia  from 
east  to  west,  overtaking  him  in  his  course,  and 
entered  Africa.  I  gazed  about  me  with  eager 
curiosity,  as  I  repeatedly  traversed  it  in  all  di- 
rections. As  I  surveyed  the  ancient  pyramids 
and  temples  in  passing  through  Egypt,  I  descried 
in  the  desert  not  far  from  hundred-gated  Thebes, 
the  caves  where  the  christian  anchorites  once 
dwelt.  It  was  suddenly  firm  and  clear  in  me — 
here  is  thy  home !  I  selected  one  of  the  most 
concealed  which  was  at  the  same  time  spacious, 
convenient  and  inaccessible  to  the  jackalls,  for 
ny  future  abode,  and  again  went  forward. 

I  passed  at  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  over  to 
Europe,  and  when  I  had  reviewed  the  southern 
and  northern  provinces,  I  crossed  from  northern 
Asia  over  the  polar  glaciers  to  Greenland  and 
America  ;  traversed  both  parts  of  that  continent, 
and  the  winter  which  already  reigned  in  the 
south  drove  me  speedily  back  northwards  from 
Cape  Horn. 


I  tarried  awhile  till  it  was  day  in  eastern 
Asia,  and  after  some  repose,  continued  my 
wandering.  I  traced  through  both  Americas 
the  mountain  chain  which  comprehends  the 
highest  known  inequalities  on  our  globe.  I 
stalked  slowly  and  cautiously  from  summit  to 
summit,  now  over  flaming  volcanoes,  now  snow- 
crowned  peaks,  often  breathing  with  difficulty  ; 
when  reaching  Mount  Elias,  I  sprang  across 
Behring's  Straits  to  Asia.  I  followed  the  west- 
ern shores,  in  their  manifold  windings,  and  ex- 
amined with  especial  care  which  of  the  islands 
there  located  were  accessible  to  me.  From  the 
peninsula  of  Malacca  my  boots  carried  me  to 
Sumatra,  Java,  Bali  and  Lamboc.  I  attempted 
often  with  danger,  and  always  in  vain,  a  north- 
west passage  over  the  lesser  islets  and  rocks 
with  which  this  sea  is  studded  to  Borneo  and 
the  other  islands  of  this  Archipelago.  I  was 
compelled  to  abandon  the  hope.  At  length  I 
seated  myself  on  the  extremest  part  of  Lamboc, 
and  gazing  towards  the  south  and  east,  wept, 
as  at  the  fast  closed  grating  of  my  prison,  that  1 
had  so  soon  discovered  my  limits.  New-Hol- 
land so  extraordinary,  and  so  essentially  neces- 
sary to  the  comprehension  of  the  earth  and  its 
sun-woven  garment,  of  the  vegetable  and  the 
animal  world,  with  the  South-Sea  and  its  Zoo- 
phyte islands,  was  interdicted  to  me,  and  thus, 
at  the  very  outset,  all  that  I  should  gather  and 
build  up  was  destined  to  remain  a  mere  frag- 
ment !  Oh,  my  Adelbert,  what  after  all,  are  the 
endeavors  of  men ! 

Often  did  I  in  the  severest  winter  of  the 
southern  hemisphere,  endeavor,  passing  the 
polar  glaciers  westward,  to  leave  behind  me 
those  two  hundred  strides  out  from  Cape  Horn, 
which  sundered  me  probably  from  Van  Die- 
man's  Land  and  New  Holland,  regardless  of  my 
return,  or  whether  this  dismal  region  should 
close  upon  me  as  my  coffin-lid,  making  despe- 
rate leaps  from  ice-drift  to  ice-drift,  and  bidding 
defiance  to  the  cold  and  the  sea.  In  vain — I 
never  reached  New-Holland,  but  every  time,  I 
came  back  to  Lamboc,  seated  myself  on  its 
extremest  peak,  and  wept  again,  with  my  face 
turned  towards  the  south  and  east,  as  at  the  fast 
closed  bars  of  my  prison. 

I  tore  myself  at  length  from  this  spot,  and  re- 
turned with  a  sorrowful  heart  into  inner  Asia. 
I  traversed  that  farther,  pursuing  the  morning 
dawn  westward,  and  came  yet  in  the  night  to 
my  proposed  home  in  the  Thebais,  which  I  had 
touched  upon  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before. 

As  soon  as  I  was  somewhat  rested,  and  when 
it  was  day  again  in  Europe,  I  made  it  my  first 
care  to  procure  everything  which  I  wanted. 
First  of  all,  stop-shoes;  for  I  had  experienced 
how  inconvenient  it  was  when  I  wished  to  ex- 
amine near  objects,  not  to  be  able  to  slacken  my 
stride,  except  by  pulling  off  my  boots.  A  pair 
of  slippers  drawn  over  them  had  completely  the 
effect  which  I  anticipated,  and  later  I  always 
carried  two  pairs,  since  I  sometimes  threw  them 
from  my  feet,  without  having  time  to  pick  them 
48 


566 


CHAMISSO. 


up  again,  when  lions,  men,  or  hysenas  startled 
me  from  my  botanising.  My  very  excellent 
watch  was,  for  the  short  duration  of  my  passage, 
a  capital  chronometer.  Besides  this  I  needed 
a  sextant,  some  scientific  instruments  and  books. 

To  procure  all  this,  I  made  several  anxious 
journeys  to  London  and  Paris,  which,  auspi- 
ciously for  me,  a  mist  just  then  overshadowed. 
As  the  remains  of  my  enchanted  gold  was  now 
exhausted,  I  easily  accomplished  the  payment 
by  gathering  African  ivory,  in  which,  however, 
I  was  obliged  to  select  only  the  smallest  tusks, 
as  not  too  heavy  for  me.  I  was  soon  furnished 
and  equipped  with  all  these,  and  commenced 
immediately,  as  private  philosopher,  my  new 
course  of  life. 

I  roamed  about  the  earth,  now  determining 
the  altitudes  of  mountains ;  now  the  tempera- 
ture of  its  springs  and  the  air;  now  contem- 
plating the  animal,  now  inquiring  into  the  ve- 
getable tribes.  I  hastened  from  the  equator  to 
the  pole;  from  one  world  to  the  other,  comparing 
facts  with  facts.  The  eggs  of  the  African  ostrich 
or  the  northern  sea-fowl,  and  fruits,  especially 
of  the  tropical  palms  and  Bananas,  were  even 
my  ordinary  food.  In  lieu  of  happiness  I  had 
tobacco,  and  of  human  society  and  the  ties  of 
love, 'one  faithful  poodle,  which  guarded  my 
cave  in  the  Thebais,  and  when  I  returned  home 
with  fresh  treasures,  sprang  joyfully  towards 
me,  and  gave  me  still  a  human  feeling,  that  I 
was  not  alone  on  the  earth.  An  adventure  was 
yet  destined  to  conduct  me  back  amongst  man- 
kind. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

As  I  once  scotched  my  boots  on  the  shores  of 
the  north,  and  gathered  lichens  and  sea-weed, 
an  ice-bear  came  unawares  upon  me  round  the 
corner  of  a  rock.  Flinging  off  my  slippers,  I 
would  step  over  to  an  opposite  island,  to  which 
a  naked  crag  which  protruded  midway  from  the 
waves  offered  me  a  passage.  I  stepped  with 
one  foot  firmly  on  the  rock,  and  plunged  over  on 
the  other  side  into  the  sea,  one  of  my  slippers 
having  unobserved  remained  fast  on  the  foot. 

The  excessive  cold  seized  on  me ;  I  with  dif- 
ficulty rescued  my  life  from  this  danger ;  and 
the  moment  I  reached  land,  I  ran  with  the  ut- 
most speed  to  the  Lybian  deserts  in  order  to 
dry  myself  in  the  sun,  but  as  I  was  here  exposed, 
it  burned  me  so  furiously  on  the  head  that  I 
staggered  back  again  very  ill  towards  the  north. 
I  sought  to  relieve  myself  by  rapid  motion,  and 
ran  with  swift,  uncertain  steps,  from  west  to 
east,  from  east  to  west.  I  found  myself  now  in 
the  day,  now  in  the  night ;  now  in  summer  now 
in  the  winter's  cold. 

I  know  not  how  long  I  thus  reeled  about  on 
the  earth.  A  burning  fever  glowed  in  my  veins ; 
with  deepest  distress  I  felt  my  senses  forsaking 
me.  As  mischief  would  have  it,  in  my  incau- 
tious career,  I  now  trod  on  some  one's  foot ;  I 
must  have  hurt  him ;  I  received  a  heavy  blow, 
and  fell  to  the  ground. 


When  I  again  returned  to  consciousness,  I  lay 
comfortably  in  a  good  bed,  which  stood  amongst 
many  other  beds  in  a  handsome  hall.  Some 
one  sate  at  my  head;  people  went  through  the 
hall  from  one  bed  to  another.  They  came  to 
mine,  and  spake  together  about  me.  They 
styled  me  Number  Twelve;  and  on  the  wall  at 
my  feet  stood, — yes,  certainly  it  was  no  delusion, 
I  could  distinctly  read  on  a  black  tablet  of  mar- 
ble in  great  golden  letters,  quite  correctly  writ- 
ten, my  name — 

PETER  SCHLEMIHL. 

On  the  tablet  beneath  my  name  were  two  other 
rows  of  letters,  but  I  was  too  weak  to  put  them 
together.    I  again  closed  my  eyes. 

I  heard  something  of  which  the  subject  was 
Peter  Schlemihl  read  aloud,  and  articulately, 
but  I  could  not  collect  the  sense.  I  saw  a 
friendly  man,  and  a  very  lovely  woman  in  black 
dress  appear  at  my  bedside.  The  forms  were 
not  strange  to  me,  and  yet  I  could  not  recognise 
them. 

Some  time  went  over,  and  I  recovered  my 
strength.  I  was  called  Number  Twelve,  and 
Number  Twelve,  on  account  of  his  long  beard, 
passed  for  a  Jew,  on  which  account,  however, 
he  was  not  at  all  the  less  carefully  treated. 
That  he  had  no  shadow  appeared  to  have  been 
unobserved.  My  boots,  as  I  was  assured,  were, 
with  all  that  I  had  brought  hither,  in  good  keep- 
ing, in  order  to  be  restored  to  me  on  my  recovery. 
The  place  in  which  I  lay  was  called  the  Schle- 
mihlium.  What  was  daily  read  aloud  concerning 
Peter  Schlemihl,  was  an  exhortation  to  pray  for 
him  as  the  Founder  and  Benefactor  of  this  in- 
stitution. The  friendly  man  whom  I  had  seen  by 
my  bed  was  Bendel;  the  lovely  woman  was  Mina. 

I  recovered  unrecognised  in  the  Schlemihl- 
ium ;  and  learned  yet  farther  that  I  was  in 
Bendel's  native  city,  where,  with  the  remains 
of  my  otherwise  unblessed  gold,  he  had  in  my 
name  founded  this  Hospital,  where  the  unhappy 
blessed  me,  and  himself  maintained  its  superin- 
tendence. Mina  was  a  widow.  An  unhappy 
criminal  process  had  cost  Mr.  Rascal  his  life, 
and  her  the  greater  part  of  her  property.  Her 
parents  were  no  more.  She  lived  here  as  a 
pious  widow,  and  practised  works  of  mercy. 

Once  she  conversed  with  Mr.  Bendel  at  the 
bedside  of  Number  Twelve.  "  Why,  noble  lady, 
will  you  so  often  expose  yourself  to  the  bad  at- 
mosphere which  prevails  here  ?  Does  fate  then 
deal  so  hardly  with  you  that  you  wish  to  die  V* 

"No,  Mr.  Bendel,  since  I  have  dreamed  out 
my  long  dream,  and  have  awoke  in  myself,  all 
is  well  with  me;  since  then  I  crave  not,  and 
fear  not  death.  Since  then,  I  reflect  calmly  on 
the  past  and  the  future.  Is  it  not  also  with  a 
still  and  inward  happiness  that  you  now,  in  so 
devout  a  manner,  serve  your  master  and  friend?" 

"  Thank  God,  yes,  noble  lady.  But  we  have 
seen  wonderful  things;  we  have  unwarily 
drunk  much  good,  and  bitter  woes,  out  of  the 
full  cup.  Now  it  is  empty,  and  we  may  believe 
that  the  whole  has  been  only  a  trial ;  and  armed 


CH  AMISSO. 


with  wise  discernment,  await  the  real  begin- 
ning. The  real  beginning  is  of  another  fashion  ; 
and  we  wish  not  back  the  first  jugglery,  and  are 
on  the  whole  glad,  such  as  it  was,  to  have  lived 
through  it.  I  feel  also  within  me  a  confidence 
that  it  must  now  be  better  than  formerly  with 
our  old  friend." 

"In  me  too,"  replied  the  lovely  widow,  and 
then  passed  on. 

The  conversation  left  a  deep  impression  upon 
me,  but  I  was  undecided  in  myself,  whether  I 
should  make  myself  known,  or  depart  hence 
unrecognised.  I  took  my  resolve.  I  requested 
paper  and  pencil,  and  wrote  these  words: — "It 
is  indeed  better  with  your  old  friend  now  than 
formerly,  and  if  he  does  penance  it  is  the  pen- 
ance of  reconciliation." 

Hereupon  I  desired  to  dress  myself,  as  I  found 
myself  stronger.  The  key  of  the  small  ward- 
robe which  stood  near  my  bed,  was  brought, 
and  I  found  therein,  all  that  belonged  to  me.  I 
put  on  my  clothes,  suspended  my  botanical  case, 
in  which  I  rejoiced  still  to  find  my  northern  li- 
chens, round  my  black  Polonaise,  drew  on  my 
boots,  laid  the  written  paper  on  my  bed,  and  as 
the  door  opened,  I  was  already  far  on  the  way 
to  the  Thebais. 

As  I  took  the  way  along  the  Syrian  coast,  on 
which  I  for  the  last  time  had  wandered  from 
home,  I  perceived  my  poor  Figaro  coming  to- 
wards me.  This  excellent  poodle,  who  had 
long  expected  his  master  at  home,  seemed  to 
desire  to  trace  him  out.  I  stood  still  and  called 
to  him.  He  sprang  barking  towards  me,  with 
a  thousand  moving  assurances  of  his  inmost  and 
most  extravagant  joy.  I  took  him  up  under  my 
arm,  for  in  truth  he  could  not  follow  me,  and 
brought  him  with  me  home  again. 

I  found  all  in  its  old  order;  and  returned 
gradually  as  my  strength  was  recruited,  to  my 
former  employment  and  mode  of  life,  except 
that  I  kept  myself  for  a  whole  year  out  of  the, 


to  me,  wholly  insupportable  polar  cold.  And 
thus,  my  dear  Chamisso,  I  live  to  this  day.  My 
boots  are  no  worse  lor  the  wear,  as  that  very 
learned  work  of  the  celebrated  Tieckius,  De 
Rebus  Gestis  Polticelli,  at  first  led  me  to  fear. 
Their  force  remains  unimpaired,  my  strength 
only  decays  :  yet  I  have  the  comfort  to  have 
exerted  it  in  a  continuous  and  not  fruitless 
pursuit  of  one  object.  I  have,  so  far  as  my 
boots  could  carry  me,  become  more  fundament- 
ally acquainted  than  any  man  before  me  with 
the  earth,  its  shape,  its  elevations,  its  tempe- 
ratures, the  changes  of  its  atmosphere,  the  exhi- 
bitions of  its  magnetic  power,  and  the  life 
upon  it,  especially  in  the  vegetable  world.  The 
facts  I  have  recorded  with  the  greatest  possible 
exactness,  and  in  perspicuous  order  in  several 
works,  and  stated  my  deductions  and  views 
briefly  in  several  treaties.  I  have  settled  the 
geography  of  the  interior  of  Africa,  and  of  the 
northern  polar  regions;  of  the  interior  of  Asia, 
and  its  eastern  shores.  My  Historia  Stirpimn 
Plantarum  Utriusque  Orbis  stands  as  a  grand 
fragment  of  the  Flora  Universalis  Terrse,  and  as 
a  branch  of  my  Systema  Naturae.  I  believe  that 
I  have  therein  not  merely  augmented,  at  a  mo- 
derate calculation,  the  amount  of  known  species, 
more  than  one  third,  but  have  done  something 
for  the  Natural  System,  and  for  the  Geography 
of  Plants.  I  shall  labor  diligently  at  my  Fauna. 
I  shall  take  care  that,  before  my  death,  my 
works  shall  be  deposited  in  the  Berlin  Univer- 
sity. 

And  thee,  my  dear  Chamisso,  have  I  selected 
as  the  preserver  of  my  singular  history,  which, 
perhaps,  when  I  have  vanished  from  the  earth, 
may  afford  valuable  instruction  to  many  of  its 
inhabitants.  But  thou,  my  friend,  if  thou  wilt 
live  among  men,  learn  before  all  things  to  rev- 
erence the  shadow,  and  then  the  gold.  Wishest 
thou  to  live  only  for  thyself  and  for  thy  better 
self— oh,  then ! — thou  needest  no  counsel. 


THE 


END. 


